Emilie the Peacemaker by Mrs. Thomas Geldart

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"Come, Betsey," said Emilie pleasantly, "now, we shall see what sort of
a manager you will be; you must do all you can to make things tidy and
comfortable for the lodgers. Is their room swept and dusted?"

"Oh, deary me, Miss, what time have I had for that, I should like to
know?"

"Well now, get every thing ready for their breakfast, and pray don't
bang doors or make a great clatter with the china, as you set the table.
Every sound is heard in this small house, and your mistress has had no
sleep all night."

"Well, she'll be doubly cross to day, then, I'll be bound. Howsoever, I
shall only stay my month, and it don't much matter what I do, she never
gives a servant a good character, and I don't expect it."

"No, and you will not deserve it if you are inattentive and unfeeling
now. It is not doing as you would be done by, either. Do now, Betsey,
forget, for a few days, that Miss Webster ever scolded or found fault
with you. If you want to love any one just do him a kindness, and you
don't know how fast love springs up in the heart; you would be much
happier, Betsey, I am sure. Come _try_, you are not a cross girl, and
you don't mean to be unkind now. I shall expect to hear from Lucy, when
I come again, how well you have managed together."

Fred went to Mr. Crosse's after breakfast, in the pony gig, for aunt
Agnes, who, at a summons from Emilie, was quite willing to come and see
after Miss Webster's household. She soon put mutters into a better
train, both in kitchen and parlour, so that the pacified lodgers
consented to remain. And though neither Lucy nor Betsey altogether liked
aunt Agnes, they found her quite an improvement on Miss Webster.

It is not our object to follow Miss Webster through her domestic
troubles nor through the tedious process of the convalescence of a scalt
foot. We will rather follow Edith into her chamber, and see how she is
trying to learn the arts of the Peacemaker there.

Edith's head is bent over a book, a torn book, and her countenance is
flushed and heated. She is out of breath, too, and her hair is hanging
disordered about her pretty face; not pretty now, however; it is an
angry face--and an angry face is never pretty.

Has she been quarrelling with Fred again? yes, even so. Fred would not
give up Hans Andersen's Tales, which Emilie had just given Edith, and
which she was reading busily, when some one came to see her about a new
bonnet, so she left the book on the table, and in the mean time Fred
came in, snatched it up, and was soon deep in the feats of the "Flying
Trunk." Then came the little lady back and demanded the book, not very
pleasantly, if the truth must be told. Fred meant to give it up, but he
meant to tease his sister first, and Edith, who had no patience to wait,
snatched at the book. Fred of course resisted, and it was not until the
book had been nearly parted from its cover, and some damage had ensued
to the dress and hair of both parties that Edith regained possession;
not _peaceable_ possession, however, for both of the children's spirits
were ruffled.

Edith flew to her room almost as fast as if she had been on the "Flying
Trunk," in the Fairy Tale. When there, she could not read, and in
displeasure with herself and with every one, dashed the little volume
away and cried long and bitterly. Edith had not been an insensible
spectator of the constantly and self-denying gentle conduct of Emilie.
Her example, far more than her precepts, had affected her powerfully,
but she had much to contend with, and it seemed to her as if at the very
times she meant to be kind and gentle something occurred to put her out.
"I _will_ try, oh, I will try," said Edith again and again, "but it is
such hard work."--Yes, Edith, hard enough, and work which even Emilie
can scarcely help you in. You wrestle against a powerful and a cruel
enemy, and you need great and powerful aid; but you have read your Bible
Edith, and again and again has Emilie said to you, "of yourself you can
do nothing."

Edith had had a long conversation on this very subject only that morning
with her friend, as they were walking on the sea shore, and under the
influence of the calm lovely summer's sky, and within the sound of
Emilie's clear persuasive voice, it did not seem a hard matter to Edith
to love and to be loving. She could love Fred, she could even bear a
rough pull of the hair from him, she could stand a little teasing from
John, who found fault with a new muslin frock she wore at dinner, and we
all know it is not pleasant to have our dress found fault with; but this
attack of Fred's about the book, was _not_ to be borne, not by Edith, at
least, and thus she sobbed and cried in her own room, thinking herself
the most miserable of creatures, and very indignant that Emilie did not
come to comfort her; "but she is gone out after that tiresome old woman,
with her scalt foot, I dare say," said Edith, "and she would only tell
me I was wrong if she were here--oh dear! oh dear me!" and here she
sobbed again.

