Denzil place a story in verse. By Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |
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 | Denzil place |  |
After six weary years of wandering
The news arrived at Denzil that once more
Its master would return. No longer poor
In this world's goods, since by the sudden Will
Of his rich relative, his fortune now
Was more than doubled, but how 'reft of all
Those only riches worthy of the name
We need not pause to tell! and with him came
A little fair-hair'd girl call'd Violet—
(So named after the fragrant fav'rite flow'r
Of her dead mother). Something in her eyes
Reminded many of the villagers
Of that sweet face that never more on earth
Would beam upon them.
The news arrived at Denzil that once more
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In this world's goods, since by the sudden Will
Of his rich relative, his fortune now
Was more than doubled, but how 'reft of all
Those only riches worthy of the name
We need not pause to tell! and with him came
A little fair-hair'd girl call'd Violet—
(So named after the fragrant fav'rite flow'r
Of her dead mother). Something in her eyes
Reminded many of the villagers
Of that sweet face that never more on earth
Would beam upon them.
As they sat in church,
The tall, sad, father, and the little girl,
On the first Sunday after their return,
Both priest and peasant eye'd them curiously,
And Geoffrey Denzil felt an awkward sense
Of mixed defiance and self-consciousness
He had not known before;—he also fear'd
That they might whisper on their way from church
And tittle-tattle o'er his buried past,
Dragging maybe, the name he most ador'd
From the high place from whence he worshipp'd it—
For he had only sought his village church
Thinking that she would like him to be there,
And from no wish to meet the prying eyes
Of country gossips. Then it seem'd to him
That young Sir Roland, from his curtain'd pew
Beneath the mildew'd hatchments of his race,
Look'd with his large dark eyes askance at him,
And seem'd to say, “So you are home again,
Author of the dishonour of my house!”
But if young Roland's eyes grew somewhat sad
At sight of Denzil and his little girl,
It was but at the memories they 'roused
Of her, his early playmate and his friend
Whom still he lov'd and mourn'd, for to his ears
Had never come those scandalous reports
Whisper'd around, and only Geoffrey's mind
O'er sensitive, could have imagin'd aught
Of enmity or malice in that glance.
The tall, sad, father, and the little girl,
On the first Sunday after their return,
Both priest and peasant eye'd them curiously,
And Geoffrey Denzil felt an awkward sense
Of mixed defiance and self-consciousness
He had not known before;—he also fear'd
That they might whisper on their way from church
And tittle-tattle o'er his buried past,
Dragging maybe, the name he most ador'd
From the high place from whence he worshipp'd it—
For he had only sought his village church
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And from no wish to meet the prying eyes
Of country gossips. Then it seem'd to him
That young Sir Roland, from his curtain'd pew
Beneath the mildew'd hatchments of his race,
Look'd with his large dark eyes askance at him,
And seem'd to say, “So you are home again,
Author of the dishonour of my house!”
But if young Roland's eyes grew somewhat sad
At sight of Denzil and his little girl,
It was but at the memories they 'roused
Of her, his early playmate and his friend
Whom still he lov'd and mourn'd, for to his ears
Had never come those scandalous reports
Whisper'd around, and only Geoffrey's mind
O'er sensitive, could have imagin'd aught
Of enmity or malice in that glance.
(Constance's hatchment never grated there
Against the whitewash'd walls of Farleigh Church,
When summer breezes stirr'd the dingy baize
That hid the open'd door; there is no sign,
No tablet, urn, or monumental stone
Recalling to the minds of those who pray
Her who once knelt amongst them, and who now
Sleeps under bluer skies.
Against the whitewash'd walls of Farleigh Church,
When summer breezes stirr'd the dingy baize
That hid the open'd door; there is no sign,
No tablet, urn, or monumental stone
Recalling to the minds of those who pray
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Sleeps under bluer skies.
Far, far away,
There, in the cemetery on the hill
Where Protestants are buried, does she lie—
There is a dearth of grass in Southern lands
But such a wealth of flow'rs! Anemones
As many color'd as the changing wave,
Narcissus, single roses, violets—
And some sweet blossom hanging from a tree
Whose name I know not—golden is its bloom,
And soft as feathers from some magic bird—
These droop around her, fann'd by gentle gales,
And over these, again, a cypress tow'rs,
And in amongst its sombre boding shade
A Banksia rose is climbing towards the sky,
Striving maybe, to reach it by the help
Of that high fun'ral tree, as hopeful hearts
Aspire to Heaven on the wings of Death.)
There, in the cemetery on the hill
Where Protestants are buried, does she lie—
There is a dearth of grass in Southern lands
But such a wealth of flow'rs! Anemones
As many color'd as the changing wave,
Narcissus, single roses, violets—
And some sweet blossom hanging from a tree
Whose name I know not—golden is its bloom,
And soft as feathers from some magic bird—
These droop around her, fann'd by gentle gales,
And over these, again, a cypress tow'rs,
And in amongst its sombre boding shade
A Banksia rose is climbing towards the sky,
Striving maybe, to reach it by the help
Of that high fun'ral tree, as hopeful hearts
Aspire to Heaven on the wings of Death.)
