Elsie came to his side without any hesitation, though without any of the rush that accompanied her advent to those whom she affected. “And you, my little man,” added the stranger, quietly, and looking to Ned, who likewise willingly approached, and, shaking him by the offered hand, let it go again, but continued standing by his side.
“Do you know, my little friends,” said the stranger, “that it is my business in life to instruct such little people as you?”
“Do they obey you well, sir?” asked Ned, perhaps conscious of a want of force in the person whom he addressed.
The stranger smiled faintly. “Not too well,” said he. “That has been my difficulty; for I have moral and religious objections, and also a great horror, to the use of the rod, and I have not been gifted with a harsh voice and a stern brow; so that, after a while, my little people sometimes get the better of me. The present generation of men is too gross for gentle treatment.”
“You are quite right,” quoth Doctor Grimshawe, who had been observing this little scene, and trying to make out, from the mutual deportment of the stranger and the two children, what sort of man this fair, quiet stranger was, with his gentleness and weakness,—characteristics that were not attractive to himself, yet in which he acknowledged, as he saw them here, a certain charm; nor did he know, scarcely, whether to despise the one in whom he saw them, or to yield to a strange sense of reverence. So he watched the children, with an indistinct idea of being guided by them. “You are quite right: the world now—and always before, as far as I ever heard—requires a great deal of brute force, a great deal of animal food and brandy in the man that is to make an impression on it.”
The convalescence of the stranger—he gave his name as Colcord—proceeded favorably; for the Doctor remarked that, delicate as his system was, it had a certain purity,—a simple healthfulness that did not run into disease as stronger constitutions might. It did not apparently require much to crush down such a being as this,—not much unkindly breath to blow out the taper of his life,—and yet, if not absolutely killed, there was a certain aptness to keep alive in him not readily to be overcome.
No sooner was he in a condition so to do, than he went forth to look after the little school that he had spoken of, but soon came back, announcing in a very quiet and undisturbed way that, during his withdrawal from duty, the scholars had been distributed to other instructors, and consequently he was without place or occupation [Endnotes: 2, 3, 4.]
“A hard case,” said the Doctor, flinging a gruff curse at those who had so readily deserted the poor schoolmaster.
“Not so hard,” replied Colcord. “These little fellows are an unruly set, born of parents who have led rough lives,—here in battle time, too, with the spirit of battle in them,—therefore rude and contentious beyond my power to cope with them. I have been taught, long ago,” he added, with a peaceful smile, “that my business in life does not lie with grown-up and consolidated men and women; and so, not to be useless in my day, and to gain the little that my sustenance requires, I have thought to deal with children. But even for this I lack force.”
“I dare say,” said the Doctor, with a modified laugh. “Little devils they are, harder to deal with than men. Well, I am glad of your failure for one reason, and of your being thrown out of business; because we shall have the benefit of you the longer. Here is this boy to be instructed. I have made some attempts myself; but having no art of instructing, no skill, no temper I suppose, I make but an indifferent hand at it: and besides I have other business that occupies my thoughts. Take him in hand, if you like, and the girl for company. No matter whether you teach her anything, unless you happen to be acquainted with needlework.”