Solitude is a wonderfully calming, composing thing; Emilie knew that,
and she did quite right to leave Edith alone. It was time she should
listen seriously to a voice which seldom made itself heard, but
conscience was resolute to-day, and did not spare Edith. It told her all
the truth, (you may trust conscience for that,) it told her that the
very reason why she failed in her efforts to do right was because she
had a wrong _motive_; and that was, love of the approbation of her
fellow creatures, and not real love to God. She would have quarrelled
with any one else who dared to tell her this; but it was of no use
quarrelling with conscience. Conscience had it all its own way to-day,
and went on answering every objection so quietly, and to the point, that
by degrees Edith grew quiet and subdued; and what do you think she did?
She took up a little Bible that lay on her table, and began to read it.
She could not pray as yet. She did not feel kind enough for that. Emilie
had often said to her that she should be at peace with every one before
she lifted up her heart to the "God of peace." She turned over the
leaves and tried to find the chapter, which she knew very well, about
the king who took account of his servants, and who forgave the man the
great debt of ten thousand talents; and then when that man went out and
found his servant who owed him but one hundred pence, he took him by the
throat, and said, "Pay me that thou owest." In vain did the man beseech
for patience, he that had only just been forgiven ten thousand talents
could not have pity on the man who owed him but one hundred pence.

Often had Edith read this chapter, and very just was her indignation
against the hard-hearted servant, who, with his king's lesson of mercy
and forgiveness fresh in his memory, could not practise the same to one
who owed him infinitely less than he had done his master; and yet here
was little Edith who could not forgive Fred his injuries, when,
nevertheless, God was willing to forgive hers. Had Fred injured her as
she had injured God? surely not; and yet she might now kneel down and
receive at once the forgiveness of all her _great_ sins. Nay, more: she
had been receiving mercy and patience at the hands of her Heavenly
Father many years. She had neglected Him, done many things contrary to
his law, owed him, indeed, the ten thousand talents, and yet she was
spared.

She had a great deal of revenge in her heart still, however; and she
could not, reason as she would, try as she would, read as she would, get
it out, so she sunk down on her knees, and lifted up her heart very
sincerely, to ask God to take it away. She had often said her prayers,
and had found no difficulty in that, but now it seemed quite different.
She could find no words, she could only feel. Well, that was enough. He
who saw in secret, saw her heart, and knew how it felt. She felt she
needed forgiveness, and that she could only have it by asking it of Him
who had power to forgive sins. She took her great debt to Jesus, and he
cancelled it; she hoped she was forgiven, and now, oh! how ready she
felt to forgive Fred. How small a sum seemed his hundred pence--his
little acts of annoyances compared with her many sins against God. Now
she felt and understood the meaning of the Saviour's lesson to Peter.
She had entered the same school as Peter, and though a slow she was a
sincere learner.

She is in the right way now to learn the true law of kindness. None but
the _Saviour,_ who was love itself, could teach her this. If any earthly
teacher could have done so, surely Emilie would have succeeded.

She went down to tea softened and sad, for she felt very humble. The
consideration of her great unlikeness to the character of Jesus,
affected her. "When he was reviled he reviled not again; when he
suffered he threatened not;" and this thought made her feel more than
any sermon or lecture or reproof she ever had in her life, how she
needed to be changed, her whole self changed; not her old bad nature
_patched_ up, but her whole heart made _new_. She did not say much at
tea; she did not formally apologise to Fred for her conduct to him. He
looked very cross, so perhaps it was wiser to act rather than to speak;
but she handed him the bread and butter, and buttered him a piece of
toast, and in many little quiet ways told him she wished to be friends
with him. John began at her frock again. She could not laugh, (she was
not in a laughing humour,) but she said she would not wear it any more,
during his holidays, if he disliked it so _very_ much. The greatest
trial to her temper was the being told she looked cross. Emilie, who
could see the sun of peace behind the cloud, was half angry herself at
this speech, and said to Mr. Parker, "If she looks cross she is not
cross, Sir, but I think she is not in very good spirits. Every one looks
a little sad sometimes;" and Mr. Porker, happily, being called out to a
patient at that moment, gave Edith opportunity to swallow her grief.

After tea the boys prepared to accompany their sister and her governess
in the usual evening walk. Edith did not desire their company, but she
did not say so; and they all went out very silent for them. On their
road to the beach they met a man who had a cage of canaries to sell, the
very things that Fred had desired so long, and to purchase which he had
saved his money.

