Emilie the Peacemaker

by Mrs. Thomas Geldart

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

THE NEW HOME.

Let us pass by twelve months, and see how the law of kindness is working then. Mrs. Parker is certainly happier, less troubled than she was two years ago; Edith is a better and more dutiful child, and the sisters are far more sociable with her than formerly. The dove of peace has taken up its abode in the Parker family. How is it in High Street? Emilie and aunt Agnes are not there, but Miss Webster is still going on with her straw bonnet trade and her lodging letting, and she is really as good tempered as we can expect of a person whose temper has been bad so very long, and who has for so many years been accustomed to view her fellow creatures suspiciously and unkindly.

But Emilie is gone, and are you not curious to know where? I will tell you; she is gone back to Germany—she and her aunt Agnes are both gone to Frankfort to live. The fact is, that Emilie is married. She was engaged to a young Professor of languages, at the very time when the Christmas tree was raised last year in Mr. Parker's drawing room. He formed one of the party, indeed, and, but that I am such a very bad hand at describing love affairs, I might have mentioned it then; besides, this is not a love story exactly, though there is a great deal about love in it.

Lewes Franks had come over to England with letters of recommendation from one or two respectable English families at Frankfort, and was anxious to return with two or three English pupils, and commence a school in that town. His name was well known to Mr. Parker, who gladly promised to consign his two sons, John and Fred to his care, but recommended young Franks to get married. This Franks was not loth to do when he saw Emilie Schomberg, and after rather a short courtship, and quite a matter of fact one, they married and went over to Germany, accompanied by John, Fred, and Joe White. Mr. Barton, after the sad accident in the plantation, had so little relish for school keeping, that he very gladly resigned his pupils to young Franks, who, if he had little experience in tuition, was admirably qualified to train the young by a natural gentleness and kindness of disposition, and sincere and stedfast christian principle.

Edith longed to accompany them, but that was not to be thought of, and so she consoled herself by writing long letters to Emilie, which contained plenty of L---- news. I will transcribe one for you.

The following was dated a few months after the departure of the party, not the first though, you may be sure.

L----, Dec, 18—

DEAREST EMILIE,

I am thinking so much of you to-night

that I must write to tell you so. I wish letters

only cost one penny to Frankfort, and I would write to

you every day. I want so to know how you are spending

your Christmas at Frankfort. We shall have no Christmas

tree this year. We all agreed that it would be a melancholy

attempt at mirth now you are gone, and dear Fred

and John and poor Joe. I fancy you will have one

though, and oh, I wish I was with you to see it, but

mamma is often very poorly now, and likes me to be

with her, and I know I am in the right place, so I

won't wish to be elsewhere. Papa is very much from

home now, he has so many patients at a distance, and

sometimes he takes me long rides with him, which is

a great pleasure. One of his patients is just dead,

you will be sorry to hear who I mean—Poor old Joe

Murray! He took cold in November, going out with

his Life Boat, one very stormy night, to a ship in

distress off L---- sands, the wind and rain were very

violent, and he was too long in his wet clothes, but he

saved with his own arm two of the crew; two boys about

the age of his own poor Bob. Every one says it was a

noble act; they were just ready to sink, and the boat in

another moment would have gone off without them. His

own life was in great danger, but be said he remembered

your, or rather the Saviour's, "Golden Rule," and could

not hesitate. Think of remembering that in a November

storm in the raging sea! He plunged in and dragged

first one and then another into the boat. These boys

were brothers, and it was their first voyage. They told

Joe that they had gone to sea out of opposition to their

father, who contradicted their desires in every thing, but

that now they had had quite enough of it, and should

return; but I must not tell you all their story, or my

letter will he too long. Joe, as I told you, caught cold,

and though he was kindly nursed and Sarah waited on him

beautifully, he got worse and worse. I often went to see

him, and he was very fond of my reading in the Bible

to him; but one day last week he was taken with inflammation

of the chest, and died in a few hours. Papa says he

might have lived years, but for that cold, he was such a

healthy man. I feel very sorry he is gone.

I can't help crying when I think of it, for I remember

he was very useful to me that May evening when we

were primrose gathering. Do you recollect that evening,

Emilie? Ah, I have much to thank you for. What a

selfish, wilful, irritable girl I was! So I am now at times,

my evil thoughts and feelings cling so close to me, and

I have no longer you, dear Emilie, to warn and to encourage

me, but I have Jesus still. He Is a good Friend

to me, a better even than you have been.

