Emilie the Peacemaker by Mrs. Thomas Geldart

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EMILIE THE PEACEMAKER.

BY MRS. THOMAS GELDART.

AUTHOR OF "TRUTH IS EVERYTHING;" "NURSERY GUIDE;" "STORIES OF ENGLAND
AND HER FORTY COUNTIES;" AND "THOUGHTS FOR HOME."

MDCCCLI.

Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of
God.... Matt v. 9.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER II.

THE SOFT ANSWER

CHAPTER III.

THE LESSON AT THE COTTAGE

CHAPTER IV.

THE HOLIDAYS

CHAPTER V.

EDITH'S TRIALS

CHAPTER VI.

EMILIE'S TRIALS

CHAPTER VII.

BETTER THINGS

CHAPTER VIII.

GOOD FOR EVIL

CHAPTER IX.

FRED A PEACEMAKER

CHAPTER X.

EDITH'S VISIT TO JOE

CHAPTER XI.

JOE'S CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER XII.

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

CHAPTER XIII.

THE NEW HOME

CHAPTER XIV.

THE LAST

CHAPTER FIRST.

INTRODUCTION.

One bright afternoon, or rather evening, in May, two girls, with basket
in hand, were seen leaving the little seaport town in which they
resided, for the professed purpose of primrose gathering, but in reality
to enjoy the pure air of the first summer-like evening of a season,
which had been unusually cold and backward. Their way lay through bowery
lanes scented with sweet brier and hawthorn, and every now and then
glorious were the views of the beautiful ocean, which lay calmly
reposing and smiling beneath the setting sun. "How unlike that stormy,
dark, and noisy sea of but a week ago!" so said the friends to each
other, as they listened to its distant musical murmur, and heard the
waves break gently on the shingly beach.

Although we have called them friends, there was a considerable
difference in their ages. That tall and pleasing, though plain, girl in
black, was the governess of the younger. Her name was Emilie Schomberg.
The little rosy, dark-eyed, and merry girl, her pupil, we shall call
Edith Parker. She had scarcely numbered twelve Mays, and was at the age
when primrosing and violeting have not lost their charms, and when
spring is the most welcome, and the dearest of all the four seasons.
Emilie Schomberg, as her name may lead you to infer, was a German. She
spoke English, however, so well, that you would scarcely have supposed
her to be a foreigner, and having resided in England for some years, had
been accustomed to the frequent use of that language. Emilie Schomberg
was the daily governess of little Edith. Little she was always called,
for she was the youngest of the family, and at eleven years of age, if
the truth must be told of her, was a good deal of a baby.

Several schemes of education had been tried for this same little
Edith,--schools and governesses and masters,--but Emilie Schomberg, who
now came to her for a few hours every other day, had obtained greater
influence over her than any former instructor; and in addition to the
German, French, and music, which she undertook to teach, she instructed
Edith in a few things not really within her province, but nevertheless
of some importance; of these you shall judge. The search for primroses
was not a silent search--Edith is the first speaker.

"Yes, Emilie, but it was very provoking, after I had finished my lessons
so nicely, and got done in time to walk out with you, to have mamma
fancy I had a cold, when I had nothing of the kind. I almost wish some
one would turn really ill, and then she would not fancy I was so, quite
so often."

"Oh, hush, Edith dear! you are talking nonsense, and you are saying what
you cannot mean. I don't like to hear you so pert to that kind mamma of
yours, whenever she thinks it right to contradict you."

"Emilie, I cannot help saying, and you know yourself, though you call
her kind, that mamma is cross, very cross sometimes. Yes, I know she is
very fond of me and all that, but still she _is_ cross, and it is no
use denying it. Oh, dear, I wish I was you. You never seem to have
anything to put you out. I never see you look as if you had been crying
or vexed, but I have so many many things to vex me at home."

Emilie smiled. "As to my having nothing to put me out, you may be right,
and you may be wrong, dear. There is never any excuse for being what you
call _put out_, by which I understand cross and pettish, but I am rather
amused, too, at your fixing on a daily governess, as a person the least
likely in the world to have trials of temper and patience." "Yes, I dare
say I vex you sometimes, but"--"Well, not to speak of you, dear, whom I
love very much, though you are not perfect, I have other pupils, and do
you suppose, that amongst so many as I have to teach at Miss Humphrey's
school, for instance, there is not one self-willed, not one impertinent,
not one idle, not one dull scholar? My dear, there never was a person,
you may be sure of that, who had nothing to be tried, or, as you say,
put out with. But not to talk of my troubles, and I have not many I will
confess, except that great one, Edith, which, may you be many years
before you know, (the loss of a father;) not to talk of that, what are
your troubles? Your mamma is cross sometimes, that is to say, she does
not always give you all you ask for, crosses you now and then, is that
all?"