Edith had no taste for noisy canaries; few great talkers have, for they
do interrupt conversation must undeniably, but Fred thought it would be
most delightful to have them, and as he had a breeding cage which had
belonged to one of his elder sisters years before, he asked the price
and began to make his bargain. The birds were bought and the man
dispatched to the house with them, with orders to call for payment at
nine o'clock, before Fred remembered that he did not exactly know where
he should keep them. In the sitting room it would be quite out of the
question he knew, for the noise would distract his mother. Papa was not
likely to admit canaries into his study for consultations; and Fred knew
only of one likely or possible place, but the door to that was closed,
unless he could find a door to Edith's heart, and he had just quarrelled
with Edith; what a pity! To make it up with her, however, just to gain
his point, he was too proud to do, and was therefore gloomy and uncivil.

"Where are you going to keep your canaries Fred?" asked his sister.

"In the cage," said Fred, shortly and tartly.

"Yes; but in what room?"

"In my bed-room," said Fred.

"Oh, I dare say! will you though?" said John, who as he shared his
brother's apartment had some right to have a voice in the matter. "I am
not going to be woke at daylight every morning by your canaries. And
such an unwholesome plan; I am sure papa and mamma won't let you. What a
pity you bought the birds! you can't keep them in our small house. Get
off your bargain, I would if I were you. Besides, who will take care of
them all the week? they will want feeding other days besides Saturdays,
I suppose."

Fred looked annoyed, and dropped behind the party. Edith whispered to
Emilie, "Go you on with John, I want to talk to Fred."

"Fred, dear," said she, "will you keep your birds in my little room,
where my old toys are? I will clear a place, and I shan't mind their
singing, _do_ Fred. I have often hindered your pleasures, now let me
have the comfort of making it up a little to you, and I will feed them
and clean them while you are at school in the week."

"You may change your mind Edith, and you know if my birds are in your
room, I shall have to be there a good deal; and they will make a rare
noise sometimes, and some one must take care of them all the week--I can
only attend to them on Saturdays, you know."

"Yes, I have been thinking of all that, and I expect I shall sometimes
_wish_ to change my mind, but I shall not do it. I am very selfish I
know, but I mean to try to be better, Fred. Take my little room, do."

Fred was a proud boy, and would rather have had to thank any one than
Edith just then; but nevertheless he accepted her offer, and thanked his
little sister, though not quite so kindly as he might have done, and
that is the truth. There is a grace in accepting as well as in giving.
Edith had given up what she had much prized, the independence of a
little room, (it was but a little one,) a little room all to herself;
but she did so because she felt love springing up in her heart. She
acted in obedience to the dictates of the law of kindness, and she felt
lighter and happier than she had done for a long time. Fred was by
degrees quite cheered, and amused his companions by his droll talk for
some way. Spying, however, one of his school-fellows on the rocks at a
distance, he and John, joined him abruptly, and thus Emilie and Edith
were left alone.

Sincerity is never loquacious, never egotistic. If you don't understand
these words I will tell you what I mean. A person really in earnest; and
sincere, does not talk much of earnestness and sincerity, still loss of
himself. Edith could not tell Emilie of her new resolutions, of her
mental conflict, but she was so loving and affectionate in her manner to
her friend, that I think Emilie understood; at any rate, she saw that
Edith was very pleasant, and very gentle that night, and loved her more
than ever. She saw and felt there was a change come over her. They
walked far, and on their return found the canaries arrived, and Fred
very busy in putting them up in their new abode. He had rather
unceremoniously moved Edith's bookcase and boxes, to make room for the
bird cages. She did say, "I think you might have asked my leave," but
she instantly recalled it. "Oh, never mind; what pretty little things, I
shall like to have them with me."

It really was a trial to Edith to see all her neat arrangements upset,
and to find how very coolly Fred did it, too. She sighed and thought,
"Ah, I shall not be mistress here now I see!" but Fred was gone down
stairs for some water and seed, and did not hear her laments. He was
very full of his scheme for canary breeding at supper, and Emilie was
quite as full of sympathy in his joy as Fred desired; she took a real
interest in the matter. Her father, she said, had given much attention
to canary breeding, for the Germans were noted for their management of
canaries; she could help him, she thought, if he would accept her help.
So they were very merry over the affair at supper time, and Mr. Parker,
in his quiet way, enjoyed it too. Suddenly, however, the merriment
received a check. Margaret, who had been to look at the birds, came in
with the intelligence that Muff, the pet cat of Miss Edith, was sitting
in the dusk, watching the canaries with no friendly eye, and that she
had even made a dart at the cage; and she prophesied that the birds
would not be safe long. A bird of ill omen was Margaret always; she
thought the worst and feared the worst of every one, man or animal.
"Why, it is easy to keep the door of the cage shut," John remarked, but
to keep puss out of her old haunts was not possible.

