So Phipps went home in a state which made his mother cry bitterly and his father wonder whether the Public School system was not over-praised. But the old family doctor went about raging and swearing at the “scoundrels” who had reduced a child of twelve to a nervous wreck4, with “neurasthenia cerebralis” well on its way. But Dr. Walford had got his education in some trumpery5 little academy, and did not understand or value the ethos of the great Public Schools.
Now, Ambrose Meyrick had marked the career of wretched Phipps with concern and pity. The miserable6 little creature had been brought by careful handling from masters and boys to such a pitch of neurotic7 perfection that it was only necessary to tap him smartly on the back or on the arm, and he would instantly burst into tears. Whenever anyone asked him the simplest question he suspected a cruel trap of some sort, and lied and equivocated8 and shuffled9 with a pitiable lack of skill. Though he was pitched by the heels into mucker about three times a week, that he might acquire the useful art of natation, he still seemed to grow dirtier and dirtier. His school books were torn to bits, his exercises made into darts10; he had impositions for losing books and canings for not doing his work, and he lied and cried all the more.
Meyrick had never got to this depth. He was a sturdy boy, and Phipps had always been a weakly little animal; but, as he walked from the study to the schoolroom after his thrashing, he felt that he had been in some danger of descending11 on that sad way. He finally resolved that he would never tread it, and so he walked past the baize-lined doors into the room where the other boys were at work on prep, with an air of unconcern which was not in the least assumed.
Mr. Horbury was a man of considerable private means and did not care to be bothered with the troubles and responsibilities of a big House. But there was room and to spare in the Old Grange, so he took three boys besides his nephew. These three were waiting with a grin of anticipation12, since the nature of Meyrick’s interview with “old Horbury” was not dubious13. But Ambrose strolled in with a “Hallo, you fellows!” and sat down in his place as if nothing had happened. This was intolerable.
“I say, Meyrick,” began Pelly, a beefy boy with a red face, “you have been blubbing! Feel like writing home about it? Oh! I forgot. This is your home, isn’t it? How many cuts? I didn’t hear you howl.”
The boy took no notice. He was getting out his books as if no one had spoken.
“Can’t you answer?” went on the beefy one. “How many cuts, you young sneak15?”
“Go to hell!”
The whole three stared aghast for a moment; they thought Meyrick must have gone mad. Only one, Bates the observant, began to chuckle16 quietly to himself, for he did not like Pelly. He who was always beefy became beefier; his eyes bulged17 out with fury.
“I’ll give it you,” he said and made for Ambrose, who was turning over the leaves of the Latin dictionary. Ambrose did not wait for the assault; he rose also and met Pelly half-way with a furious blow, well planted on the nose. Pelly took a back somersault and fell with a crash to the floor, where he lay for a moment half stunned18. He rose staggering and looked about him with a pathetic, bewildered air; for, indeed, a great part of his little world had crumbled19 about his ears. He stood in the middle of the room, wondering what it meant, whether it was true indeed that Meyrick was no longer of any use for a little quiet fun. A horrible and incredible transmutation had, apparently20, been effected in the funk of old. Pelly gazed wildly about him as he tried to staunch the blood that poured over his mouth.
“Foul blow!” ventured Rawson, a lean lad who liked to twist the arms of very little boys till they shrieked21 for mercy. The full inwardness of the incident had not penetrated22 to his brain; he saw without believing, in the manner of the materialist23 who denies the marvellous even when it is before his eyes.
“Foul blow, young Meyrick!”
The quiet student had gone back to his place and was again handling his dictionary. It was a hard, compact volume, rebound24 in strong boards, and the edge of these boards caught the unfortunate Rawson full across the eyes with extraordinary force. He put his face in his hands and blubbered quietly and dismally25, rocking to and fro in his seat, hardly hearing the fluent stream of curses with which the quiet student inquired whether the blow he had just had was good enough for him.
Meyrick picked up his dictionary with a volley of remarks which would have done credit to an old-fashioned stage-manager at the last dress rehearsal26 before production.
“Hark at him,” said Pelly feebly, almost reverently27. “Hark at him.” But poor Rawson, rocking to and fro, his head between his hands, went on blubbering softly and spoke14 no word.
