IN DARK PLACES
It was obviously to the interest of all parties that the appeal should
be settled as soon as possible. But the Council showed no haste in
coming to a decision. The delay was ominous, for it seemed to indicate
that they regarded the question as an open one.
This being so, Mr. Pounderly and several of his senior colleagues
were anxious that the staff should take combined action. There was
no doubt in Mr. Pounderly’s mind as to what form the combined action
should take. “If,” he said, “the policy of cutting off the heads of
the tallest lilies receives official sanction, it will not stop with
Chowdler. The lives and fortunes of all of us are at stake. It is most
important that at this crisis the staff should show a united front.”
It took many hours of patient argument to persuade Mr. Pounderly that
the front of the staff was not, and could not be, united; and, when the
unpalatable truth was at last forced in upon him, he went about his
daily duties once more wringing his hands and whispering, “lamentable,
lamentable.”
However, he was to have an opportunity of expressing his own views
fully and in an influential quarter. Mr. Benison-Benison, a local
magnate and a member of the Council, had determined to get to the
bottom of things for himself. Mr. Benison-Benison was one of those
honest and incapable men whom the British public delights to honour,
and his idea of getting to the bottom of things was to give an
impartial hearing to one side only. It was the method he had always
adopted in forming his opinions on political or theological questions;
and he prided himself on his freedom from prejudice. “I always make a
point of studying any controversial topic,” he would say, “before I
make up my mind about it.” Consequently, when he set to work to master
the Chiltern problem, he could think of no better way of doing so
than by interviewing personally Mr. Chowdler and his friends. At much
physical inconvenience to himself, for he was crippled at the moment
by rheumatism, he drove over to Chiltern, had a long talk with Mr.
Chowdler, and, at that gentleman’s suggestion, had separate interviews
also with Mr. Pounderly, Mr. Black, Mr. Beadle, and some others of the
faction. And, as a result of it all, he carried away “a very strong
impression” that Mr. Chowdler stood for the best interests of the
school, that Mr. Flaggon was the wrong man in the wrong place, and that
the masters, as a body, would be very glad to see the last of him. And
this impression received a striking corroboration from an entirely
unprejudiced quarter. Mr. Benison-Benison had occasion to call, on
his return journey, at Thrale’s, the local motor and motor-cycle
shop; and, in answer to some discreet feelers, Mr. Thrale became
voluble and stated confidently that Mr. Flaggon was letting down the
school “terrible” and ruining the town, and that the citizens looked
confidently to the Council to set matters straight over “this here
appeal that they talk of.”
But, while the issue was still in doubt and Chiltern was humming with
excited gossip, events occurred which turned all thoughts for the
moment into other channels.
Mr. Chase, acting on the advice of the headmaster, had written in
December to the parents of three of his new boys, asking them to find
out, in the course of the holidays, whether the moral tone of the house
was in a healthy condition; and, if anything was wrong, to communicate
confidentially with him. In each case he had received a formal
acknowledgment of his letter, and, as nothing further had come of it,
his mind was at ease. And then, suddenly, a bolt fell from the blue.
Mr. Chase received one morning an eight-page letter, marked private
and confidential, which made him turn very pale and entirely took away
his appetite for breakfast. The writer of this letter related that he
had, during the holidays, put certain questions to his son, and, after
some pressing, had extracted from him a story which showed that, from
the moral point of view, the school generally and Mr. Chase’s house in
particular were in a very bad state. The boy, however, had implored him
not to say anything to the authorities, as the two worst offenders had
left at Christmas and things were certain to be much better next Term.
He had, however, by that morning’s post, received a letter from his
boy, which revived all his anxieties. The boy wrote that he was very
unhappy and wanted to be taken away. “Under these circumstances,” the
father concluded, “I feel bound, in the interests of the school as well
as of my own child, to take you into my confidence; and I have written
you a full account of all that I know. I only beg that, in whatever
steps you take, you will manage to keep my boy’s name out of it.
Dislike of being an informer, and fear of the possible consequences to
himself, naturally weigh very heavily on him. But, clearly, something
must be done, and done at once; and, if you wish it, I am quite
prepared to come to Chiltern myself and see you about the matter.”
