“And ’tis not something done wrongly?”
The lad shook his head.
“Then, my poor Claude,”—the teacher’s own voice faltered for a moment,—“then—’tis—’tis she!” He stroked the weeping head that sank into its hands. “Ah! yes, Claude, yes; ’tis she; ’tis she! And you want me to help you. Alas! in vain you want me! I cannot even try-y-y to help you; you have mentioned it too lately! ’Tis right you come to me, despiting discrepancy of years; but alas! the difficulty lies in the contrary; for alas! Claude, our two heart’ are of the one, same age!”
They went out; and walking side by side toward the failing sun, with the humble flowers of the field and path newly opened and craving leave to live about their feet and knees, Bonaventure Deschamps revealed his own childlike heart to the simple boy whose hand clasped his.
“Yes, yes; I conceal not from you, Claude, that ’tis not alone ‘thou lovest,’ but ‘I love’! If with cause to hope, Claude, I know not. And I must not search to know whilst yet the schoolmaster. And the same to you, Claude, whilst yet a scholah. We mus’ let the dissimulation like a worm in the bud to h-eat our cheek. ’Tis the voice of honor cry—‘Silence.’ And during the meanwhilst, you? Perchance at the last, the years passing and you enlarging in size daily and arriving to budding manhood, may be the successful; for suspect not I consider lightly the youngness of yo’ passion. Attend what I shall reveal you. Claude, there once was a boy, yo’ size, yo’ age, but fierce, selfish, distemperate; still more selfish than yo’ schoolmaster of to-day.” And there that master went on to tell of an early—like Claude’s, an all too early—rash, and boyish passion, whose ragged wound, that he had thought never could heal, was now only a tender scar.
“And you, too, Claude, though now it seem not possible—you shall recuperate from this. But why say I thus? Think you I would inoculate the idea that you must despair? Nay, perchance you shall achieve her.” They stood near the lad’s pirogue about to say adieu; the schoolmaster waved his hand backward toward the farther end of the village. “She is there; in a short time she will cease to continue scholah; then—try.” And again, with still more courageous kindness, he repeated, “Try! ’Tis a lesson that thou shouldest heed—try, try again. If at the first thou doest not succeed, try, try again.”
Claude gazed gratefully into the master’s face. Boy that he was, he did not read aright the anguish gathering there. From his own face the clouds melted into a glad sunshine of courage, resolve, and anticipation. Bonaventure saw the spark of hope that he had dropped into the boy’s heart blaze up into his face. And what did Claude see? The hot blood mounting to the master’s brow an instant ere he wheeled and hurried away.
“’Sieur Bonaventure!” exclaimed Claude; “’Sieur Bonaventure!”
But deaf to all tones alike, Bonaventure moved straight away along the bushy path, and was presently gone from sight. There is a repentance of good deeds. Bonaventure Deschamps felt it gnawing and tearing hard and harder within his bosom as he strode on through the wild vernal growth that closed in the view on every side. Soon he halted; then turned, and began to retrace his steps.
“Claude!” The tone was angry and imperative. No answer came. He quickened his gait. “Claude!” The voice was petulant and imperious. A turn of the path brought again to view the spot where the two had so lately parted. No one was there. He moaned and then cried aloud, “O thou fool, fool, fool!—Claude!” He ran; faster—faster—down the path, away from all paths, down the little bayou’s margin, into the bushes, into the mud and water. “Claude! Claude! I told you wrongly! Stop! Arretez-la! I must add somewhat!—Claude!” The bushes snatched away his hat; tore his garments; bled him in hands and face; yet on he went into the edge of the forest. “Claude! Ah! Claude, thou hast ruin’ me! Stop, you young rascal!—thief!—robber!—brigand!” A vine caught and held him fast. “Claude! Claude!”—The echoes multiplied the sound, and scared from their dead-tree roost a flock of vultures. The dense wood was wrapping the little bayou in its premature twilight. The retreating sun, that for a while had shot its flaming arrows through the black boles and branches, had sunk now and was gone. Only a parting ruby glow shone through the tangle where far and wide the echoes were calling for Claude.