Meyrick had never been an unobservant lad; he had simply made a discovery that evening that in Rome certain Roman customs must be adopted. The wise Bates went on doing his copy of Latin verse, chuckling28 gently to himself. Bates was a cynic. He despised all the customs and manners of the place most heartily29 and took the most curious care to observe them. He might have been the inventor and patentee of rocker, if one judged him by the fervour with which he played it. He entered his name for every possible event at the sports, and jumped the jumps and threw the hammer and ran the races as if his life depended on it. Once Mr. Horbury had accidentally over-head Bates saying something about “the honour of the House” which went to his heart. As for cricket, Bates played as if his sole ambition was to become a first-class professional. And he chuckled30 as he did his Latin verses, which he wrote (to the awe31 of other boys) “as if he were writing a letter”— that is, without making a rough copy. For Bates had got the “hang” of the whole system from rocker to Latin verse, and his copies were much admired. He grinned that evening, partly at the transmutation of Meyrick and partly at the line he was jotting32 down:
“Mira loquor, coelo resonans vox funditur alto.”
In after life he jotted33 down a couple of novels which sold, as the journalists said, “like hot cakes.” Meyrick went to see him soon after the first novel had gone into its thirtieth thousand, and Bates was reading “appreciations” and fingering a cheque and chuckling.
“Mira loquor, populo, resonans, cheque funditur alto,” he said. “I know what schoolmasters and boys and the public want, and I take care they get it —sale espèce de sacrés cochons de N. de D.!”
The rest of prep. went off quite quietly. Pelly was slowly recovering from the shock that he had received and began to meditate34 revenge. Meyrick had got him unawares, he reflected. It was merely an accident, and he resolved to challenge Meyrick to fight and give him back the worst licking he had ever had in his life. He was beefy, but a bold fellow. Rawson, who was really a cruel coward and a sneak, had made up his mind that he wanted no more, and from time to time cast meek36 and propitiatory37 glances in Meyrick’s direction.
At half-past nine they all went into their dining-room for bread and cheese and beer. At a quarter to ten Mr. Horbury appeared in cap and gown and read a chapter from St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, with one or two singularly maundering and unhappy prayers. He stopped the boys as they were going up to their rooms.
“What’s this, Pelly?” he said. “Your nose is all swollen38. It’s been bleeding, too, I see. What have you been doing to yourself? And you, Rawson, how do you account for your eyes being black? What’s the meaning of all this?”
“Please, Sir, there was a very stiff bully39 down at rocker this afternoon, and Rawson and I got tokered badly.”
“Were you in the bully, Bates?”
“No, Sir; I’ve been outside since the beginning of the term. But all the fellows were playing up tremendously, and I saw Rawson and Pelly had been touched when we were changing.”
“Ah! I see. I’m very glad to find the House plays up so well. As for you, Bates, I hear you’re the best outside for your age that we’ve ever had. Good night.”
The three said “Thank you, Sir,” as if their dearest wish had been gratified, and the master could have sworn that Bates flushed with pleasure at his word of praise. But the fact was that Bates had “suggested” the flush by a cunning arrangement of his features.
The boys vanished and Mr. Horbury returned to his desk. He was editing a selection called “English Literature for Lower Forms.” He began to read from the slips that he had prepared:
“So all day long the noise of battle roll’d
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonnesse ——”
He stopped and set a figure by the last word, and then, on a blank slip, with a corresponding letter, he repeated the figure and wrote the note:
Lyonnesse — the Sicilly Isles40.
Then he took a third slip and wrote the question:
Give the ancient name of the Sicilly Isles.
These serious labours employed him till twelve o’clock. He put the materials of his book away as the clock struck, and solemnly mixed himself his nightly glass of whisky and soda41 — in the daytime he never touched spirits — and bit the one cigar which he smoked in the twenty-four hours. The stings of the Head’s sherry and of his conversation no longer burned within him; time and work and the bite of the cane42 in Meyrick’s flesh had soothed43 his soul, and he set himself to dream, leaning back in his arm-chair, watching the cheerful fire.