Mr. Chase read the letter several times with a strong sensation of
physical nausea, and sat for a while afterwards in his study trying
to think. When the first shock had passed off, he began to cherish a
hope that the boy might perhaps have exaggerated. Now that he came to
think of it, it struck him that the boy _was_ rather an excitable boy
and, very likely, inclined to be hysterical. But he was an honourable
man; and, though the facts, as related, were a reflection on his own
competence, he carried the letter straight to the headmaster.
Mr. Flaggon guessed what must be passing in his colleague’s mind, and
his manner was both sympathetic and cordial. He thanked Mr. Chase
warmly for having taken him at once into his confidence; and, together,
the two men discussed what ought to be done. Should the father be
invited to come to Chiltern and procure further and yet more detailed
information, or should they act at once? Mr. Flaggon thought that there
was danger in delay. The boy might become frightened and retract,
or, possibly, give a hint of what was brewing to a friend. “Our best
chance,” he said, “of getting at the whole truth is to strike at once
while the offenders are off their guard; and, if the facts are as
they have been stated, we have enough to go upon. Besides, if the
father comes down and sees his son, everybody will guess the source
of our information; and we are bound in honour to keep the boy’s
secret.” Mr. Chase agreed; and, accordingly, that evening after locking
up, the headmaster went to Mr. Chase’s house and held a searching
inquiry. Before it was over, he knew a great many things that he had
not known before, and realised how very vile, under its deceptive
light-heartedness, life can be in a bad house in a bad school.
Next morning, at first lesson, a rumour spread through a startled
school that three of the most prominent Chaseites had been summarily
expelled, and that others were to leave at the end of the Term: and Mr.
Chase, who looked as though all joy had gone out of life, confirmed
the news to his colleagues. Mr. Flaggon had determined to address the
school that evening after chapel; but, before he could do so, fresh
developments occurred which decided him to wait a little longer. For,
in the course of the day, Dennison, the newly appointed Prefect,
appeared in his study with a pale face and twitching hands, and asked
if he might speak confidentially. The permission was readily granted,
and Dennison proceeded to unburden his soul. Everybody, he said, had
known for a long time that Chase’s house was “rotten,” but he was
afraid his own house was not much better. Since he had been Prefect,
he thought there had been an improvement; but, a week ago, he heard of
something which had made him very miserable. He didn’t dare to tell
Mr. Chowdler; and, though he had been within an ace, more than once,
of asking the headmaster for advice, he had never quite made up his
mind to do so. It was impossible to get the Prefects to act together,
because a Prefect was himself involved, and the others wouldn’t give
him away. He had spent sleepless nights worrying over the business;
but now he felt that he must make a clean breast of the whole matter.
He wanted to do his duty; but he funked--there was no other word for
it--the deadly unpopularity which was certain to be the result.
Mr. Flaggon first talked the boy into a calmer mood and then showed
him, quietly and sympathetically, what his duty was. He must remove the
seal of confidence and endure the unpopularity. The moral welfare of
countless boys, present and to come, was at stake. And so, before he
left the study, Dennison had braced himself to the most difficult act
of courage that a boy can be called on to perform--namely, to defy a
traditional code of honour and to face social ostracism.
An inquiry into Mr. Chowdler’s house was necessarily a much more
difficult business than an inquiry into Mr. Chase’s. It was obviously
impossible for the headmaster to take Mr. Chowdler into his confidence;
so, boys had to be sent for separately and interviewed in his own
study. There was much coming and going, much leakage of knowledge and
consequent reticence or denial. Mr. Flaggon felt that he had never
sifted things quite to the bottom. But Dennison stuck to his guns; and,
in the end, two boys, one of whom was a Prefect, were expelled at once,
and four others were told that they must leave at the end of the Term.
In the Prefect, Mr. Flaggon had long ago recognised one of the three
youths who had impressed him so unfavourably on his first visit to
Chiltern. In spite of the clearest evidence, this boy persisted in
asserting his innocence, and on hearing his sentence he attempted a
piece of insolent bluff.
“I shall appeal to Mr. Chowdler,” he said, “and, if he keeps me, I
shall stay.”
Mr. Flaggon made no reply, but stepped quickly to the telephone.
“Number 92 A ... is the police inspector in? ... no? will he be in at
six o’clock this evening?... Thanks. I may have to give somebody into
custody.... No thanks, there’s no immediate hurry ... if I want him
then, I’ll ring him up.”
And before he had readjusted the receiver, the boy, with a white face,
blurted out, “All right, sir, don’t do that. I’ll go at once.” And he
left the study with his tail between his legs.
