Emilie the Peacemaker Part 9

"I have plenty of money," said Joe, "but I don't know, somehow, what sort of present to make, Miss Schomberg, yet I think I might pay for all the wax lights and ornaments, and the filagree work you talk of."

"A capital thought," said Emilie, and she took his purse, promising to lay out what was needful to the best advantage. Joe helped Emilie and the Miss Parkers very efficiently as he lay "useless," he said, but they thought otherwise, and gave him many little jobs of pasting, gumming, etc. It was a beautiful tree, I a.s.sure you; but Joe had a great deal of mysterious talk with Emilie, apart from the rest, which, however, we must not divulge until Christmas eve. A little box came from London on the morning of the day, directed to Joe. Edith was very curious to know its contents; so was Fred, so was John; Emilie only smiled.

"Joe, won't you unpack that box now, to gratify us all?" said Mr.

Parker, as Joe put the box on one side, nodded to Emilie, and began his breakfast. No, Joe could not oblige him. Evening came at last, and the Christmas tree was found to bear rich fruit. From many a little sparkling pendant branch hung offerings for Joe; poor Joe, who thought no one in the world cared for him. He lay on his reclining chair looking happier and brighter than usual, but as the gifts poured into his lap, gifts so evidently the offspring of tenderness and affection, so numerous, and so adapted to his condition, his countenance a.s.sumed a more serious and thoughtful cast. Every cue gave him something. There is no recounting the useful and pretty, if not costly, articles that Joe became possessor of. A beautiful tartan wrapper for his feet, from Mrs.

Parker; a reading desk and book from Mr. Parker; a microscope from John and Fred; a telescope from Emilie and Edith; some beautiful knitted socks from aunt Agnes; a pair of Edith and Fred's very best canaries.

When his gifts were arranged on his new table, a beautifully made table, ordered for him by Mr. Parker, and exactly adapted to his prostrate condition, and Joe saw every one's looks directed towards him lovingly, and finally received a lovely white camellia blossom from Edith's hand, he turned his face aside upon the sofa pillow and buried it in his hands. What could be the matter with him? asked Mrs. Parker, tenderly.

Had any one said any thing to wound or vex him? "Oh no! no! no!" What was it then? was he overcome with the heat of the room? "No, oh no!"

but might he be wheeled into the dining room, he asked? Mr. Parker consented, of course, but aunt Agnes was sure he was ill. "Take him some salvolatile, Emilie, at once."

"No aunt," said Emilie, "he will be better without that, he is only overcome."

"And is not that just the very thing I was saying, Emilie, child, give him some camphor julep then; camphor julep is a very reviving thing doctor! Mr. Parker, won't you give him something to revive him."

"I think," said Emilie, who understood his emotion and guessed its cause, "I think he will be better alone. His spirits are weak, owing to illness, I would not disturb him."

"Come," said Mrs. Parker, "let us look at the tree, its treasures are not half exhausted." Wonderful to say, although Joe had given his purse to Emilie for the adornment of the tree, there still were presents for every one from him; and what was yet more surprising to those who knew that Joe had not naturally much delicacy of feeling or much consideration for others, each present was exactly the thing that each person liked and wished for. But John was the most astonished with his share; it was a beautiful case of mathematical instruments, such a case as all L---- and all the county of Hamps.h.i.+re together could not produce; a case which Joe had bought for himself in London, and on which he greatly prided himself. John had seen and admired it, and Joe gave this prized, cherished case to John--his enemy John. "It must be intended for you Fred," said John, after a minute's consideration; "but no, here is my name on it."

Margaret, at this moment, brought in a little note from Joe for John, who, when he had read it, coloured and said, "Papa, perhaps you will read it aloud, I cannot."

It was as follows:--

DEAR JOHN,

I have been, as you must have seen, very unhappy and very cross since my accident; I have had my heart filled with thoughts of malice and revenge, and to _you_. I have not felt as though I could forgive you, and I have often told Emilie and Edith this; but they have not known how wickedly I have felt to you, nor how much I now need to ask your forgiveness for thoughts which, in my helpless state, were as bad as actions.

