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I HAVE heard some great news to-day, which is yet unknown to most of the household, though they must guess, of course, that something is going to happen, from seeing the preparations that are making. 'Twas from no good will of mine that I knew it either, for I hate secrets.
After breakfast, Mother Gertrude requested Amice and myself to help her put in order some tapestry. We followed her to the east end of the house, where are certain large apartments which have never been opened in my time. Mother Gertrude unlocked the door which separates them from the rest of the house and threw it open. The first room we entered was quite dark, save for certain rays which streamed through small cracks and crannies in the shutters, and showed us long lines of dust, while a moldy, close smell issued from the open door.
"Phew!" exclaimed Mother Gertrude. "Amice, child, step in and open the shutters."
Amice shrank back a little.
"Let me do it," said I; and without waiting to be told, as I suppose I should, I went in, and after a little fumbling succeeded in finding and drawing the bolt, and opening not only the shutters, but the casement, letting in the sweet light and air.
"Suppose we open all the casements and give the place a thorough airing," said I.
"Yes, do, my child," answered Mother Gertrude. "Amice, can't you help her, and not leave her to break all her finger nails." For all the time, Amice had stood still at the door.
"I waited to be told what to do," answered Amice, coloring as red as fire, and then coming forward without another word, she began to help me open the rooms. There were three, of good size and lofty, besides a closet or oratory with an altar and crucifix. The furniture had been good, though somewhat scanty, but it was battered and moth-eaten, and the floors were thick with dust, while something—the wind, I suppose—had swept into curious waves and traces, as though somebody had been pacing back and forth with a long gown on. I remarked on this appearance to Amice.
"Aye," said Mother Gertrude, overhearing me—and looking sadly about her, "If a ghost ever walked—Many a weary hour she paced these floors, poor thing, softly singing to herself, or repeating Psalms."
"Who, dear mother?" I ventured to ask.
"The one who last lived here, child. Never mind, now. I trust her soul hath gotten grace for all, and that she is resting with the Saints in Paradise. But how we are ever going to make these rooms fit for the Queen and her family, is more than I can guess."
"The queen!" I repeated.
"Aye, child. There, I have let the cat out of the bag, but never mind. You would have heard it before long, at any rate. Yes, children, her Grace being in these parts, and having somehow heard of the sanctity of our Lady's shrine in the garden, and of our many holy relics, has chosen our poor house in which to make a retreat, and she is coming next week to remain a month with us."
"'Tis a great honor for us," I said.
"Why, yes, in one way it is, and yet I could have wished her Grace had chosen some other house. I don't fancy an inroad of giddy girls from the Court, I must say."
"The Queen herself is very grave and religious, I have heard say," I remarked. "Maybe her attendants will not be so giddy, after all."
"Well, well, we will hope for the best. Do you and Amice set all these chairs out into the garden to begin with, and give them a good beating and dusting, and I will take order for the sweeping and washing of the floors, and that being in hand, we will overlook the tapestry and see what can be done to mend it."
Mother Gertrude was now in her element, and so I confess was I, for I do love a housewifely bustle. We carried all the chairs and stools down into the garden, and cutting light willow switches, we began to beat the cushions, raising clouds of dust, and getting ourselves into quite a frolic over it. In the midst of our labors and laughing, came along Sister Catherine and Sister Paula, inseparable, as usual. I wonder, by the way, how Sister Catherine reconciles her intimacy with the rule which forbids particular friendships among the religious.
"Dear me!" said Sister Catherine, in a tone of surprise—affected surprise, I may say—"Is it possible that this is our learned Rosamond, acting the part of a housemaid?"
"Even as you see, Sister!" I answered, merrily, and sending at the same time a cloud of dust in her direction (I fear I did it on purpose), which made her sneeze and cough heartily.
"Do be careful, child," said she, pettishly. "You cover me with dust, but of course one can't expect learned ladies to be very skilful in housewifery. I am glad your superiors at last see the need of humbling your proud spirits by setting you at a menial office."
"But, methinks, a mortified and recollected demeanor would be more suitable than all this laughter!" added Sister Mary Paula. "One would think you were making holiday, instead of doing penance."
I would not trust my tongue to answer, but raised such a cloud of dust that they were glad to beat a retreat.