He was thinking of what he would do when he succeeded to the Headmastership. Already there were rumours44 that Chesson had refused the Bishopric of St. Dubric’s in order that he might be free to accept Dorchester, which, in the nature of things, must soon be vacant. Horbury had no doubt that the Headmastership would be his; he had influential46 friends who assured him that the trustees would not hesitate for an instant. Then he would show the world what an English Public School could be made. In five years, he calculated, he would double the numbers. He saw the coming importance of the modern side, and especially of science. Personally, he detested47 “stinks,” but he knew what an effect he would produce with a great laboratory fitted with the very best appliances and directed by a highly qualified48 master. Then, again, an elaborate gymnasium must be built; there must be an engineer’s shop, too, and a carpenter’s as well. And people were beginning to complain that a Public School Education was of no use in the City. There must be a business master, an expert from the Stock Exchange who would see that this reproach was removed. Then he considered that a large number of the boys belonged to the land-owning class. Why should a country gentleman be at the mercy of his agent, forced for lack of technical knowledge to accept statements which he could not check? It was clear that the management of land and great estates must have its part in the scheme; and, again, the best-known of the Crammers must be bought on his own terms, so that the boys who wished to get into the Army or the Civil Service would be practically compelled to come to Lupton. Already he saw paragraphs in the Guardian49 and The Times— in all the papers — paragraphs which mentioned the fact that ninety-five per cent of the successful candidates for the Indian Civil Service had received their education at the foundation of “stout old Martin Rolle.” Meanwhile, in all this flood of novelty, the old traditions should be maintained with more vigour50 than ever. The classics should be taught as they never had been taught. Every one of the masters on this side should be in the highest honours and, if possible, he would get famous men for the work — they should not merely be good, but also notorious scholars. Gee51, the famous explorer in Crete, who had made an enormous mark in regions widely removed from the scholastic52 world by his wonderful book, D?dalus; or, The Secret of the Labyrinth53, must come to Lupton at any price; and Maynard, who had discovered some most important Greek manuscripts in Egypt, he must have a form, too. Then there was Rendell, who had done so well with his Thucydides, and Davies, author of The Olive of Athene, a daring but most brilliant book which promised to upset the whole established theory of mythology54 — he would have such a staff as no school had ever dreamed of. “We shall have no difficulty about paying them,” thought Horbury; “our numbers will go up by leaps and bounds, and the fees shall be five hundred pounds a year — and such terms will do us more good than anything.”
He went into minute detail. He must take expert advice as to the advisability of the school farming on its own account, and so supplying the boys with meat, milk, bread, butter and vegetables at first cost. He believed it could be done; he would get a Scotch55 farmer from the Lowlands and make him superintendent56 at a handsome salary and with a share in the profits. There would be the splendid advertisement of “the whole dietary of the school supplied from the School Farms, under the supervision57 of Mr. David Anderson, formerly58 of Haddanneuk, the largest tenancy in the Duke of Ayr’s estates.” The food would be better and cheaper, too; but there would be no luxury. The “Spartan” card was always worth playing; one must strike the note of plain living in a luxurious59 age; there must be no losing of the old Public School severity. On the other hand, the boy’s hands should be free to go into their own pockets; there should be no restraint here. If a boy chose to bring in Dindonneau aux truffes or Pieds de mouton à la Ste Menehould to help out his tea, that was his look-out. Why should not the school grant a concession60 to some big London firm, who would pay handsomely for the privilege of supplying the hungry lads with every kind of expensive dainty? The sum could be justly made a large one, as any competing shop could be promptly61 put out of bounds with reason or without it. On one side, confiserie; at the other counter, charcuterie; enormous prices could be charged to the wealthy boys of whom the school would be composed. Yet, on the other hand, the distinguished62 visitor — judge, bishop45, peer or what not — would lunch at the Headmaster’s house and eat the boys’ dinner and go away saying it was quite the plainest and very many times the best meal he had ever tasted. There would be well-hung saddle of mutton, roasted and not baked; floury potatoes and cauliflower; apple pudding with real English cheese, with an excellent glass of the school beer, an honest and delicious beverage63 made of malt and hops64 in the well-found school brewery65. Horbury knew enough of modern eating and drinking to understand that such a meal would be a choice rarity to nine rich people out of ten; and yet it was “Spartan,” utterly66 devoid67 of luxury and ostentation68.