Often, as I saw you run out in the snow to slide or skate, I have wished (don't hate me for it) that you might fall and break your leg or your arm, that you might know a little of what I suffered. Thank G.o.d, all that is pa.s.sed away, and I now do not write so much to say I forgive you, for I believe from my heart you only meant to tease me a little, not to hurt me, but to ask you to pardon me for thoughts far worse and more evil than your thoughtless mischief to me. Will you all believe me, too, when I say that I would not take my past, lonely, miserable feelings back again, to be the healthiest, most active boy on earth. Emilie has been a good friend to me, may G.o.d bless her, and bless you all for your patience and kindness to.

JOS. WHITE.

Pray do not ask me to come back to you to night, I cannot indeed. I am not unhappy, but since my illness my spirits are weak, and I can bear very little; your kindness has been too much.

J.W.

The contents of the little box were now displayed. It was the only costly present on that Christmas tree, full as it was, and rich in love.

The present was a little silver inkstand, with a dove in the centre, bearing not an olive branch, but a little scroll in its beak, with these words, which Emilie had suggested, and being a favourite German proverb of hers. I will give it in her own language, in which by the bye it was engraved. She had written the letter containing the order for the plate to a fellow-countryman of hers, in London, and had forgotten to specify that the motto must be in English; but never mind, she translated it for them, and I will translate it for you. "Friede ernahrt, unfriede verzehrt." "In peace we bloom, in discord we consume." The inkstand was for Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and the slip of paper said it was from their grateful friend, Joe White. That was the secret. Emilie had kept it well; they rather laughed at her for not translating the motto, but no matter, she had taught them all a German phrase by the mistake.

Where was she gone? she had slipped away from the merry party, and was by Joe's couch. Joe's heart was very full, full with the newly-awakened sense that he loved and that he was loved; full of earnest resolves to become less selfish, less thankless, less irritable. He knew his lot now, knew all that lay before him, the privations, the restrictions, the weakness, and the sufferings. He knew that he could never hope again to share in the many joys of boyhood and youth; that he must lay aside his cricket ball, his hoop, his kite, in short all his active amus.e.m.e.nts, and consign himself to the couch through the winter, spring, summer, autumn, and winter again. He felt this very bitterly; and when all the gifts were lavished upon him, he thought, "Oh, for my health and strength again, and I would gladly give up _all_ these gifts, nay, I would joyfully be a beggar." But when he was alone, in the view of all I have written and more, he felt that he could forgive John, that in short he must ask John to forgive him, and this conviction came not suddenly and by chance, but as the result of honest sober consideration, of his own sincere communings with conscience.

Still he felt very desolate, still he could scarcely believe in Emilie's a.s.surance, "You may have G.o.d for your friend," and something of this he told Miss Schomberg, when she came to sit by him for awhile. She had but little faith in her own eloquence, we have said, and she felt now more than ever how dangerous it would be to deceive him, so she did not lull him into false peace, but she soothed him with the promise of Him who loves us not because of our worthiness, but who has compa.s.sion on us out of his free mercy. Herein is love indeed, thought poor Joe, and he meditated long upon it, so long that his heart began to feel something of its power, and he sank to sleep that night happier and calmer than he had ever slept before, wondering in his last conscious moments that G.o.d should love _him_.

Poor Joel he had much to struggle with; for if indulgence and over-weening affection ruin their thousands, neglect and heartlessness ruin tens of thousands. The heart not used to exercise the affection, becomes as it were paralyzed, and so he found it. He could not love as he ought, he could not be grateful as he knew he ought to be, and he found himself continually receiving acts of kindness, as matters of course, and without suitable feeling of kindness and grat.i.tude in return; but the more he knew of himself the more he felt of his own unworthiness, the more gratefully he acknowledged and appreciated the love of others to him. The ungrateful are always proud. The humble, those who know how undeserving they are, are always grateful.

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

THE NEW HOME.

Let us pa.s.s 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 courts.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p 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 n.o.ble 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, G.o.d 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 a.s.sure 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 _m.u.f.f_, 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.