"Rosamond," said Amice, after they were gone, "do you really suppose this work was given us as a penance and humiliation?"
"No," I answered. "I suppose it was given us because we are the youngest in the house and have little to do, and because Mother Gertrude likes to have us about her. Besides, where is the mortification?"
"But it is menial work, you must allow that," she insisted.
"It is work that must needs be done, and what matters whether it be menial or not? Come, let us set aside these chairs and bring down the rest."
Amice complied, but there was no more sport for her. She was plunged at once into discomfort, and began looking at herself, as usual.
"I did not think I needed any such humiliation, but no doubt Mother knows best," said she, presently. "I don't think I put myself forward very much."
"Of course you don't, and I have no notion that Mother had any such matter in her head," said I. "Don't give it another thought. See how oddly the velvet of this chair is spotted, as with drops of water."
"But I know I shall never be a Saint," continued Amice, just glancing at the chair, but pursuing her own thoughts, as usual. "Do you know, Rosamond, I was really afraid to enter that room?"
"So I thought, and that was what made me offer. But Amice, I do think you need not have answered Mother Gertrude so."
"I know it," she said, in a kind of despairing tone. "O yes! I do need to have my pride mortified. But I shall never be a Saint, after all."
"I'll tell you what, child," said Mother Gertrude, who had come upon us unawares, in the noise we were making. "You are a deal more likely to make a Saint if you stop thinking about yourself and turning yourself inside out all the time. Saints, daughter, cannot be made, to my thinking. You can make artificial flowers to look very pretty at a distance, but if you want a real live plant, with sap, and leaves, and flowers, and fruit, you must needs give it time to grow."
Methinks a very wise saying of the dear old Mother's, and one I shall lay up.
We finished dusting the old chairs, and then began to wonder how we should make them presentable, for, though the frames were good, the covers were both ragged and faded, and there was no time to get them covered anew. Presently Amice made a suggestion.
"You know the brown Hollands, of which we have great store in the wardrobe. Why not make covers of that, binding them with some bright colors? If they were nicely laundried, as Sister Bridget knows how to do them, I think they would at least be neat and pleasant."
"Upon my word, child, 'tis a good thought, and well devised!" said Mother Gertrude, much pleased, as she always is whenever we show any cleverness. "We will try it on the withdrawing room, at any rate: and 'twas a good thing to remember Sister Bridget, too, poor thing, for she loves to be of service, though her wits are small. I tell you, children, talking of saints, that poor weakly dull thing is nearer to real saintship than some who are far wiser, and think themselves far holier, to boot. Rosamond, do you bring down a piece of the Hollands, and we will see how it looks."
In the wardrobe, chancing to look out at the window, I saw Amice reading something, which presently she put into her bosom. Some old book of devotion, I dare say. She will never throw away a bit of written or printed paper, if she can help it.
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July 14.
WE have finished all our work, though we had to call in more help. Mother Gertrude chose Sister Bonaventure and Sister Margaret, besides Sister Bridget, to do the washing and ironing. They are not so bright as some, but they are good with the needle; and as Mother says, can mind what they are told without an argument about it. The apartments are now all arranged. The antichamber is done in green serge, the withdrawing room in red, and the bed-chamber all in linen, as Amice suggested. Mother Superior inspected the work this afternoon, and praised us for our diligence and skill.
"I fear her Grace will think them very plain and bare!" said Mother Gertrude.
"Her Grace, Sister, does not come hither seeking for ease and luxury!" answered Mother Superior. "Moreover, being a kind and gracious lady, she will doubtless be satisfied with the best we have to offer. You have done well, dear Sisters and children, and I thank you for your pains."
"And how are her Grace's attendants to be accommodated?" asked Mother Gertrude.
"She will bring no great train—only three attendants—Mistress Patience, her bower-woman, Master Griffith, her steward, who will live with Father Fabian, and Mistress Anne Bullen, one of her ladies. You will have the two small rooms at this end of the gallery prepared for the ladies, not changing the furniture, but laying clean linen and mats. A little hard lodging will not harm them for a while."
