AN EARNEST TALK
I AM not going to tell all about our doings that happy Christmastide.
All I can say is, that I hope every one who listens to my story may
spend this Christmas as happily as we spent ours that year. Aunt Milly
duly wore the famous diamonds, and we girls as duly admired them, and
wondered at their beauty.
My mother made the remark that they must have cost a fortune, and Aunt
Milly said, "Yes, they did;" and laughingly added:
"They are to be part of Mildred's. She is my namesake and godchild, and
years hence, when your girls, perhaps, have children and homes of their
own, Mildred will be mistress here, and the youngsters will talk about
another 'Aunt Milly' and her diamonds."
My mother exclaimed, "Hush, dear Milly! Please do not put such a
thought into the girl's head. I should never like to think of Mildred
filling your place at Denesfield."
"Not while I live, Ellen, of course. Now she is as a daughter to me.
You can hardly think how much happiness she has brought to a lonely
woman. You must give Mildred to me. She must be my child, without
ceasing to be yours; and if she fills the position of daughter here,
what would there be unnatural in her stepping into my place?"
"You are very good to her, Milly," said my mother; "but while I shall
be only too glad for her to be all you wish, neither her father nor I
would like you to carry out your present design. Stephen is not anxious
that his children should have great wealth. We have enough to provide
for them in the station of life they are accustomed to—a very happy
state, as they all feel."
"Then would you have me find some stranger to bestow my wealth upon,
Ellen?"
"Certainly not, Milly. If you like, I will tell you what Stephen says
you ought to do with it."
"What, Ellen?"
My aunt asked the question; but I feel certain she knew what the answer
would be, for that quick flush rose to her cheek, and her manner was
excited.
"You will not be vexed at me, dear Milly, if I tell you. Stephen says
that Edmund Dene's children are the only fitting heirs of Denesfield.
He does not, for an instant, deny your perfect right to dispose of the
property which is your own, as much as wealth can be, by any human
law. We neither of us believe you will ever marry again, therefore the
responsibility of disposing of this wealth rests upon you. But after
all, dear, we are but stewards in God's sight, and this wealth is one
of the talents to be accounted for."
"I am striving to use it rightly, Ellen," replied my aunt gently; "and
I am thankful for advice and guidance."
"Yes, dear; and while you hold it, I shall have no fear that it will
not be turned to good account."
"Yes; but I often fear for myself. I feel that I have years of
indolence and neglect to regret—all that long time when I neither
used the money nor gave it to those who needed it. Still, if, when I
no longer want the wealth, I may not leave it to the friends I really
love, but to people I have only known as enemies, my stewardship would
be a burden, indeed."
"I would not say enemies, Milly. Edmund Dene, being the elder brother,
thought it very hard when all the riches of his uncle, as well as the
old estates, went to your husband. He had no claim to anything; but the
disappointment must have been hard to bear. Think, dear Milly, had you
been in his place, would you have said no sharp word—had no envious
feeling?"
"It was a hard thing to bear, no doubt of that," returned Aunt Milly
frankly.
"And now," resumed mamma, "the young Denes are growing up; the eldest,
William, is about twenty, I believe. Stephen has heard a good deal
about him from an old college friend, and he says what a fine young
fellow he is, how hard he is working, denying himself every indulgence
that he may not be a burden to his mother, and earning money by
private teaching even while a student himself. I have told you all
these things, Milly, because I want you to think of them. And, in this
blessed season of peace and goodwill, remember your husband's kindred.
Forget all past differences. Love and forgive, even as God, for
Christ's sake, loves and pardons."
The tears were in my dear mother's eyes as she thus pleaded so
eloquently; and as she ended she heard a quick sob, and saw that Aunt
Milly's eyes too were wet. Then after a short silence, my aunt said:
"Ellen, you have done right to speak boldly and frankly. I will think
over this conversation, and I will pray to be guided aright."
Then, with that little impetuous way of hers, she drew her hand across
her eyes, and with a smile, exclaimed, "Say what you like, I will not
go back from my resolution in one thing. No person but my niece and
adopted child, Mildred Corsor, shall ever own Aunt Milly's diamonds."
My mother was contented with the answer; and having been allowed to
speak so freely to her sister about a subject which she was at first
half afraid to mention, she would not attempt to combat this last
sentence. This conversation took place in my aunt's room, at the close
of that happy Christmas Day, when the guests had departed and the
sisters were lingering over the fire, as if unwilling to say the final
good-night.
During the rest of the time that my father and mother stayed at
Denesfield, no further mention was made of Edmund Dene's widow and
children.