Emilie the Peacemaker — Context and Discussion

THE LESSON AT THE COTTAGE

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.

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.