CHAPTER VI.

THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT.

“A stalwart, active, soldier-looking stripling, Handsome as Hercules ere his first labor, With a brow of thought beyond his years, When in repose, till his eye kindles up In answering yours.” WERNER.

“Behind a darker hour ascends.” MARMION.

The minister had discovered Sophie Churchill’s vocation by the subtle sympathy that existed between the instructress and the pupil, in the little scene he had witnessed. He was not backward in improving his discovery.

“We are very much in need of a parish-school, Miss Churchill,” said he one evening as he sat with her. “I do not mean by that a free-school, but a school for the instruction of the younger children connected with the congregation. I have conversed with several of my parishioners, and they all favor the plan of establishing one. The circumstances of the surrounding neighborhood point to Heath Hall as its locality, and to the young lady of Heath Hall as its mistress. This has also been named and approved, and I come on the part of the vestry, who will resolve themselves into a board of school trustees, to lay the subject before you for consideration. What do you think of it, Miss Churchill?”

“Oh, if I were only fit for it!”

“You are the most proper person for it that I know. The faculty of teaching is a natural gift, like painting or poetry, and it is _your_ gift; you can infuse into the mind of a tolerably intelligent child all your own knowledge, and not only so, but if you possess the faculty in its perfection, as I think you do, you can arouse the mind of a dull child, and inspire that of a darkened one with intelligence.”

“But I am really _so_ ignorant.”

“That is a matter of secondary importance—knowledge can be acquired. You possess the first requisite, that which never _can_ be acquired, the natural adaptation for the profession. Why, Sophie, I have known men of the finest talents and the highest attainments in science and literature, fine classical and mathematical scholars, who could not for the soul of them convey into a child’s mind the reason why you sometimes borrow ten and carry one in the rule of subtraction; and I have known such men at the head of large academies, or filling professors’ chairs in colleges, advanced to their post of responsibility upon account of their vast acquirements in knowledge and their unimpeachable morality. Now this would seem to be all that is required, yet people never take into account the attractions a profession should have for its votary. So these men of unimpeachable morality and unexcelled intelligence pass their time and spend their energies in beating the air, while their pupils are unimproved, except, perhaps, by the instruction of others.”

“That is strange,” said Sophie.

“You think it is. So a musical genius of acute ear wonders, until he understands how another of no ear can sing out of tune.”

“I can certainly teach easily and quickly everything that I know thoroughly, and some things that I do not know thoroughly, for sometimes when trying to explain to little Hagar a subject whose boundaries are indistinct to me, a gleam of light breaks into my mind, and all is clear to my vision—clear to its fullest extent, and my little pupil, at the end of her lesson, knows more than her teacher did at its commencement.”

“Yes, and yet you, Sophie, stand merely upon the threshold of the temple of knowledge, and can do what some of the high priests of the altar would fail in attempting. Thus a teacher’s efficiency should be judged not by his own reputation for natural intelligence or acquired knowledge, but by his ability to convey the same to his pupils, to be tested by the actual progress of his pupils. If people would only follow the natural bent of their faculties, how much swindling, cheating, idleness, humbuggery, hypocrisy, _misery_ would be saved; had _I_ done so how much—”

He stopped and bit his lip.

“Your pupils at first will be the youngest children of the congregation who are old enough to attend school. While instructing them you will be cultivating your own mind and adding to your stores of information; in this latter part of the plan I shall assist you, Miss Churchill. It will give me pleasure to be your teacher, for though I have no particular vocation for the profession, yet as it is so much easier to teach a grown person than a child, for in the former case the pupil meets one more than half way, and in the latter case one has to go _all_ the way and charm the pupil _out and on_, I shall have no great trouble with you. And by next year you will be able to take a more advanced class of young ladies.”

Then with Sophie he explored the ruinous apartments on the other side of the hall, selected the old disused drawing-room as the future school-room, and saying that he would send carpenters and plasterers over in the morning, he withdrew.

The next morning a carpenter, a plasterer, and a glazier came, and they came every day for a fortnight, and at the end of that time the boarded up, close, dark old drawing-room looked large, lightsome, and clean. In another week the school furniture arrived—a nice little mahogany desk for the teacher, and a dozen stained and varnished pine forms for the pupils.