Muff was not a kitten, but a venerable cat, who had belonged to Edith's
elder sister, and was given to Edith, the day that sister married, as a
very precious gift; and Edith loved that grey cat, loved her dearly. She
always sat in the same place in that dear little room. Edith had only
that day made her a new red leather collar, and Muff looked very smart
in it. "Muff won't hurt the birds, Fred dear," said Edith, "she is not
like a common cat." Whatever points of dissimilarity there might he
between Muff and the cat race in general, in this particular she quite
resembled them; she loved birds, and would not be very nice as to the
manner of obtaining them. What was to be done? Fred had all manner of
projects in his head for teaching the canaries to fly out and in the
cage, to bathe, to perch on his finger, etc.; but if, whenever any one
chanced to leave the door of the room open, Muff were to bounce in, why
there was an end to all such schemes. In short, Muff would get the birds
by fair means or foul, there was no doubt of that, and Fred was
desperate. I cannot tell how many times Muff was called "a nasty cat,"
"a tiresome cat," "a vicious cat," and little Edith's heart was full,
for she did not believe any evil of her favourite; and to hear her so
maligned, seemed like a personal insult; but she bore it patiently. She
asked Emilie at bed time what she should do about Muff; she had so long
been accustomed to her seat by the sunny window in Edith's room, that to
try and tempt her from it she knew would be vain.

Emilie agreed with her, but hoped Muff would practise self-denial.
Before Edith lay down to rest that night, she again thought over all
that she had done through the day; again knelt down and asked for help
to overcome that which was sinful within her, and then lay down to
sleep. Edith was but a child, and she could not forget Muff; she
thought, and very truly, that there was a general wish to displace her
Muff. Not one in the house would be sorry to see Muff sent away she
know, and Margaret at supper time seemed so pleased to report of Muff's
designs. This thought made her love Muff all the more, but then there
were Fred's birds. It would be very sad if any of them should be lost
through her cat; what should she do? She wished to win Fred to love and
gentleness. Should she part with Muff? Miss Schomberg (aunt Agnes that
is) had expressed a wish for a nice quiet cat, and this, her beauty,
would just suit her. "Shall I take Muff to High-Street to-morrow? I
will," were her last thoughts, but the resolution cost her something,
and Edith's pillow was wet with tears. When she arose the next morning
she felt as we are all apt to feel after the excitement of new and
sudden resolves, rather flat; and the sight of Muff sitting near a
laurel bush in the garden, enjoying the morning sun, quite unnerved her.
"Part with Muff! No, I cannot; and I don't believe any one would do such
a thing for such a boy as Fred. I cannot part with Muff, that's certain.
Fred had better give up his birds, and so I shall tell him."

All this is very natural, but what is very natural is often very wrong,
and Edith did not fuel that calm happiness which she had done the night
before. When she received Emilie's morning kiss, she said, "Well, Miss
Schomberg, I thought last night I had made up my mind to part with Muff,
but I really cannot! I do love her so!"

"It would be a great trial to you, I should think," said Emilie, "and
one that no one could _ask_ of you, but if she had a good master, do you
think you should mind it so very much? You would only have your own
sorrow to think of, and really it would be a kindness if those poor
birds are to be kept. The cat terrifies them by springing at the wires,
and if they were sitting they would certainly be frightened off their
nests."

Edith looked perplexed; "What shall I do Emilie? I _do_ wish to please
Fred, I do wish to do as I would be done by; I really want to get rid of
my selfish nature, and yet it will keep coming back."

"Watch as well as pray, dear," said Emilie affectionately, "and you will
conquer at last." They went down to breakfast together. "Watch and
pray." That word "watch," was R word in season to Edith, she had
_prayed_ but had well nigh forgotten to _watch_.

