“In the flesh as an eager-faced young man,” said the school-master. “But every night as I sit by the fire, I summon William Jordan to lead the pageant of my experience. When my spirit is like clay you stand before it, the first among the valiant, so subtle yet so brave. When this generation, which is so restless, so brilliant, so full of vitality, seems to tell me that I am but a survival of a phase which now is nought, I say to it, ‘So be it, my children, but where is the William Jordan among you? I would have you show me his peer before I yield.’”
The boy, whose nature was like the strings of some miraculous instrument which are not only susceptible to the slightest human touch, but are also responsive to the delicate waves in the air, knew that some strange emotion was overwhelming his father, although none could have perceived it but himself.
“My dear old master,” said the boy’s father, with an indescribable melancholy, “it is the old voice—the old voice that we loved to hear. And it is the old courage—the old incomparable suit of mail.”
“A school-master’s courage should increase as he grows old, I think,” said the old man, whose voice was like a harp. “It is true his age is menaced by all the noble energies he has failed to mould; by all the expenditure of spirit, by all the devout patience he has lavished upon them, which have come to no harvest; but is it not by giving our all without hope of a requital that in the end teaches us to accept our destiny?”
The boy’s father stood like a statue before his old preceptor.
“Master, your voice overcomes me,” he said. “But it is just, it is perfectly just that I should live to hear it sound reproachful in my ears.”
“I do not reproach you, dear Isocrates,” said the old man, with the exquisite humility that is only begotten by wisdom. “Or if my words have chidden you it is that there is an echo in yourself. Isocrates was ever your name among us. We cannot order our destiny; we can only fulfil it.”
“I was one of great projects,” said the boy’s father.
“Him whom I recall had ambition burning in his veins like a chemical,” said the old man.
“Yes, master,” said the boy’s father, with a curious simplicity, “but on a day he tasted the poppy that perished the red blood in his veins. From that hour he could never be what he promised. The strength was taken from his right hand.”