Again, he passed from detail and minuti? into great Napoleonic regions. A thousand boys at ￡500 a year; that would be an income for the school of five hundred thousand pounds! The profits would be gigantic, immense. After paying large, even extravagant69, prices to the staff, after all building expenses had been deducted70, he hardly dared to think how vast a sum would accrue71 year by year to the Trustees. The vision began to assume such magnificence that it became oppressive; it put on the splendours and delights of the hashish dream, which are too great and too piercing for mortal hearts to bear. And yet it was no mirage72; there was not a step that could not be demonstrated, shown to be based on hard; matter-of-fact business considerations. He tried to keep back his growing excitement, to argue with himself that he was dealing73 in visions, but the facts were too obstinate74. He saw that it would be his part to work the same miracle in the scholastic world as the great American storekeepers had operated in the world of retail75 trade. The principle was precisely76 the same: instead of a hundred small shops making comparatively modest and humdrum77 profits you had the vast emporium doing business on the gigantic scale with vastly diminished expenses and vastly increased rewards.
Here again was a hint. He had thought of America, and he knew that here was an inexhaustible gold mine, that no other scholastic prospector78 had even dreamed of. The rich American was notoriously hungry for everything that was English, from frock-coats to pedigrees. He had never thought of sending his son to an English Public School because he considered the system hopelessly behind the times. But the new translated Lupton would be to other Public Schools as a New York hotel of the latest fashion is to a village beer-shop. And yet the young millionaire would grow up in the company of the sons of the English gentlemen, imbibing79 the unique culture of English life, while at the same time he enjoyed all the advantages of modern ideas, modern science and modern business training. Land was still comparatively cheap at Lupton; the school must buy it quietly, indirectly80, by degrees, and then pile after pile of vast buildings rose before his eyes. He saw the sons of the rich drawn81 from all the ends of the world to the Great School, there to learn the secret of the Anglo–Saxons.
Chesson was mistaken in that idea of his, which he thought daring and original, of establishing a distinct Jewish House where the food should be “Kosher.” The rich Jew who desired to send his son to an English Public School was, in nine cases out of ten, anxious to do so precisely because he wanted to sink his son’s connection with Jewry in oblivion. He had heard Chesson talk of “our Christian82 duty to the seed of Israel” in this connection. The man was clearly a fool. No, the more Jews the better, but no Jewish House. And no Puseyism either: broad, earnest religious teaching, with a leaning to moderate Anglicanism, should be the faith of Lupton. As to this Chesson was, certainly, sound enough. He had always made a firm stand against ecclesiasticism in any form. Horbury knew the average English parent of the wealthier classes thoroughly83; he knew that, though he generally called himself a Churchman, he was quite content to have his sons prepared for confirmation84 by a confessed Agnostic. Certainly this liberty must not be narrowed when Lupton became cosmopolitan85. “We will retain all the dignified86 associations which belong to the Established Church,” he said to himself, “and at the same time we shall be utterly free from the taint87 of over-emphasising dogmatic teaching.” He had a sudden brilliant idea. Everybody in Church circles was saying that the English bishops88 were terribly overworked, that it was impossible for the most strenuous89 men with the best intentions to supervise effectually the huge dioceses that had descended90 from the sparsely91 populated England of the Middle Ages. Everywhere there was a demand for suffragans and more suffragans. In the last week’s Guardian there were three letters on the subject, one from a clergyman in their own diocese. The Bishop had been attacked by some rabid ritualistic person, who had pointed92 out that nine out of every ten parishes had not so much as seen the colour of his hood93 ever since his appointment ten years before. The Archdeacon of Melby had replied in a capital letter, scathing94 and yet humorous. Horbury turned to the paper on the table beside his chair and looked up the letter. “In the first place,” wrote the Archdeacon, “your correspondent does not seem to have realised that the ethoes of the Diocese of Melby is not identical with that of sacerdotalism. The sturdy folk of the Midlands have not yet, I am thankful to say, forgotten the lessons of our great Reformation. They have no wish to see a revival95 of the purely96 mechanical religion of the Middle Ages — of the system of a sacrificing priesthood and of sacraments efficacious ex opere operato. Hence they do not regard the episcopate quite in the same light as your correspondent ‘Senex,’ who, it seems to me, looks upon a bishop as a sort of Christianised ‘medicine-man,’ endowed with certain mysterious thaumaturgic powers which have descended to him by an (imaginary) spiritual succession. This was not the view of Hooker, nor, I venture to say, has it ever been the view of the really representative divines of the Established Church of England.
“Still,” the Archdeacon went on, “it must be admitted that the present diocese of Melby is unwieldy and, it may be fairly said, unworkable.”
Then there followed the humorous anecdote97 of Sir Boyle Roche and the Bird, and finally the Archdeacon emitted the prayer that God in His own good time would put it into the hearts of our rulers in Church and State to give their good Bishop an episcopal curate.