I owe you a great deal Emilie; you taught me to love,

you showed me the sin of temper, and the beauty of peace

and love. I go and see Miss Webster sometimes, as you

wish; she is getting very much more sociable than she was,

and does not give quite such short answers. She often

speaks of you, and says you were a good friend to her; that

is a great deal for her to say, is it not? How happy you

must be to have every one love you! I am glad to

say that Fred's canaries are well, but they don't

agree

at

all times. There is no teaching canaries to love one

another, so all I can do is to separate the fighters; but

I love those birds, I love them for Fred's sake, and I love

them for the remembrances they awaken of our first days

of peace and union.

My love to Joe, poor Joe! Do write and tell me how

he goes on, does he walk at all? Ever dear Emilie,

Your affectionate

EDITH.

There were letters to John and Fred in the same packet, and I think you will like to hear one of Fred's to his sister, giving an account of the Christmas festivities at Frankfort.

DEAR EDITH,

I am very busy to-day, but I must

give you a few lines to tell you how delighted your letters

made us. We are very happy here, but

home

is the place

after all, and it is one of our good Master's most constant

themes. He is always talking to us about home, and

encouraging us to talk of and think of it. Emilie seems

like a sister to us, and she enters into all our feelings as

well us you could do yourself.

Well, you will want to know something about our

Christmas doings at school. They have been glorious I

can tell you—such a Christmas tree! Such a lot of

presents in our

shoes

on Christmas morning; such dinings

and suppings, and musical parties! You must know every

one sings here, the servants go singing about the house

like nightingales, or sweeter than nightingales to my

mind, like our dear "Kanarien Vogel."

You ask for Joe, he is very patient, and kind and good

to us all, he and John are capital friends; and oh, Edith,

it would do your heart good to see how John devotes himself

to the poor fellow. He waits upon him like a servant,

but it is all

love

service. Joe can scarcely bear him out

of his sight. Herr Franks was asked the other day, by

a gentleman who came to sup with us, if they were brothers.

John watches all Joe's looks, and is so careful

that nothing may be said to wound him, or to remind

him of his great affliction more than needs be. It was a

beautiful sight on New Year's Eve to see Joe's boxes

that he has carved. He has become very clever at that

work, and there was an article of his carving for every

one, but the best was for Emilie, and she

deserted

it.

Oh, how he loves Emilie! If he is beginning to feel in

one of his old cross moods, he says that Emilie's face, or

Emilie's voice disperses it all, and well it may; Emilie

has sweetened sourer tempers than Joe White's.

But now comes a sorrowful part of my letter. Joe is

very unwell, he has a cough, (he was never strong you

know,) and the doctor says he is very much afraid his

lungs are diseased. He certainly gets thinner and

weaker, and he said to me to-day what I must tell you.

He spoke of his longings to travel (to go to Australia was

always his fancy.) "And now, Fred," he said, "I never

think of going

there

, I am thinking of a longer journey

still

." "A longer journey, Joe!" I said, "Well, you have

got the travelling mania on you yet, I see." He looked

so sad, that I said, "What do you mean Joe?" He

replied, "Fred, I think nothing of journeys and voyages

in this world now. I am thinking of a pilgrimage to the

land where all our wandering's will have an end. I

longed, oh Fred, you know how I longed to go to foreign

lands, but I long now as I never longed before to go to

Heaven

." I begged him not to talk of dying, but he said

it did not make him low spirited. Emilie and he talked

of it often. Ah Edith! that boy is more fit for heaven

than any of us who a year or two ago thought him

scarcely fit to be our companion, but as Emilie said the

other day, God often causes the very afflictions that he

sends to become his choicest mercies. So it has been

with poor White, I am sure. I find I have nearly filled

my letter about Joe, but we all think a great deal of him.

Don't you remember Emilie's saying, "I would try to

make him lovable." He is lovable now, I assure you.

I am sorry our canaries quarrel, but that is no fault of

yours. We have only two school-fellows at present, but

Herr Franks does not wish for a large school; he says he

likes to be always with us, and to be our companion, which

if there were more of us he could not so well manage. We

have one trouble, and that is in the temper of this newly

arrived German boy, but we are going to try and make

him lovable. He is a good way off it

yet

.

I must leave John to tell you about the many things I

have forgotten, and I will write soon. We have a cat

here whom we call

Muff

, after your old pet. Her name

often reminds me of your sacrifice for me. Ah! my dear

little sister, you heaped coals of fire on my head that day.

Truly you were not overcome of evil, you overcame evil

with good. Dear love to all at home. Your ever affectionate

brother,

FRED PARKER.

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