"I trow not!" answered Mother Gertrude. "I am glad we are to have no train of court dames to turn our giddy pates, whereof we have enow;" she added, putting her hands on the shoulders of us girls, as we stood near her, as if she had meant to include us among the giddy pates. I expected to see Amice color, as usual, but she only smiled and kissed the dear wrinkled hand. Somehow she has been much more pleasant the last few days.
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St. Mary Magdalene, July 21.
OUR great guests have come, and are safely settled, and her Grace is pleased to approve of her rooms, specially the one furnished with linen. She asked whose was the invention, and being told by Mother Superior that it was one of the pupils (for that is the name we young ones go by), she sent her her thanks and a pretty Psalter, as a token of approbation. I never was more delighted, not only for the sake of Amice, who is far oftener blamed than commended, but because dear Mother Gertrude was so pleased. One never can tell how Amice will take anything, she has so many notions; but she came herself and showed the book to me, saying how glad she was to possess a whole Psalter of her own.
"Was it not kind of her Grace?" she said.
"Indeed it was!" I answered. "I think it is always kind in people to show pleasure when one tries to please them."
"I believe you are right!" she said, considering. "The pot of ointment St. Mary Magdalene gave our Lord could be no such great gift to Him, and yet He showed Himself pleased with that, as no doubt He would if some little child had given Him a handful of shells, or wild flowers."
Amice has seemed much pleasanter and happier these last days.
The Queen does indeed look like a most gracious lady. I should say she must have been very well-favored in her youth, but she is faded and worn, and looks I can't but think as if she had some settled sorrow, which was wearing away her health and life. Mistress Patience, her bower-woman, is a dignified, somewhat austere looking lady, and yet I like her. She seems like one who might be very kind and faithful if one were in any trouble. Mistress Anne Bullen is of another sort. At the first glance I fell in love with her beauty and grace, but somehow, as I see her more, I do not like her as well. I can hardly tell why, only she is never quiet a minute, and seems to act as if she wished to draw all eyes to herself. She has, too, a certain mocking expression, even in church—indeed I think more there than anywhere—which does not please me. But this is hard judgment on one whom I have seen but two or three times.
Although her Grace must needs have been very weary with her journey, she was at early mass this morning, and partook of the sacrament with great devotion, as did Mistress Patience and Master Griffith. Mistress Bullen did not, I suppose, from lack of preparation.
Of course this visit has set all our little community in a ferment. That is only natural. We have so few events to mark our lives, that small matters become great. Beside this can hardly be called a small matter.
"Ah!" said Sister Anne to Sister Bridget, "You little thought, when you were so busy with your chairs, who was to sit on them!"
"O yes, I did!" answered Sister Bridget, composedly, as usual: "Mother Gertrude told me."
"Really! And you kept the news to yourself all that time! How wonderful!"
"I don't see anything wonderful!" said Sister Bridget, who understands everything quite literally: "Mother Gertrude told me not to tell, and so, of course, I could not, if I had wished it."
"You are a good soul, and I wont tease you," said Sister Anne, who has far more of generosity with her than her Sister. "But say now, Sister Bridget, is it not a wonderful thing that a real Queen should come and lodge under our roof?"
"No, I don't know that it is," answered Sister Bridget, considering a little, as usual.
"You know, Sister Anne, that our Lord dwells here all the time—Father Fabian says so—and He is much greater than any Queen."
I believe Sister Bridget will be one of the saints that grow, as Mother Gertrude says.
July 24th.
Her Grace has fallen into a settled way of life, and methinks seems already happier than when she came. She keeps all the hours, and also spends much time in prayer at the shrine of our Lady, in the garden. It was a favorite place of my own, but of course I do not intrude on her. I went this morning before I thought she would be up, meaning to say prayers for my father, from whom I have not heard, when, on entering the little chapel, I found her Grace before me. I would have retired noiselessly, but her Grace looked round, and seeing me, she beckoned me to come and kneel beside her.
"The place is small," said she, "but two or three devout hearts can find room in it, and we shall not hinder each other's prayers."
So we said our prayers together in silence, but her Grace sighed many times—oh, so deeply, as if from such a burdened heart, that I was moved to pray for her. I am sure, "Happy as a Queen" is not a true saying, in her case.
When her Grace arose, I would have retired in silence, but she detained me, and placing herself on my favorite seat, she called me to sit down beside her. I did so without demur, since she bade me.