Horbury got up from his chair and paced up and down the study; his excitement was so great that he could keep quiet no longer. His cigar had gone out long ago, and he had barely sipped98 the whisky and soda. His eyes glittered with excitement. Circumstances seemed positively99 to be playing into his hands; the dice100 of the world were being loaded in his favour. He was like Bel Ami at his wedding. He almost began to believe in Providence101.
For he was sure it could be managed. Here was a general feeling that no one man could do the work of the diocese. There must be a suffragan, and Lupton must give the new Bishop his title. No other town was possible. Dunham had certainly been a see in the eighth century, but it was now little more than a village and a village served by a miserable little branch line; whereas Lupton was on the great main track of the Midland system, with easy connections to every part of the country. The Archdeacon, who was also a peer, would undoubtedly102 become the first Bishop of Lupton, and he should be the titular103 chaplain of the Great School! “Chaplain! The Right Reverend Lord Selwyn, Lord Bishop of Lupton.” Horbury gasped104; it was too magnificent, too splendid. He knew Lord Selwyn quite well and had no doubt as to his acceptance. He was a poor man, and there would be no difficulty whatever in establishing a modus. The Archdeacon was just the man for the place. He was no pedantic105 theologian, but a broad, liberal-minded man of the world. Horbury remembered, almost with ecstasy106, that he had lectured all over the United States with immense success. The American Press had been enthusiastic, and the First Congregational Church of Chicago had implored107 Selwyn to accept its call, preach what he liked and pocket an honorarium108 of twenty-five thousand dollars a year. And, on the other hand, what could the most orthodox desire safer than a chaplain who was not only a bishop, but a peer of the realm? Wonderful! Here were the three birds — Liberalism, Orthodoxy and Reverence109 for the House of Lords — caught safe and secure in this one net.
The games? They should be maintained in all their glory, rather on an infinitely110 more splendid scale. Cricket and sticker (the Lupton hockey), rackets and fives, should be all encouraged; and more, Lupton should be the only school to possess a tennis court. The noble jeu de paume, the game of kings, the most aristocratic of all sports, should have a worthy111 home at Lupton. They would train champions; they would have both French and English markers skilled in the latest developments of the chemin de fer service. “Better than half a yard, I think,” said Horbury to himself; “they will have to do their best to beat that.”
But he placed most reliance on rocker. This was the Lupton football, a variant112 as distinctive113 in its way as the Eton Wall Game. People have thought that the name is a sort of portmanteau word, a combination of Rugger and Soccer; but in reality the title was derived114 from the field where the game used to be played in old days by the townsfolk. As in many other places, football at Lupton had been originally an excuse for a faction-fight between two parishes in the town — St. Michael’s and St. Paul’s-in-the-Fields. Every year, on Shrove Tuesday, the townsfolk, young and old, had proceeded to the Town Field and had fought out their differences with considerable violence. The field was broken land: a deep, sluggish115 stream crossed one angle of it, and in the middle there were quarries116 and jagged limestone117 rocks. Hence football was called in the town “playing rocks,” for, indeed, it was considered an excellent point of play to hurl118 a man over the edge of the quarry119 on to the rocks beneath, and so late as 1830 a certain Jonas Simpson of St. Michael’s had had his spine120 broken in this way. However, as a boy from St. Paul’s was drowned in the Wand the same day, the game was always reckoned a draw. It was from the peculiarities121 of this old English sport that the school had constructed its game. The Town Field had, of course, long been stolen from the townsfolk and built over; but the boys had, curiously122 enough, perpetuated123 the tradition of its peculiarities in a kind of football ritual. For, besides the two goals, one part of the field was marked by a line of low white posts: these indicated the course of a non-existent Wand brook124, and in the line of these posts it was lawful125 to catch an opponent by the throat and choke him till he turned black in the face — the best substitute for drowning that the revisers of the game could imagine. Again: about the centre of the field two taller posts indicated the position of the quarries, and between these you might be hit or kicked full in the stomach without the smallest ground of complaint: the stroke being a milder version of the old fall on the rocks.