And on the following morning the school were summoned into the Great
Hall at the end of first lesson and heard some words which nobody ever
forgot. Anybody but Mr. Chowdler would have been overwhelmed by the
sudden discovery of his own blindness; for, in the two boys who had to
leave so abruptly and for such hideous offences, he had always seen the
true Chiltern type, the best product of the Lanchester tradition. But
Mr. Chowdler was not an ordinary man. For a short time indeed he did
feel as if the solid ground were crumbling again under his feet; but,
within a few days, he had persuaded himself, first, that if there _had_
been mischief in his house it was because “the man Flaggon” had taken
the control of it out of the proper hands; secondly, that boys had been
bullied into confessing to crimes that they had never committed; and,
thirdly, that there had been a great deal of hysteria and exaggeration
about the whole business.
On this occasion, however, Mr. Chowdler found but few disciples. Mr.
Flaggon’s prompt and fearless handling of the affair, the words which
he had spoken to the school, his genuine hatred of the evil thing
and, with it all, his buoyant faith in the ultimate triumph of good
influences, had made a deep impression on the masters. They realised
that, in spite of youth and inexperience, the new headmaster was a man;
and not a few of them felt that they had themselves been culpably blind.
“It’s no good,” said one of the younger men, who taught a low form in
the school, “it’s no good saying that we didn’t see and couldn’t be
expected to see. We _ought_ to have seen; the evidence was all around
us. Why, there are three kids in my form--new last Term--who are
different men since this came out; different in their work and their
manner and everything. It’s like people waking up from a nightmare.”
“And there’s one in my form,” said Mr. Rankin, “who goes about looking
as if he were going to be hanged. I guess he’s got something pretty
heavy on his conscience, and he’s mortally afraid of being swept into
the net.”
But there was one point on which opinion was not so unanimous. What
would be the effect on the reputation of the school of all these
drastic expulsions? Would not intending parents take fright? With
numbers already down, was this root-and-branch method altogether
wise--and was it really necessary?
Mr. Plummer shared these doubts; and he expressed them to Mr. Bent as
they stood, one bleak afternoon in March, on the Sow’s Back, looking
over a grey and cheerless landscape.
“Of course,” he said, “I recognise that Flaggon has come out of all
this extraordinarily well, and has taught us all a great deal. Nothing,
I’m sure, could have been more impressive than the way he spoke to the
school, and I shall remember it as long as I live. But, I must say, I
don’t quite like this relentless pruning. Five boys on the spot, and
ten more at the end of the Term! It looks as if we were forgetting that
it’s our duty to save as well as to punish.”
“I know,” said Mr. Bent; “the parable of the lost sheep. But that
parable, my dear Plummer, was never meant for schoolmasters; _we_ need
to be reminded of our duty to the ninety and nine--we’re always ready
enough to play the rôle of good shepherd. Besides, you know the sequel.”
“What sequel?” asked Mr. Plummer.
“Don’t you know,” replied Mr. Bent, “that a month afterwards the lost
sheep, having acquired a taste for adventures, trotted off into the
wilderness again, taking with him this time the rest of the flock,
twenty-five per cent. of whom got eaten by wolves and never were heard
of more? No, my dear Plummer, it’s too risky.”
“But one _must_ take risks,” insisted Mr. Plummer, “if one is to do
anything that is worth doing: and, to refuse to take risks when there’s
a chance of saving anybody seems to me sheer cowardice.”
“Ah yes,” said Mr. Bent, “true enough, if the risk were _our_ risk--a
danger to you and me. But it isn’t. The danger is to the other
boys--the boys who are here and the boys who are coming. If you want
to make a public school a reformatory, you ought to be honest with
the parents; you ought to say to them frankly, ‘I am keeping such
and such boys, whom I know to be dangerous, because I think that the
companionship of _your_ son may possibly do them good.’ What d’you
suppose the parents would say to that? What d’you imagine any of _our_
married colleagues would say, if you proposed to plant a reformatory
lad in the middle of their young families, because you felt sure it
would be good for _him_ and you weren’t going to be scared by the
risks? Answer me that!”
“There are reformatories and reformatories,” replied Mr. Plummer
sententiously. “Anyhow,” he added, as the dust-laden wind swept down
the road, “the prospect is gloomy--and I shouldn’t wonder if we had
some snow.”