"You are Rosamond, daughter of the good knight, Sir Stephen Corbet, are you not?" asked her Grace.
"Yes, madam," I answered. Oh, how I did long to ask if she had seen my father, but of course I did not speak till spoken to.
"And, do you know, little Rosamond, that you are partly the cause of my coming here?" Then as I hesitated what to say, she continued: "I had heard before of this shrine of our Lady's, which had been hallowed by the prayers of St. Ethelburga long ago, and being one day in conversation with your kinsman, Lord Stanton, I questioned him about it. He, seeing my interest, offered to bring me his cousin, Sir Stephen Corbet, who, he said, had a daughter in the house, and could tell me more than himself. I remembered the good knight, and was glad to see him again; and he coming to me, we held long discourse together. He told me the house was of the best repute, both for sanctity of manners and good works, though 'twas not of the strictest order—that the Superior was a lady of good family and breeding, that the situation was pleasant, and the air sweet and wholesome. On farther question, he also said that you were here, and seemed very happy; and also that watching before the shrine of our Lady in the garden, you had received from her a most comfortable assurance concerning your mother, who had died suddenly without the sacraments. This determined me to seek this house as a place to hold a religious retreat, thinking that perhaps the same grace might, unworthy as I am, be vouchsafed to me, who am sorely in need."
She again sighed heavily, and as she looked abroad in silence for some minutes, I am sure I saw tears in her lovely eyes. I sat quite still, not knowing what better to do.
"Will you tell me the history of this matter, my child?" said she presently, coming back, as it were, from the place where her thoughts had gone. "Believe me, it is no idle curiosity which prompts the request."
Now my night in the chapel has ever seemed to me so sacred that I have never mentioned it save to my father and Amice, to whom I tell everything, and to Father Fabian my confessor; but seeing the Queen's desire. I could not refuse: so I told her all as truly as if I had been at confession. She listened eagerly, but looked, I thought, disappointed when I had done.
"And was that all?" she said. "Was there no sign from the Holy Image—no light nor voice?"
"I told her there was none—it was only that some influence seemed sweetly to bring to my mind, and open to my apprehension the words I had so often read before."
"And was that all?" said the Queen, once more; and again she sighed heavily. I knew it was not my place to speak, far less to instruct her, but something seemed to bid me not hold my peace.
"If I dared be so bold, Madam," I began, with fear and trembling.
"Well!" said her Grace, smiling sweetly: "If you dare be so bold maiden, what then?"
"Then, Madam," I answered, "I would rather have things as they are. If I had seen a vision—if our Lady's image had bowed to me, or I had seen a great light, or heard an angel speaking, I might afterward have come to think I had dreamed it. But these blessed words are not liable to any such doubt. They are in the Holy Psalms, a part of God's own word—so I can read them when I please and feel that they must be true."
"There is much in what you say!" answered her Grace. "Rosamond, you are a good child. If your mother had not given you to this house, I should be tempted to beg you of your father, and keep you about me. But we must not commit sacrilege, must we, my maiden? However, I shall make bold to ask the Superior to give me much of your company."
So saying, her Grace kissed my forehead and walked away, leaving me overwhelmed with her kindness. This afternoon Mother Superior called Amice and myself, and told us that her Grace had made choice of us to attend her on alternate days, and also to walk abroad with her when she chose to visit any of the poor folks. Of course we made no objection.
"'Tis a great honor, doubtless!" said Amice, when we left the room. "But I could wish her Grace had chosen some one else. However, she has a right to command the services of all in the house, and after all, 'tis but a matter of obedience."
"Just so!" I answered, delighted at her taking it so calmly. "And if we can give any comfort or pleasure to her Grace, I am sure we should be glad to do it."
"But I shall not know how to address her," said Amice.
"There is dear old Mother Mary Monica sitting in the sun," said I; "let us go and ask her counsel. She was once maid of honor to the late Queen, you know."
So we went and sat down at the old nun's feet and laid our matters before her, asking her to advise us how we should demean ourselves before the Queen.
"Well, well," she said: "so her Grace has chosen you out of all the family to wait on her. I wish the honor may not bring you ill will. But you deserve it, for you are good maidens, good maids!" And she stroked our heads with her trembling, withered hands. "You are kind to the old and the simple, and that is sure to bring a blessing. Only be not set up in your own conceits, for pride is a sin—one of the seven deadly sins—and court favor is vainer than thistle-down and more changeable than the wind."