"Oh no Emilie, there are Mary and Ellinor, they never seem to like me to
be with them, they are so full of their own plans and secrets. Whenever
I go into the room, there is such a hush and mystery. The fact is, they
treat me like a baby. Oh, it is a great misfortune to be the youngest
child! but of all my troubles, Fred is the greatest. John teases me
sometimes, but he is nothing to Fred. Emilie, you don't know what that
boy is; but you will see, when you come to stay with me in the holidays,
and you shall say then if you think I have nothing to put me out."

The very recollection of her wrongs appeared to irritate the little
lady, and she put on a pout, which made her look anything but kind and
amiable.

The primroses which she had so much desired, were not quite to her mind,
they were not nearly so fine as those that John and Fred had brought
home. Now she was tired of the dusty road, and she would go home by the
beach. So saying, Edith turned resolutely towards a stile, which led
across some fields to the sea shore, and not all Emilie's entreaties
could divert her from her purpose.

"Edith, dear! we shall be late, very late! as it is we have been out too
long, come back, pray do;" but Edith was resolute, and ran on. Emilie,
who knew her pupil's self-will over a German lesson, although she had
little experience of her temper in other matters, was beginning to
despair of persuading her, and spoke yet more earnestly and firmly,
though still kindly and gently, but in vain. Edith had jumped over the
stile, and was on her way to the cliff, when her course was arrested by
an old sailor, who was sitting on a bench near the gangway leading to
the shore. He had heard the conversation between the governess and her
headstrong pupil, as he smoked his pipe on this favourite seat, and
playfully caught hold of the skirt of the young lady's frock, as she
passed, to Edith's great indignation.

"Now, Miss, I could not, no, that I could'nt, refuse any one who asked
me so pretty as that lady did you. If she had been angry, and commanded
you back, why bad begets bad, and tit for tat you know, and I should
not so much have wondered: but, Miss, you should not vex her. No, don't
be angry with an old man, I have seen so much of the evils of young
folks taking their own way. Look here, young lady," said the weather
beaten sailor, as he pointed to a piece of crape round his hat; "this
comes of being fond of one's own way."

Edith was arrested, and approached the stile, on the other side of which
Emilie Schomberg still leant, listening to the fisherman's talk with her
pupil.

"You see, Miss," said he, "I have brought her round, she were a little
contrary at first, but the squall is over, and she is going home your
way. Oh, a capital good rule, that of your's, Miss!" "What," said Emilie
smiling, "Why, that 'soft answer,' that kind way. I see a good deal of
the ways of nurses with children, ah, and of governesses, and mothers,
and fathers too, as I sit about on the sea shore, mending my nets. I
ain't fit for much else now, you see, Miss, though I have seen a deal of
service, and as I sit sometimes watching the little ones playing on the
sand, and with the shingle, I keep my ears open, for I can't bear to see
children grieved, and sometimes I put in a word to the nurse maids.
Bless me! to see how some of 'em whip up the children in the midst of
their play. Neither with your leave, nor by your leave; 'here, come
along, you dirty, naughty boy, here's a wet frock! Come, this minute,
you tiresome child, it's dinner time.' Now that ain't what I call fair
play, Miss. I say you ought to speak civil, even to a child; and then,
the crying, and the shaking, and the pulling up the gangway. Many and
many is the little squaller I go and pacify, and carry as well as I can
up the cliff: but I beg pardon, Miss, hope I don't offend. Only I was
afraid, Miss there was a little awkward, and would give you trouble."

"Indeed," said Emilie, "I am much obliged to you; where do you live?"

"I live," said the old man, "I may say, a great part of my life, under
the sky, in summer time, but I lodge with my son, and he lives between
this and Brooke. In winter time, since the rheumatics has got hold of
me, I am drawn to the fire side, but my son's wife, she don't take after
him, bless him. She's a bit of a spirit, and when she talks more than I
like, why I wish myself at sea again, for an angry woman's tongue is
worse than a storm at sea, any day; if it was'nt for the children, bless
'em, I should not live with 'em, but I am very partial to them."