So, after this first Sunday, it was long
Ere Geoffrey Denzil went to church again,
For there he met so many memories
He fain would bury; but his little girl,
(To glad', he thought, a hov'ring angel's eyes,)
He taught to worship where her mother knelt
In those old days before he saw her face;
And never more at sacred rite or name
Did his curved lips assume a sceptic's smile,
Since Constance had believ'd that all was true;
And if there was a heaven, she was there,
And she would welcome him, if any deed
Or any suffering of his on Earth
Could wipe away the Past, and give the saints
That greater joy than when those “ninety-nine
Just men” present themselves “Who” (saith the text)
Need no repentance.”
Ere Geoffrey Denzil went to church again,
For there he met so many memories
He fain would bury; but his little girl,
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He taught to worship where her mother knelt
In those old days before he saw her face;
And never more at sacred rite or name
Did his curved lips assume a sceptic's smile,
Since Constance had believ'd that all was true;
And if there was a heaven, she was there,
And she would welcome him, if any deed
Or any suffering of his on Earth
Could wipe away the Past, and give the saints
That greater joy than when those “ninety-nine
Just men” present themselves “Who” (saith the text)
Need no repentance.”
Thus, if strange, 'twas true,
That tho' poor Constance, with her yielding will
Had seem'd to him at first a feeble child
In pow'rs of reasoning and abstruse thought,
Yet she had left upon his sterner mind
(So confident before, in its proud aim
At self-emancipation from all chains
Imposed by man as advocate of heav'n!)
A deeper trace than he had ever dream'd.
Thus, a faint spark, if left at liberty
That tho' poor Constance, with her yielding will
Had seem'd to him at first a feeble child
In pow'rs of reasoning and abstruse thought,
Yet she had left upon his sterner mind
(So confident before, in its proud aim
At self-emancipation from all chains
Imposed by man as advocate of heav'n!)
A deeper trace than he had ever dream'd.
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May gently light a beacon in its heart,
Or leave a mark upon the glowing wood—
Whilst up towards heav'n the evanescent flame
Will die in smoke, so soft, and blue, and vague,
It seems beyond belief so faint a thing
Could leave so deep a trace upon the tree!
And this is why the poor at Denzil Place
Are all so well and warmly housed and clad,
And why the old and young, in glowing words,
Sound Denzil's praises, and on Sabbath morns
Will pray that God may bless him, in their pray'rs,
And think of him with reverence and love.
(For this is where the godly often err,—
The sinner sinning against one command
Of God or man, need not in consequence
Prove murderer, or thief, extortioner,
Mover of neighbour's landmarks, seething kids
In mother's milk, or, being by mischance
Found wanting once, prove base in ev'rything.
For human souls I hold no hopeless creed
Of utter degeneration to decay
And degradation, just because the fault,
“The little rift” maybe “within the lute”
Was not where your's or mine made our's play false!)
So Geoffrey Denzil taught his little girl
The godly saws he did not follow once,
And as he look'd on her he tried to think
That tender bud would bloom into a flow'r
Like the dead flow'r he mourn'd.
Are all so well and warmly housed and clad,
And why the old and young, in glowing words,
Sound Denzil's praises, and on Sabbath morns
Will pray that God may bless him, in their pray'rs,
And think of him with reverence and love.
(For this is where the godly often err,—
The sinner sinning against one command
Of God or man, need not in consequence
Prove murderer, or thief, extortioner,
Mover of neighbour's landmarks, seething kids
In mother's milk, or, being by mischance
Found wanting once, prove base in ev'rything.
For human souls I hold no hopeless creed
Of utter degeneration to decay
And degradation, just because the fault,
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Was not where your's or mine made our's play false!)
So Geoffrey Denzil taught his little girl
The godly saws he did not follow once,
And as he look'd on her he tried to think
That tender bud would bloom into a flow'r
Like the dead flow'r he mourn'd.
It was a grief
To him to think she had not known his love,
That never, never, in the after years
Could he converse of her as one they knew
And wept together! This would make him sad,
And seem'd to chill the love he bore the child,
Whilst with the innocent indifference
Of children for the mother who has borne them,
Who died for them, but whom they have not seen,
And did not know, and cannot therefore mourn,
She often ask'd, “Had she black eyes, or blue,
“Mama?” and many careless questions more
Cutting like knives. “She had brown eyes, my child,”
He answer'd her, “And never your's or mine
“Will look upon such lovely eyes again.”
Thus thro' the years, the father looking back,
To him to think she had not known his love,
That never, never, in the after years
Could he converse of her as one they knew
And wept together! This would make him sad,
And seem'd to chill the love he bore the child,
Whilst with the innocent indifference
Of children for the mother who has borne them,
Who died for them, but whom they have not seen,
And did not know, and cannot therefore mourn,
She often ask'd, “Had she black eyes, or blue,
“Mama?” and many careless questions more
Cutting like knives. “She had brown eyes, my child,”
He answer'd her, “And never your's or mine
“Will look upon such lovely eyes again.”
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Strangers in thought, yet by a mutual love
Uniting hearts, together hand in hand,
These two walked on towards the hoped-for Heaven.
| Denzil place | |