Few understood his words, but they quietly caught the idea, and yielded themselves eagerly to his arranging hand. The highest grasp was Claude’s. There was a little empty space under it, and then one only of Sidonie’s hands, timid, smooth, and brown. And still the master held back the word.
“Not yet! not yet! The pear is not ripe!” He stood apart from them, near the chapel-door, where the light was strong, his silver watch open in his left hand, his form erect, his right hand lifted to the brim of his hat, his eyes upon the dial.
“Not yet, dear chil’run. Not yet. Two minute mo’.—Be ready.—Not yet!—One minute mo’!—Have the patience. Hold every one in his aw her place. Be ready! Have the patience.” But at length when the little ones were frowning and softly sighing with the pain of upheld arms, their waiting eyes saw his dilate. “Be ready!” he said, with low intensity: “Be ready!” He soared to his tiptoes, the hat flounced from his head and smote his thigh, his eyes turned upon them blazing, and he cried, “Ring, chil’run, ring!”
The elfin crew leaped up the ropes and came crouching down. The bell pealed; the master’s hat swung round his head. His wide eyes were wet, and he cried again, “Ring! ring! for God, light, libbutty, education!” He sprang toward the leaping, sinking mass; but the right feeling kept his own hands off. And up and down the children went, the bell answering from above, peal upon peal; when just as they had caught the rhythm of Claude’s sturdy pull, and the bell could sound no louder, the small cords gave way from their fastenings, the little ones rolled upon their backs, the bell gave one ecstatic double clang and turned clear over, the swift rope straightened upward from its coil, and Claude and Sidonie, her hands clasped upon each other about the rope and his hands upon hers, shot up three times as high as their finest leap could have carried them. For an instant they hung; then with another peal the bell turned back and they came blushing to the floor. A swarm of hands darted to the rope, but Bonaventure’s was on it first.
“’Tis sufficient!” he said, his face all triumph. The bell gave a lingering clang or two and ceased, and presently the happy company walked across the green. “Sufficient,” the master had said; but it was more than sufficient. In that moment of suspension, with Sidonie’s great brown frightened eyes in his, and their four hands clasped together, Claude had learned, for his first lesson, that knowledge is not the only or the greatest power.
CHAPTER V.
INVITED TO LEAVE.
After that, every school-day morning Claude rang the bell. Always full early his pirogue came gliding out of the woods and up through the bushy fen to the head of canoe navigation and was hauled ashore. Bonaventure had fixed his home near the chapel and not far from Claude’s landing-place. Thus the lad could easily come to his door each morning at the right moment—reading it by hunter’s signs in nature’s book—to get the word to ring. There were none of the usual reasons that the schoolmaster should live close to the schoolhouse. There was no demand for its key.