"Well, we must say good night, now," said Emilie, "or we shall be late
home; I dare say we shall see you on the shore some day; good night."
"Good night to you, ma'am; good night, young lady; be friends, won't
you?"

Edith's hand was given, but it was not pleasant to be conquered, and she
was a little sullen on the way home. They parted at the door of Edith's
house. Edith went in, to join a cheerful family in a comfortable and
commodious room; Emilie, to a scantily furnished, and shabbily genteel
apartment, let to her and a maiden aunt by a straw bonnet maker in the
town.

We will peep at her supper table, and see if Miss Edith were quite right
in supposing that Emilie Schomberg had nothing to put her out.

CHAPTER SECOND.

THE SOFT ANSWER.

An old lady was seated by a little ricketty round table, knitting;
knitting very fast. Surely she did not always knit so fast, Germans are
great knitters it is true, but the needles made quite a noise--click,
click, click--against one another. The table was covered with a
snow-white cloth. By her side was a loaf called by bakers and
housekeepers, crusty; the term might apply either to the loaf or the old
lady's temper. A little piece of cheese stood on a clean plate, and a
crab on another, a little pat of butter on a third, and this, with a jug
of water, formed the preparation for the evening meal of the aunt and
niece. Emilie went up to her aunt, gaily, with her bunch of primroses in
her hand, and addressing her in the German language, begged her pardon
for keeping supper waiting. The old lady knitted faster than ever,
dropped a stitch, picked it up, looked out of the window, and cleared
up, not her temper, but her throat; click, click went the needles, and
Emilie looked concerned.

"Aunt, dear," she said, "shall we sit down to supper?" "My appetite is
gone, Emilie, I thank you." "I am really sorry, aunt, but you know you
are so kind, you wish me to take plenty of exercise, and I was detained
to-night. Miss Parker and I stayed chattering to an old sailor. It was
very thoughtless, pray excuse me. But now aunt, dear, see this fine
crab, you like crabs; old Peter Varley sent it to you, the old man you
knitted the guernsey for in the winter."

No,--old Miss Schomberg was not to be brought round. Crabs were very
heavy things at night, very indigestible things, she wondered at Emilie
thinking she could eat them, so subject as she was to spasms, too.
Indeed she could eat no supper. She was very dull and not well, so
Emilie sat down to her solitary meal. She did not go on worrying her
aunt to eat, but she watched for a suitable opening, for the first
indication indeed, of the clearing up for which she hoped, and though
it must be confessed some such thoughts as "how cross and unreasonable
aunt is," did pass through her mind, she gave them no utterance.
Emilie's mind was under good discipline, she had learned to forbear in
love, and for the exercise of this virtue, she had abundant opportunity.

Poor Emilie! she had not always been a governess, subject to the trials
of tuition; she had not always lived in a little lodging without the
comforts and joys of family and social intercourse.

Her father had failed in business, in Frankfort, and when Emilie was
about ten years of age, he had come over to England, and had gained his
living there by teaching his native language. He had been dead about a
twelve-month, and Emilie, at the age of twenty-one, found herself alone
in the world, in England at least, with the exception of the old German
aunt, to whom I have introduced you, and who had come over with her
brother, from love to him and his motherless child. She had a very small
independence, and when left an orphan, the kind old aunt, for kind she
was, in spite of some little infirmities of temper, persisted in sharing
with her her board and lodging, till Emilie, who was too active and
right minded to desire to depend on her for support, sought employment
as a teacher.

The seaport town of L----, in the south of England, whither Emilie and
her father had gone in the vain hope of restoring his broken health,
offered many advantages to our young German mistress. She had had a good
solid education. Her father, who was a scholar, had taught her, and had
taught her well, so that besides her own language, she was able to teach
Latin and French, and to instruct, as the advertisements say, "in the
usual branches of English education." She was musical, had a fine ear
and correct taste, and accordingly met with pupils without much
difficulty. In the summer months especially she was fully employed.
Families who came for relaxation were, nevertheless, glad to have their
daughters taught for a few hours in the week; and you may suppose that
Emilie Schomberg did not lead an idle life. For remuneration she fared,
as alas teachers do fare, but ill. The sum which many a gentleman freely
gives to his butler or valet, is thought exorbitant, nay, is rarely
given to a governess, and Emilie, as a daily governess, was but poorly
paid.

The expenses of her father's long illness and funeral were heavy, and
she was only just out of debt; therefore, with the honesty and
independence of spirit that marked her, she lived carefully and frugally
at the little rooms of Miss Webster, the straw bonnet maker, in High
Street.