And now behold Sophie Churchill in her favorite sober brown silk dress, with her smoothly braided brown hair, seated at her desk presiding over her school, her large soft brown eyes floating serenely over the scene. Now no more ennui, now quickly fled the day, now pleasantly passed the week—the month. Is it a wonder that Sophie cherished in her heart a warm sentiment of gratitude towards the man who had wrought this favorable change in her life? The circle of her existence was vastly enlarged. Every Friday evening a horse and side-saddle would be sent by some one of her patrons to convey her to their house, where she was ever warmly welcomed, a loved and honored guest, to remain until Monday morning recalled her to her school duties. Once or twice during the week Emily May would accompany Gusty to school, and remain all day assisting Sophie at her labor. Nearly every evening now the pastor came, and gave her lessons in Greek and mathematics. Sophie felt so little “vocation” for these severe studies that nothing but the implacable will of her minister could have kept her to it. Worse than anything in her experience she dreaded his frown and his sure and stern rebuke when she had not accomplished her task—worse than anything except the steady searching gaze of his coldly brilliant green-grey eyes. _This_ froze the blood in her heart. And yet she felt grateful towards him; she blamed herself for her antipathy—her reason assured her that the _fault_ was not in _him_, but the _folly_ in _herself_. Her reason approved the pastor, the philosopher, the teacher—her instincts shrank from the man. With all this there was sometimes something strangely fascinating for her, even in his coldness, hardness, and harshness—a feeling, that if some element, she knew not what, were absent from his character, she might then meet his friendship—that something in utter discord with her own soul—that something that, speaking through his green-grey eyes, chilled and repelled her. Affairs were in this state when one Friday morning, early in June, Master Gusty May, on entering the school-room, marched up to the teacher’s desk with an air of importance, and handed her a note. It was from Mrs. May, and ran thus:—

“Dearest Sophie, do return with Gusty this evening. I have sent a pillion, and you can ride behind him. There are to be grand doings at Grove Cottage this evening. Kitty is beating eggs; and I am stoning raisins—all this in honor of the expected arrival of Lieutenant Augustus H. Wilde, United States Navy. My dear brother Gusty, his ship has arrived at the Navy Yard at Norfolk—he has received his promotion, and writes that he will be with me this evening. Wear your _new_ brown silk dress, Sophie, for I want you to make a conquest of Master Gusty, Senior, so that we can keep him here while he is on shore. And I want _him_ to cut the minister out, _too_, although the whole country says it will be such a ‘marvellous proper’ match—that is, between you and the minister. Come.

EMILY.”

There was another horse and side-saddle brought by another pupil to carry Sophie home with him that evening, but when school was dismissed, Master Gusty (junior, as we must call him now) marched up to the bringer of the rival nag, and told the “fellow” that Miss Churchill was going home with _him_, and that he had better carry his “beast” back again.

During their ride to the Grove, Gusty informed Miss Churchill that he was named after his uncle, Augustus Wilde, that the latter was just made a lieutenant, and that he was going to try to procure a midshipman’s warrant for _him_ when he was a little bigger. They arrived at the Grove at sunset. Lieutenant Wilde was already there, and came out gallantly to lift Sophie from her horse—she had never seen him before, and as he came from the cottage door down the long grape-vine covered walk to the gate where her horse stood, she thought he was strikingly like his sister, the same silky black hair, the same dark grey eyes—he approached, addressed her freely and cheerfully as his sister’s familiar friend, and in lifting her off the pillion their eyes met—their _eyes_ met, their _souls_ met. The soul more or less plainly speaks through the eyes, and I believe that ever the truest, purest, strongest, and most lasting love begins with the first meeting of the eyes, in a sort of mutual recognition. Involuntarily his voice softened to its lowest, sweetest tones in addressing her, and tenderly, most tenderly he arranged her riding habit as he stood her on the ground, and then drawing her arm through his own, he gently led her up the grape walk to the house. Emily received her at the door with a hearty kiss, and telling her that she looked unusually charming, led her into the house. The pastor was within, of course. Emily’s parlor glittered with its clean, sober, drab-colored glory. The evening passed delightfully, between Emily’s music, Sophie’s songs, and the young lieutenant’s sea-stories, anecdotes, and adventures. The pastor alone was silent and moody. Never had Sophie Churchill passed so delightful an evening. With strangers generally, Sophie was as shy as the wild fawn of her native woods, and her large eyes would startle and dilate if she was addressed by any one, yet now those wild shy eyes were ever roving after another pair. As yet she was utterly unconscious of this truantism. At last they met that other pair, and she—_blushed, and looked down? No!_ That belongs to a more sophisticated, a more conventional being than our wild fawn of the Heath. No—a glad, innocent, unconscious smile broke over her face. There was one present who watched her with a dark and lowering brow. Happily Sophie did not perceive the evil eye glowering under it. The evening closed. She retired to rest with an elevated and happy heart. She and Emily slept together in the same old room—the minister occupied his own chamber alone, for Emily did not like to thrust her brother in upon him. So after everybody was gone to rest, Emily prepared a sofa bed in the parlor for her brother.

“Emily! Emily! she is charming, charming!” said the young man, as his sister stooped to receive his good night kiss.

“That she is, Gusty! Charming! and I am glad you find her so. Good-night.”

“He loves you, darling—he loves you _dearly_, _sweet_ darling,” said Emily, hugging her friend to her bosom, “and I am so glad.”