There were many other like amenities126 in rocker; and Horbury maintained it was by far the manliest127 variant of the game. For this pleasing sport he now designed a world-wide fame. Rocker should be played wherever the English flag floated: east and west, north and south; from Hong Kong to British Columbia; in Canada and New Zealand there should be the Temenoi of this great rite128; and the traveller seeing the mystic enclosure — the two goals, the line of little posts marking “brooks” and the two poles indicating “quarries”— should know English soil as surely as by the union Jack129. The technical terms of rocker should become a part of the great Anglo–Saxon inheritance; the whole world should hear of “bully-downs” and “tokering,” of “outsides” and “rammers.” It would require working, but it was to be done: articles in the magazines and in the Press; perhaps a story of school life, a new Tom Brown must be written. The Midlands and the North must be shown that there was money in it, and the rest would be easy.
One thing troubled Horbury. His mind was full of the new and splendid buildings that were to be erected130, but he was aware that antiquity131 still counted for something, and unfortunately Lupton could show very little that was really antique. Forty years before, Stanley, the first reforming Headmaster, had pulled down the old High School. There were prints of it: it was a half-timbered, fifteenth-century building, with a wavering roof-line and an overhanging upper story; there were dim, leaded windows and a grey arched porch — an ugly old barn, Stanley called it. Scott was called in and built the present High School, a splendid hall in red brick: French thirteenth-century, with Venetian detail; it was much admired. But Horbury was sorry that the old school had been destroyed; he saw for the first time that it might have been made a valuable attraction. Then again, Dowsing, who succeeded Stanley, had knocked the cloisters132 all to bits; there was only one side of the quadrangle left, and this had been boarded up and used as a gardeners’ shed. Horbury did not know what to say of the destruction of the Cross that used to stand in the centre of the quad133. No doubt Dowsing was right in thinking it superstitious134; still, it might have been left as a curiosity and shown to visitors, just as the instruments of bygone cruelty — the rack and the Iron Maid — are preserved and exhibited to wondering sightseers. There was no real danger of any superstitious adoration135 of the Cross; it was, as a matter of fact, as harmless as the axe136 and block at the Tower of London; Dowsing had ruined what might have been an important asset in the exploitation of the school.
Still, perhaps the loss was not altogether irreparable. High School was gone and could not be recovered; but the cloisters might be restored and the Cross, too. Horbury knew that the monument in front of Charing137 Cross Railway Station was considered by many to be a genuine antique: why not get a good man to build them a Cross? Not like the old one, of course; that “Fair Roode with our Deare Ladie Saint Marie and Saint John,” and, below, the stories of the blissful Saints and Angels — that would never do. But a vague, Gothic erection, with plenty of kings and queens, imaginary benefactors138 of the school, and a small cast-iron cross at the top: that could give no offence to anybody, and might pass with nine people out of ten as a genuine remnant of the Middle Ages. It could be made of soft stone and allowed to weather for a few years; then a coat of invisible anti-corrosive fluid would preserve carvings139 and imagery that would already appear venerable in decay. There was no need to make any precise statements: parents and the public might be allowed to draw their own conclusions.
Horbury was neglecting nothing. He was building up a great scheme in his mind, and to him it seemed that every detail was worth attending to, while at the same time he did not lose sight of the whole effect. He believed in finish: there must be no rough edges. It seemed to him that a school legend must be invented. The real history was not quite what he wanted, though it might work in with a more decorative140 account of Lupton’s origins. One might use the Textus Receptus of Martin Rolle’s Foundation — the bequest141 of land c. 1430 to build and maintain a school where a hundred boys should be taught grammar, and ten poor scholars and six priests should pray for the Founder’s soul. This was well enough, but one might hint that Martin Rolle really refounded and re-endowed a school of Saxon origin, probably established by King Alfred himself in Luppa’s Tun. Then, again, who could show that Shakespeare had not visited Lupton? His famous schoolboy, “creeping like snail142 unwillingly143 to school,” might very possibly have been observed by the poet as he strolled by the banks of the Wand. Many famous men might have received their education at Lupton; it would not be difficult to make a plausible144 list of such. It must be done carefully and cautiously, with such phrases as “it has always been a tradition at Lupton that Sir Walter Raleigh received part of his education at the school”; or, again, “an earlier generation of Luptonians remembered the initials ‘W. S. S. on A.’ cut deeply in the mantel of old High School, now, unfortunately, demolished145.” Antiquarians would laugh? Possibly; but who cared about antiquarians? For the average man “Charing” was derived from “chère reine,” and he loved to have it so, and Horbury intended to appeal to the average man. Though he was a schoolmaster he was no recluse146, and he had marked the ways of the world from his quiet study in Lupton; hence he understood the immense value of a grain of quackery147 in all schemes which are meant to appeal to mortals. It was a deadly mistake to suppose that anything which was all quackery would be a success — a permanent success, at all events; it was a deadlier mistake still to suppose that anything quite devoid of quackery could pay handsomely. The average English palate would shudder148 at the flavour of aioli, but it would be charmed by the insertion of that petit point d’ail which turned mere35 goodness into triumph and laurelled perfection. And there was no need to mention the word “garlic” before the guests. Lupton was not going to be all garlic: it was to be infinitely the best scholastic dish that had ever been served — the ingredients should be unsurpassed and unsurpassable. But — King Alfred’s foundation of a school at Luppa’s Tun, and that “W. S. S. on A.” cut deeply on the mantel of the vanished High School — these and legends like unto them, these would be the last touch, le petit point d’ail.