From what I have told you already, you will easily perceive that Emilie
was accustomed to command her temper; she had been trained to do this
early in life. Her father, who foresaw for his child a life dependent on
her character and exertion, a life of labour in teaching and governing
others, taught Emilie to govern herself. Never was an only child less
spoiled than she; but she was ruled in love. She knew but one law, that
of kindness, and it made her a good subject.

Many were the sensible lessons that the good man gave her, as leaning on
her strong arm he used to pace up and down the grassy slopes which
bordered the sea shore. "Look, Emilie," he would say, "look at that
governess marshalling her scholars out. Do they look happy? think you
that they obey that stern mistress out of _love_? Listen, she calls to
them to keep their ranks and not to talk so loud. What unhappy faces
among them! Emilie, my child, you may keep school some day; oh, take
care and gain the love of the young ones, I don't believe there is any
other successful government, so I have found it." "With me, ah yes,
papa!" "With you, my child, and with all my scholars; I had little
experience as a teacher, when first it pleased God to make me dependent
on my own exertions as such, but I found out the secret. Gain your
pupils' love, Emilie, and a silken thread will draw them; without that
love, cords will not drag, scourges will scarcely drive them."

Emilie found this advice of her father's rather hard to follow now and
then. Her first essay in teaching was in Mrs. Parker's family. Edith was
to "be finished." And now poor Emilie found that there was more to teach
Edith than German and French, and that there was more difficulty in
teaching her to keep her temper than her voice in tune. Edith was
affectionate, but self-willed and irritable. Her mamma's treatment had
not tended to improve her in this respect. Mrs. Parker had bad health,
and said she had bad spirits. She was a kind, generous, and affectionate
woman, but was always in trouble. In trouble with her chimneys because
they smoked; in trouble with her maids who did not obey her; and worst
of all in trouble with herself; for she had good sense and good
principle, but she had let her temper go too long undisciplined, and it
was apt to break forth sometimes against those she loved, and would
cause her many bitter tears and self-upbraidings.

She took an interest in the poor German master, for she was a benevolent
woman, and cheered his dying bed by promising to assist his daughter.
She even offered to take her into her family; but this could not be
thought of. Good aunt Agnes had left her country for the sake of
Emilie--Emilie would not desert her aunt now.

The scene at the supper table was not an uncommon one, but Emilie was
frequently more successful in winning aunt Agnes to a smile than on this
occasion. "Perhaps I tried too much; perhaps I did not try enough,
perhaps I tried in the wrong way," thought Emilie, as she received her
aunt's cold kiss, and took up her bed room candle to retire for the
night. When aunt Agnes said good night, it was so very distantly, so
very unkindly, that an angry demand for explanation almost rose to
Emilie's lips, and though she did not utter it, she said her good night
coldly and stiffly too, and thus they parted. But when Emilie opened the
Bible that night, her eye rested on the words, "Be ye kind one to
another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as God for Christ's sake
hath forgiven you," then Emilie could not rest. She did not forgive her
aunt; she felt that she did not; but Emilie was _human_, and human
nature is proud. "I did nothing to offend her," reasoned pride, "it was
only because I was out a little late, and I said I was sorry and I tried
to bring her round. Ah well, it will all be right to-morrow; it is no
use to think of it now," and she prepared to kneel down to pray. Just
then her eye rested on her father's likeness; she remembered how he used
to say, when she was a child and lisped her little prayer at his knee,
"Emilie, have you any unkind thoughts to any one? Do you feel at peace
with all? for God says, 'When thou bringest thy gift before the altar,
and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave
there thy gift before the altar, _first_ be reconciled to thy brother,
and _then_ go and offer thy gift.'" On one or two occasions had Emilie
arisen, her tender conscience thus appealed to, and thrown her arms
round her nurse's or her aunt's neck, to beg their forgiveness for some
little offence committed by her and forgotten perhaps by them, and would
then kneel down and offer up her evening prayer. So Emilie hushed
pride's voice, and opening her door, crossed the little passage to her
aunt's sleeping room, and putting her arm round her neck fondly said,
"Dear aunt!" It was enough, the good old lady hugged her lovingly. "Ah,
Emilie dear, I am a cross old woman, and thou art a dear good child.
Bless thee!" In half an hour after the inmates of the little lodging in
High Street were sound asleep, at peace with one another, and at peace
with God.

CHAPTER THIRD.

THE LESSON AT THE COTTAGE.