"So I suppose," said I; "but, dear Mother, you know the ways of court; will you not tell us how we should behave?"
"Aye, surely, child. Was I not maid of honor to the good Queen Elizabeth? Good indeed she was, but she was not happy, for all. Many a ploughman's or fisher's dam is better off than was that daughter and wife of kings. As to behaving—just behave like ladies. Take no liberties, even though your mistress should seem to invite them. Speak when you are spoken to, modestly and openly, and be as silent as the grave as to any and every word you may hear in the presence, be it ever so light. Observe these rules, and you will do well enough. There are no men about her Grace, or saucy pages to make mischief, and if there were you are no silly giglets to be led into scrapes. Nay, you will do well enough, no fear."
"Will you not give us your prayers, dear Mother?" said Amice.
"Aye, that I will, daughter; and do you give yours to your mistress, for she has need of them. There is heart trouble in her face, poor lady. And daughters, another thing. Be you courteous and kind to all, and learn all you can, but do not you go making a friend and intimate of this fine court young lady. Take my word for it, you will gain nothing but trouble thereby. 'Tis a fair creature too, and gracious, but giddy, and too fond of admiration. Mind, I don't say that there is any real harm in her. But she has grown up in the French court, which was no good school in my day, and I doubt has not improved since; and she has had no motherly training, poor thing. She seems to me like one who would make eyes at the blessed St. Anthony himself, and failing the saint, she would flirt with his very pig rather than lack her game."
"Did St. Anthony have a pig?" I asked.
"Surely, child. Have you never read his life? When I was a young lady in London—I wot not if the usage is kept up—devout persons used often to buy lame or sickly swine of the drovers, and putting the saint's mark on them, turn them loose in the street. Every one fed them, and they soon learned to know their benefactors. I have seen mine honored uncle—for my mother had a brother who was a merchant and Lord Mayor—I have seen my good uncle followed by two or three lusty porkers, grunting and squealing for the crusts which the good man dispensed from his pocket. The Franciscans have ever been kind to animals; and St. Francis loved the birds, especially. He would never have torn in pieces the sparrow that came into church, as St. Dominic did."
"I wonder whether St. Dominic ever read that verse in the Psalter, about the sparrow finding a nest wherein to lay her young?" remarked Amice.
"Eh, dear, I don't know—I suppose so. He was a stern man, was St. Dominic."
"Mother," said Amice, after a little silence, "did you know the lady who used to live in the Queen's apartment?"
"Did I know her? Aye, indeed, child! Did I not have the principal care of her, under the Mother Superior that was then? But that was long ago. Mother Gertrude was a young woman then, and Mother Superior that now is, was just professed. It was in the weary times of the civil wars, in Henry Sixth's day, that the poor lady came here, and she lived in those rooms twenty years—twenty years, children—and never saw a face save Mother Superior's and mine, and latterly Mother Gertrude's, when she began to divide the charge with me."
"What, not at church?" said I.
"She never went into the church," answered Mother Mary Monica. "There is a sliding panel in the oratory—I know not whether you found it—behind which is a very close grating, too close to be seen through, looking upon the altar. Here she might hear mass, if she would, but she never went into the church."
"But surely she might have looked into the garden, and seen the Sisters at their recreation."
"No, child. The windows, you may have observed, are very tall, and the lower parts were boarded up higher than she could reach. When she was at last laid on her dying bed, the boards were taken down, at her most earnest prayer, that she might once more behold the green trees. Ah, well do I remember, children," said the old Mother, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I was alone with her after that, and she said to me, clasping her hands—oh such thin hands! You could see the light through the very palms of them, and she had wound her finger with threads that she might not lose her wedding-ring."
"And she said—" repeated Amice.
"And she said, clasping her poor hands, 'Oh dear sister, for our dear Lord's sake, put me in my chair by the window, and let me look on the face of the fair world once more.' Well I knew she could not live long, at the best, so I even humored her, and lifted her to the great chair by the window."
"The sun was setting in great glory, and all the hills were lighted with a purple glow. She gazed eagerly abroad, and the very sunlight seemed reflected from her face."
