‘To be sure it is,’ said Emma, indignantly.
‘It puts me in mind of St. Cross.’
‘But St. Cross is alive, not a ruin,’ said Emma, with a sigh, and she asked many questions about it, while showing Violet the chief points of interest, where the different buildings had been, and the tomb of Osyth, the last prioress. Her whole manner surprised Violet, there was a reverence as if they were actually within a church, and more melancholy than pleasure in the possession of what, nevertheless, the young heiress evidently loved with all her heart.
Turning away at length, they crossed the park, and passed through the garden, which was gay with flowers, though much less magnificent than Mr. Harrison’s. Emma said, mamma was a great gardener, and accordingly they found her cutting off flowers past their prime. She gave Violet a bouquet of geranium and heliotrope, and conducted her to her room with that motherly kindness and solicitude so comfortable to a lonely guest in a strange house.
Not that the house could long seem strange to Violet. It was an atmosphere of ease, where she could move and speak without feeling on her good behaviour. Everything throughout was on an unpretending scale, full of comfort, and without display, with a regularity and punctuality that gave a feeling of repose.
Violet was much happier than she had thought possible without Arthur, though her pleasures were not such as to make a figure in history. There were talks and walks, drives and visits to the school, readings and discussions, and the being perfectly at home and caressed by mother and daughter. Lady Elizabeth had all the qualities that are better than intellect, and enough of that to enter into the pursuits of cleverer people. Emma had more ability, and so much enthusiasm, that it was well that it was chastened by her mother’s sound sense, as well as kept under by her own timidity.
It was not till Violet was on the point of departure that she knew the secret of Emma’s heart. The last Sunday evening before Arthur was to fetch her away, she begged to walk once more to the Priory, and have another look at it. ‘I think,’ said she, ‘it will stay in my mind like Helvellyn in the distance.’
Emma smiled, and soon they stood in the mellow light of the setting sun, beside the ruin. ‘How strange,’ said Violet, ‘to think that it is three hundred years since Sunday came to this chapel.’
‘I wonder’ said Emma, breaking off, then beginning, ‘O Violet, it is the wish of my heart to bring Sundays back to it.’
‘Emma! but could it be built up again?’