I put it to Cynthia.
“They would find me out in a day,” I assured her. “A man who wants to set up a school has got to be a pretty brainy sort of fellow. I don’t know anything.”
“You got your degree.”
“A degree. At any rate, I’ve forgotten all I knew.”
“That doesn’t matter. You have the money. Anybody with money can start a school, even if he doesn’t know a thing. Nobody would think it strange.”
It struck me as a monstrous slur on our educational system, but reflection told me it was true. The proprietor of a preparatory school, if he is a man of wealth, need not be able to teach, any more than an impresario need be able to write plays.
“Well, we’ll pass that for the moment,” I said. “Here’s the real difficulty. How are you going to find out the school Mr. Ford has chosen?”
“I have found it out already—or Nesta has. She set a detective to work. It was perfectly easy. Ogden’s going to Mr. Abney’s. Sanstead House is the name of the place. It’s in Hampshire somewhere. Quite a small school, but full of little dukes and earls and things. Lord Mountry’s younger brother, Augustus Beckford, is there.”
I had known Lord Mountry and his family well some years ago. I remembered Augustus dimly.
“Mountry? Do you know him? He was up at Oxford with me.”
She seemed interested.
“What kind of a man is he?” she asked.
“Oh, quite a good sort. Rather an ass. I haven’t seen him for years.”
“He’s a friend of Nesta’s. I’ve only met him once. He is going to be your reference.”
“My what?”
“You will need a reference. At least, I suppose you will. And, anyhow, if you say you know Lord Mountry it will make it simpler for you with Mr. Abney, the brother being at the school.”
“Does Mountry know about this business? Have you told him why I want to go to Abney’s?”
“Nesta told him. He thought it was very sporting of you. He will tell Mr. Abney anything we like. By the way, Peter, you will have to pay a premium or something, I suppose. But Nesta will look after all expenses, of course.”
On this point I made my only stand of the afternoon.
“No,” I said; “it’s very kind of her, but this is going to be entirely an amateur performance. I’m doing this for you, and I’ll stand the racket. Good heavens! Fancy taking money for a job of this kind!”
She looked at me rather oddly.
“That is very sweet of you, Peter,” she said, after a slight pause. “Now let’s get to work.”
And together we composed the letter which led to my sitting, two days later, in stately conference at his club with Mr. Arnold Abney, M.A., of Sanstead House, Hampshire.
Mr. Abney proved to be a long, suave, benevolent man with an Oxford manner, a high forehead, thin white hands, a cooing intonation, and a general air of hushed importance, as of one in constant communication with the Great. There was in his bearing something of the family solicitor in whom dukes confide, and something of the private chaplain at the Castle.
He gave me the keynote to his character in the first minute of our acquaintanceship. We had seated ourselves at a table in the smoking-room when an elderly gentleman shuffled past, giving a nod in transit. My companion sprang to his feet almost convulsively, returned the salutation, and subsided slowly into his chair again.
“The Duke of Devizes,” he said in an undertone. “A most able man. Most able. His nephew, Lord Ronald Stokeshaye, was one of my pupils. A charming boy.”
I gathered that the old feudal spirit still glowed to some extent in Mr. Abney’s bosom.
We came to business.
“So you wish to be one of us, Mr. Burns, to enter the scholastic profession?”
I tried to look as if I did.
“Well, in certain circumstances, the circumstances in which I—ah—myself, I may say, am situated, there is no more delightful occupation. The work is interesting. There is the constant fascination of seeing these fresh young lives develop—and of helping them to develop—under one’s eyes; in any case, I may say, there is the exceptional interest of being in a position to mould the growing minds of lads who will some day take their place among the country’s hereditary legislators, that little knot of devoted men who, despite the vulgar attacks of loudmouthed demagogues, still do their share, and more, in the guidance of England’s fortunes. Yes.”
He paused. I said I thought so, too.
“You are an Oxford man, Mr. Burns, I think you told me? Ah, I have your letter here. Just so. You were at—ah, yes. A fine college. The Dean is a lifelong friend of mine. Perhaps you knew my late pupil, Lord Rollo?—no, he would have been since your time. A delightful boy. Quite delightful … And you took your degree? Exactly. And represented the university at both cricket and Rugby football? Excellent. Mens sana in—ah—corpore, in fact, sano, yes!”
He folded the letter carefully and replaced it in his pocket.
“Your primary object in coming to me, Mr. Burns, is, I gather, to learn the—ah—the ropes, the business? You have had little or no previous experience of schoolmastering?”
“None whatever.”
“Then your best plan would undoubtedly be to consider yourself and work for a time simply as an ordinary assistant-master. You would thus get a sound knowledge of the intricacies of the profession which would stand you in good stead when you decide to set up your own school. Schoolmastering is a profession, which cannot be taught adequately except in practice. ‘Only those who—ah—brave its dangers comprehend its mystery.’ Yes, I would certainly recommend you to begin at the foot of the ladder and go, at least for a time, through the mill.”
“Certainly,” I said. “Of course.”
My ready acquiescence pleased him. I could see that he was relieved. I think he had expected me to jib at the prospect of actual work.
“As it happens,” he