She could not eat her meal, however, her heart was full with the
greatness of the sacrifice before her. Do not laugh at the word _great_
sacrifice. It was very great to Edith; she loved with all her heart; and
to part with what we love, be it a dog, a cat, a bird, or any inanimate
possession, is a great pang. After breakfast she went into the little
room where Muff usually eat, and taking hold of the favourite, hugged
and kissed her lovingly, then carrying her down stairs to the kitchen,
asked cook for a large basket, and with a little help from Margaret,
tied her down and safely confined her; then giving the precious load to
her father's errand boy, trotted into the town, and stopped not till she
reached Miss Webster's door. Her early visit rather astonished aunt
Agnes, who was at that moment busily engaged in dressing Miss Webster's
foot, and at the announcement of Betsey--"Please Ma'am little Miss
Parker is called and has brought you a cat," she jumped so that she
spilled Miss Webster's lotion.

"A cat! a cat!" echoed the ladies. "I will have no cats here Miss
Schomberg, if you please," said the irritable Mistress. "I always did
hate cats, there is no end to the mischief they do. I never did keep
one, and never mean to do."

Miss Schomberg went down stairs into Miss Webster's little parlour, and
there saw Edith untying her beloved Muff. "Well aday! my child, what
brings you here? all alone too. Surely Emilie isn't ill, oh dear me
something must be amiss."

"Oh no, Miss Schomberg, no, only I heard you say you would like a cat,
and Fred has got some new birds and I mayn't keep Muff, and so will you
take her and be kind to her?"

"My dear child," said aunt Agnes in a bewilderment, "I would take her
gladly but Miss Webster has a bird you know, and is so awfully neat and
particular, oh, it won't do; you must not bring her here, and I _must_
go back and finish Miss Webster's foot. She is very poorly to-day. Oh
how glad I shall be when my Emilie comes back! Good bye, take the cat,
dear, away, pray do;" and, so saying, aunt Agnes bustled off, leaving
poor Edith more troubled and perplexed with Muff than ever.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

GOOD FOR EVIL.

Old Joe Murray was seated on the beach, nearer the town than his house
stood, watching the groups of busy children, digging and playing in the
sand, now helping them in their play, and now giving his hint to the
nurses around him, when Edith tapped him on the shoulder. There was
something so unusually serious, not _cross_, in Edith's countenance,
that Joe looked at her inquiringly. "There, set down the basket,
Nockells, and run back quick, tell papa I kept you; I am afraid you will
get into disgrace."

"Mayn't I drown Puss?" said Nockells.

"No! you cruel boy, _no!_" said Edith, vehemently. "_You_ shall not have
the pleasure, no one shall do it who would take a pleasure in it."

"What is the matter Miss?" asked Joe, as soon as Nockells turned away.

"The matter, oh Joe! I want Muff drowned; my cat I mean, my dear cat;"
and then she told her tale up to the point of Miss Webster's refusing to
admit Muff as a lodger, and cried most bitterly as she said, "and I
won't have her ill-treated, so I will drown her, will you do it for me
Joe, please do now, or my courage will be gone? but I won't stay to look
at it, so good-bye," said she, and slipping a shilling into Joe's hand,
ran home with the news to Fred, that the cat was by this time at the
bottom of the tea, and his canaries were safe for ever from her claws.

Fred was not a hard-hearted boy, and his sister's tale really grieved
him. He kissed her several times over, as he said he now wished he had
never bought the birds, that they had caused Edith nothing but trouble
and that he was very sorry.

"I am not sorry, Fred dear, at least I am only sorry for being forced to
drown Muff. I like to give you my room, and I like to give up my cat to
you, and I shall not cry any more about it, so don't be unhappy."

"And all this for me," said Fred; "I who teased you so yesterday
afternoon, and always am teasing you, I think!" How pleased Emilie
looked! She did not praise Edith, but she gave her such a look of
genuine approval as was a rich reward to her little pupil. "_This_ is
the way. Edith dear, to overcome evil with good; go on, _watch_ and
pray, and you will subdue Fred in time as well as your own evil
tempers."

How easy all this looks to read about! How swift the transition from bad
to good! Who has not felt, in reading Rosamond and Frank, a kind of envy
that they so soon overcame their errors, so soon conquered their bad
habits and evil dispositions? Dear young reader, it is _not_ easy to
subdue self; it is not easy to practise this law of kindness, love, and
forbearance; it is not easy to live peaceably with all men, but believe
me, it is not impossible. He who giveth liberally and upbraideth not,
will give you grace, and wisdom, and help to do this if you ask it. The
promise is, "Ask and ye shall receive." Edith In her helplessness naked
strength of God and it was given. That which was given to her He will
not withhold from you. Only try Him.

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