Edith was very busily searching for corallines and sea weeds, a few days
after the evening walk recorded in our first chapter. She was alone, for
her two sisters had appeared more than usually confidential and
unwilling for her company, and her dear teacher was engaged that
afternoon at the Young Ladies' Seminary, so she tried to make herself
happy in her solitary ramble. A boat came in at this moment, and the
pleasant shout of the boatmen's voices, and the grating of the little
craft as it landed on the pebbly shore, attracted the young lady's
notice, and she stood for a few moments to watch the proceedings.
Amongst those on shore, who had come to lend a hand in pulling the boat
in, Edith thought that she recognised a face, and on a little closer
inspection she saw it was old Joe Murray, who had stopped her course to
the beach a few evenings before. She did not wish to encounter Joe, so
slipping behind the blue jacketed crowd, she walked quickly forwards,
but Joe followed her.

"Young lady," he said, "if you are looking for corallines, you can't do
better than ask your papa some fine afternoon, to drive you as far as
Sheldon, and you'll find a sight of fine weeds there, as I know, for my
boy, my poor boy I lost, I mean," said he, again touching the rusty
crape on his hat, "my boy was very curious in those things, and had
quite a museum of 'em at home." How could Edith stand against such an
attack? It was plain that the old man wanted to make peace with her,
and, cheerfully thanking him, she was moving on, but the old boots
grinding the shingle, were again heard behind her, and turning round,
she saw Joe at her heels.

"Miss, I don't know as I ought to have stopped you that night. I am a
poor old fisherman, and you are a young lady, but I meant no harm, and
for the moment only did it in a joke."

"Oh, dear," said Edith, "don't think any more about it, I was very
cross that night, and you were quite right, I should have got Miss
Schomberg into sad trouble if I had gone that way. As it was, I was out
too late. Have you lost a son lately, said Edith, I heard you say you
had just now? Was he drowned?" inquired the child, kindly looking up
into Joe's face.

"Yes Miss, he was drowned," said Joe, "he came by his death very sadly.
Will you please, Miss, to come home with me, and I will shew you his
curiosities, and if you please to take a fancy to any, I'm sure you are
very welcome. I don't know any good it does me to turn 'em over, and
look at them as I do times and often, but somehow when we lose them we
love, we hoard up all they loved. He had a little dog, poor Bob had, a
little yapping thing, and I never took to the animal, 'twas always
getting into mischief, and gnawing the nets, and stealing my fish, and I
used often to say, 'Bob, my boy, I love you but not your dog. No, that
saying won't hold good now. I can't love that dog of yours. Sell it,
boy--give it away--get rid of it some how.' All in good part, you know,
Miss, for I never had any words with him about it. And now Bob is
gone--do you know, Miss, I love that dumb thing with the sort of love I
should love his child, if he had left me one. If any one huffs Rover, (I
ain't a very huffish man,) but I can tell you I shew them I don't like
it, I let the creature lay at my feet at night, and I feed him myself
and fondle him for the sake of him who loved him so. And you may depend
Miss, the dog knows his young master is gone, and the way he is gone
too, for I could not bring him on the shore for a long while, but he
would set up such a howl as would rend your heart to hear. And that made
me love the poor thing I can tell you."

"But how did it happen?" softly asked Edith.

"Why Miss it ain't at all an extraordinary way in which he met his
death. It was in this way. He was very fond of me, poor boy, but he
liked his way better than my way too often. And may be I humoured him a
little too much. He was my Benjamin, you must know Miss, for his mother
died soon after he was born. Sure enough I made an idol of the lad, and
we read somewhere in the Bible, Miss, that 'the idols he will utterly
abolish.' But I don't like looking at the sorrow that way neither. I
would rather think that 'whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.' Well,
Miss, like father like son. My boy loved the sea, as was natural he
should, but he was too venturesome; I used often to say, 'Bob, the
oldest sailor living can't rule the waves and winds, and if you are such
a mad cap as to go out sailing in such equally weather on this coast, as
sure as you are alive you will repent it.' He and some young chaps
hereabouts, got such a wonderful notion of sailing, and though I have
sailed many and many a mile, in large vessels and small, I always hold
to it that it is ticklish work for the young and giddy. Why sometimes
you are on the sea, Miss, ah, as calm as it is now--all in peace and
safety--a squall comes, and before you know what you are about you are
capsized. I had told him this, and he knew it, Miss, but he got a good
many idle acquaintances, as I told you, and they tempted him often to do
bold reckless things such as boys call brave."

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