“Of course not,” cried Mr. Plummer. “Nobody who knows you would believe anything so ridiculous for the moment.”
“Then I don’t see why I should mind,” said Mr. Bent.
“But, my dear fellow,” protested Mr. Plummer, “you can surely see ... and then there are the boys. Have you thought about them? Everybody knows—or at least thinks—that you have a special ‘down’ on that house; and the boys——”
“You mean they’ll fight?” suggested Mr. Bent.
“Undoubtedly,” replied his friend.
“Good!” cried Mr. Bent. “Excellent! Then there’ll be a fight; that’s all. It will be the making of me; and, by the Lord Harry, I’ll smash ’em.”
There was only one other incident in the Term that could be called at all sensational. At the last masters’ meeting, about a week before the holidays, Mr. Flaggon distributed some printed papers, which were found to be a rough draft of the summer hours for Sunday, and a proposed new curriculum. “I meant you to have these before,” he said, “but I fear I have been too busy. I propose to discuss the whole question early next Term.”
Mr. Beadle buried his head in his hands but said nothing; and almost everybody felt a slight shock of pained surprise. This was surely pushing the claims of the conqueror ungenerously far! They had accepted their new headmaster—had even begun to discover qualities in him which extorted admiration. But they expected that he, in his turn, would make concessions, come at least part of the way to meet them; whereas, to choose this particular moment for securing their tacit assent to disputed principles, seemed an unfair use of a delicate situation and peculiar circumstances. And it was inevitable that they should think so; for, as Mr. Bent observed, they could not understand that what they were willing to accept as the end, was to Mr. Flaggon only the beginning.
The remaining days of the Term lingered like an unwelcome guest who does not know how to take his leave. Everybody was nervously anxious to have got through without further shocks or excitement, to close a tragic chapter and plunge into the waters of oblivion before beginning a new page. For the strain of the past weeks had been almost intolerable.
And the end came at length, and in a gloom that made the last chapel seem like a funeral service. Dotted about among the congregation were the boys who were leaving under a cloud, and, in his stall on the south wall of the nave, sat Mr. Chowdler, red, unhappy, and defiant. Though he was convinced of the necessity, Mr. Flaggon could not but feel the pity of it all; indeed, for a moment, he experienced the sensations of a humane executioner in the presence of his victims. And worse was to come. For, as he knelt for the last time in the school chapel, Mr. Chowdler was suddenly overpowered by his emotions, and his broad shoulders shook with the sobs that he was powerless to control. It was not remorse; it was not even regret for anything he had done. Something there was of the bitterness of defeat, and something of the grief of a sanguine man who has lost an only child. Mr. Chowdler had loved Chiltern with all the strength of a robust and unimaginative nature; and, in a few short months, he had seen his roots in the past and his heritage in the future destroyed, utterly and for ever. The holy places had been defiled and Jerusalem made a heap of stones.