Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife. Yonge Charlotte MaryЧитать онлайн книгу.
expected.
‘It is worth all the gardens at Martindale.’
‘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?’
‘Mamma says nothing must be done till I am twenty-five—almost six years hence. Not then, unless I am tame and sober, and have weighed it well.’
‘Restore it?—build a church?’
‘I could have a sort of alms-house, with old people and children, and we could look after them ourselves.’
‘That would be delightful. Oh, I hope you will do it.’
‘Don’t think of it more than as a dream to myself and mamma. I could not help saying it to you just then; but it is down too deep generally even for mamma. It must come back somehow to God’s service. Don’t talk of it any more, Violet, dearest, only pray that I may not be unworthy.’
Violet could hardly believe a maiden with such hopes and purposes could be her friend, any more than Prioress Osyth herself; and when, half-an-hour afterwards, she heard Emma talking over the parish and Sunday-school news in an ordinary matter-of-fact way, she did not seem like the same person.
There were many vows of correspondence, and auguries of meeting next spring. Lady Elizabeth thought it right that her daughter should see something of London life, and the hope of meeting Violet was the one thing that consoled Emma, and Violet talked of the delight of making her friend and Annette known to each other.
To this, as Lady Elizabeth observed, Arthur said not a word. She could not help lecturing him a little on the care of his wife, and he listened with a very good grace, much pleased at their being so fond of her.
She wished them good-bye very joyously, extremely happy at having her husband again, and full of pleasant anticipations of her new home.
PART II
There’s pansies for you, that’s for thoughts.
CHAPTER 1
How far less am I blest than they,
Daily to pine, and waste with care,
Like the poor plant, that from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.
Arthur and Violet arrived at their new home in the twilight, when the drawing-room fire burnt brightly, giving a look of comfort. The furniture was good; and by the fire stood a delightful little low chair with a high back, and a pretty little rosewood work-table, on which was a coloured glass inkstand, and a table-stand of books in choice bindings.
‘Arthur, Arthur, how charming! I am sure this is your doing.’
‘No, it is John’s; I can’t devise knick-knackeries, but he is a thorough old bachelor, and has been doing all sorts of things to the house, which have made it more tolerable.’
‘How very kind he is! The books—how beautiful! Just what I wanted. That one he lent me—he talked to me of that. This Emma has—I saw your sister reading that, and wished to see more of it. But I can’t look at them all now; I must see Sarah, she was to bring something from home.’
A Wrangerton face had great charms, though it was starched and severe, without one smile in answer to the joyous greeting, ‘Well, Sarah, I am glad you could come. How are they all?’
‘Thank you, ma’am, Mr. and Mrs. Moss, and the young ladies, and Mr. Albert, are all very well, and desires their love,’ replied a voice solemn enough for the announcement that they were all at the point of death. Violet’s spirits would have been damped but for the sight of the table spread with parcels directed in dear familiar writing, and she was pouncing on them when Sarah began her grave requests for orders, and Violet felt her own ignorance and incapacity growing more patent every moment as questions about arrangements beset and tormented her on every side. At last she was left to enjoy the out-spreading of the precious gifts, the devices characteristic of the kind hands that had prepared them, and all her own private possessions—a welcome sight.
It was a happy evening, and the days that followed were full of pleasure and occupation—in settling her treasures and making purchases. When she seated herself in her own carriage, she thought now indeed it would be delightful to show herself to her mother and sisters. She had no relation in London but an uncle, a solicitor, fond and proud of her, but too sensible to wish to frequent her house. He gave her a silver tea-pot; and being asked to dinner now and then on Sunday was all the attention he required. Her brother Albert did, indeed, sometimes come to town on business; and Violet, after many hopes, was, one evening, charmed at seeing him make his appearance. Arthur asked him to stay to dinner, after which they were going to a party.
Albert, a spruce, good-looking youth, had been too grand to make friends with so young a sister; but, now that she was a person of consequence, his tone was different. He talked his best, and she had a perfect feast of Wrangerton news—showed him all her presents, and enjoyed the thought of Annette’s smile at hearing of her little Violet stepping into her carriage for a party at a countess’s.
Arthur said London was empty, but Violet thought her visitors innumerable, and, as the autumn advanced towards winter, had many invitations. She enjoyed going out; her shyness had nearly worn off; and she was everywhere received so as to make Arthur, proud and pleased. Indeed she had doubts whether she was not growing too gay, and if it was right to pay so much attention to her appearance. She asked Arthur, and was laughed at for her pains.
However,