Chapter IV: More About Denesfield

WHILE my aunt and mother were enjoying each other's society, I had the pleasure of taking my dear father up and down both park and village. The girls stayed indoors; but my father declared he was not tired. All he wanted after his long ride was the change which would be afforded by walking in the frosty December air. He had a bright word for everybody. To the grooms who were busy in the stables, he gave a pleasant greeting, and said:

"When you are filling your mangers with hay, doesn't it put you in mind of the Babe, born as at this time, whose first bed was in one?"

"I can't say that I have thought of that, sir, but I shall do now," replied one; and wishing them a "Happy Christmas," we passed on.

Old Maurice, the shepherd of the home farm, had his word. He was a sturdy, grizzled old fellow, and my father said, "Well, Maurice, haven't you wished you had been amongst those shepherds who heard first that angel chorus of 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill towards men?'"

"Ay, sir; that I have. And I've thought to myself, if it had happened in this country, the angels wouldn't have found us in the fields at this time o' year. They'd have had to come to us in the home pens."

My father laughed, and on we went, he scattering kindly questions and good wishes—words for the little nurses who were tending the babies; words for the mothers who must strive to teach their young ones to know and heed the voice of the Good Shepherd.

I think I never enjoyed a walk more; and as it was that most delightful of Christmas seasons, not only frosty, but with the moon rising to turn all the frail crystals into shining gems, our stroll home through the park was very lovely.

We had no other guests that night; but we were to have quite a gathering of various ages on Christmas Day. My aunt had taken good care that there should be plenty in every home round Denesfield. There should not be festival in the hall and pinching want in the cottage; no thought of spiritual blessings sent at that season disturbed by thoughts of earthly needs unsupplied.

My sisters and I had a great deal to say to each other; and many questions were asked and answered by us, while the elders sat and talked, at some distance from us, in the great drawing-room.

During a little pause in our conversation, I heard my father say to Aunt Milly, "Will any of the Denes be here to-morrow?"

My aunt's face flushed as she answered, "No; I have seen nothing of the Denes since my return to England. They have neither written to nor come near me."

"I am sorry for that, Milly," said my father. "I did not like to name it in a letter; but somehow, knowing how your views were changed in so many things, I hoped that those old differences were now only like shadows of a nearly forgotten past."

"What could I do, Stephen?" said my aunt. "You know quite well that all the enmity was on the side of the Denes. You must remember that I did nothing to provoke it. The only fault they could bring against me was, that I inherited what was never theirs, and what my husband had a right to dispose of as he chose."

I did not hear my father's answer; but Aunt Milly spoke again, in that earnest way which proved how she felt all she said.

"No, Stephen, believe me, I have not the smallest feeling of anger or revenge. How could I entertain bitter thoughts in my heart when I remember that, as a disciple of Christ, my love towards my neighbour must not be 'in word; neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth?'"

"Then if one of Edmund Dene's children had come to Denesfield, you would have welcomed him?"

"Most certainly I would. Edmund himself is dead, you know; so there is no brother of my husband's left."

Just then the servants came trooping in as usual to prayers, and the conversation was not resumed. But what I had heard set me thinking of things belonging to that far-away past that my father spoke of, and of the circumstances which made Aunt Milly's husband owner of Denesfield.

He—William Dene—was the younger of two brothers. Their father had run through his inheritance, and left his children almost beggars. There were but the two—Edmund and William. William was adopted by his uncle, a successful merchant, who had been winning great wealth while his brother had squandered his own.

The merchant bought back the old home, rebuilt the house, added to the estates, and passing over his elder nephew, left everything except a few thousand pounds to William Dene, Aunt Milly's husband.

Edmund, disappointed and angry, said bitter things to and of his brother, as well as of my aunt. So they parted—not kindly, or in a brotherly spirit—and met no more on earth. William died abroad, and Aunt Milly inherited all his wealth; and now it seemed as though a wall were built up between Denesfield and the much humbler home where Edmund's widow strove to make her little income suffice to bring up her three boys, and educate them to make their way in the world.

As I thought about this wall of ill-feeling and division, I could not help hoping that my dear father would somehow contrive to break it down. I had so often seen him in the character of peacemaker, that I could scarcely imagine his failing if he once took the matter fairly in hand.