It was a great scheme, wonderful and glorious; and the most amazing thing about it was that it was certain to be realised. There was not a flaw from start to finish. The Trustees were certain to appoint him — he had that from a sure quarter — and it was but a question of a year or two, perhaps only of a month or two, before all this great and golden vision should be converted into hard and tangible149 fact. He drank off his glass of whisky and soda; it had become flat and brackish150, but to him it was nectar, since it was flavoured with ecstasy.
He frowned suddenly as he went upstairs to his room. An unpleasant recollection had intruded151 for a moment on his amazing fantasy; but he dismissed the thought as soon as it arose. That was all over, there could be no possibility of trouble from that direction; and so, his mind filled with images, he fell asleep and saw Lupton as the centre of the whole world, like Jerusalem in the ancient maps.
A student of the deep things of mysticism has detected a curious element of comedy in the management of human concerns; and there certainly seems a touch of humour in the fact that on this very night, while Horbury was building the splendid Lupton of the future, the palace of his thought and his life was shattered for ever into bitter dust and nothingness. But so it was. The Dread152 Arrest had been solemnly recognised, and that wretched canonry at Wareham was irrevocably pronounced for doom153. Fantastic were the elements of forces that had gone to the ordering of this great sentence: raw corn spirit in the guise154 of sherry, the impertinence (or what seemed such) of an elderly clergyman, a boiled leg of mutton, a troublesome and disobedient boy, and — another person.
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determined
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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5
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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6
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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8
equivocated
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| v.使用模棱两可的话隐瞒真相( equivocate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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10
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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11
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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12
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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13
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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14
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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15
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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16
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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17
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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18
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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19
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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20
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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21
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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23
materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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24
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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25
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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26
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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27
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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28
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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29
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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30
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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32
jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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33
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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34
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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37
propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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38
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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39
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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40
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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41
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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42
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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43
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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44
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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45
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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46
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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47
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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49
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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50
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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51
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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52
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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53
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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54
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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55
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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56
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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57
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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58
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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59
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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60
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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61
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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62
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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63
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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64
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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65
brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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66
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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67
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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68
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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69
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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70
deducted
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| v.扣除，减去( deduct的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
accrue
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| v.(利息等)增大，增多 | |
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72
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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73
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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74
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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75
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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76
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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77
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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78
prospector
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| n.探矿者 | |
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79
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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80
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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81
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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82
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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83
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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84
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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85
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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86
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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87
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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88
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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89
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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90
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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91
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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92
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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93
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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94
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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95
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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96
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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97
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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98
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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100
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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101
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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102
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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103
titular
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| adj.名义上的，有名无实的；n.只有名义（或头衔）的人 | |
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104
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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105
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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106
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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107
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
honorarium
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| n.酬金，谢礼 | |
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109
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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110
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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111
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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112
variant
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| adj.不同的，变异的；n.变体，异体 | |
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113
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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114
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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115
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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116
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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117
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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118
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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119
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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120
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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121
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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122
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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123
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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124
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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125
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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126
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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127
manliest
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| manly（有男子气概的）的最高级形式 | |
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128
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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129
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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130
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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131
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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132
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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134
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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135
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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136
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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137
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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138
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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139
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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140
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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141
bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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142
snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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143
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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144
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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145
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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146
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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147
quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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148
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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149
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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150
brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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151
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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152
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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153
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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154
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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