"'A fair world—wondrous fair,' she murmured, 'but the next will be far fairer. "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor heart of man conceived, what He hath prepared for them that love Him." There will be greener pastures and stiller waters—even the water of life, clear as crystal—"and the Lamb in the midst of the throne shall lead them, and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes."'"
"Children, her face was like the face of an angel: but directly there came a change, and I had hardly laid her back on the bed, where she breathed her last."
"Without the sacraments?" said I.
"Even so. You see we did not think her so near her end. But I trust her soul hath gotten grace. They buried her in the corner of the cemetery farthest from the church. There is nothing to mark the grave save the blue violets and lilies of the valley I planted, and which have flourished marvellously."
"But what was her offence, dear Mother?" I asked. "Why was she kept so long and so closely?"
"Nay, that I know not precisely, though I may have a shrewd guess. She was akin to the Vernons, I know, and they fitted her rooms, and sometimes sent her linen and the like, though they never came anigh her. For my part I always thought she was infected with Lollardie, and being of such exalted rank, she escaped burning only to waste her young life in a prison, for she was not forty when she died. But, children, where have you led me?" said the old nun, with a startled look. "I have said, I fear, more than I ought."
"Do not be disturbed, dear Mother," said I, kissing her hand; "be sure neither Amice nor I shall ever repeat a word of what we have heard."
"No, indeed!" added Amice, and then, to divert her mind, I said, "So you think we had better not make a friend of Mistress Bullen, Mother?"
"Nay, child, I say naught against her, but what should you do with such worldly friendships? No, no; I say no harm of her; the saints forbid! But I like not her light-minded ways; and courts, children—courts are slippery places. But, as I said, do you be discreet and silent; speak only when spoken to, take no liberties, and above all never forget your duty to Heaven and this house, and you will do well, never fear."
[I did not write this tale in my great book, but on leaves which I hid away in the great folio of "Dun's Scotus," and this is the case with much that comes after. In this I did somewhat fail in my duty, perhaps, for in a religious house one's very most secret thoughts are not one's own. Not a letter from one's dearest friend, but is read by the superiors—nay one is not supposed to have one friend more than another. Our dear Mother Superior was not so strict as some, but Sister Catherine pried everywhere, even into the library, where she had no business, for it was my charge, as the storerooms were hers. I shall always think it was by her means, somehow, that the story of my sending the prayer-book to Dick reached the Bishop's ears. Marry, if it was, she gained not much thereby, to my thinking. But if I hid away the leaves of my journal, 'twas my only concealment from that honored lady, who then, and long after, stood in the place of a mother to me, poor orphan maid.]
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August 1.
A MOST disagreeable thing has chanced to me, but I hope no harm will come of it. I have done what seemed me best, and I suppose I might as well dismiss the matter from my mind, if I only could. I can't guess how Dick could do such a thing. He must have known, if he had but thought a little, into what an embarrassment it would bring me.
I have now been in attendance on her Grace two or three days, and have begun to feel a little more at ease, for at first I felt stifled, as it were. I can't think it pleasant to be with those who seem to look upon one as being of another flesh and blood than themselves, if they are ever so gracious. The Queen is very kind, no doubt (I don't believe she could be otherwise), but it does seem to me more like the kindness one would bestow on a pet dog or cat, than the good will, not to say affection—one woman should give to another. I dare say all great folks are so, especially Kings and Queens. They are taught to think themselves of another race. After all, it is mine own pride, I suppose, which makes me uncomfortable.
Mrs. Anne Bullen has been kind to me, though in a way which I like worse than the other. I see clearly that there is no love lost between herself and the bower-woman, Mistress Patience, and it seems as if she wished to enlist me as a partisan on her side, casting mocking glances at me, behind her mistress's back, whenever Mrs. Patience makes any of the little set moral speeches to which she is given, and specially when she utters any devout sentiment. Now, my honored mother early taught me that these significant and mocking looks were among the worst of bad manners; and moreover I could in this case see nothing to laugh at, so I have been careful to give no response or encouragement to them.
This morning I had gone early to the chapel in the garden, as usual, when entering quietly, I was surprised to see Mistress Anne, not at her prayers, but peeping and prying about the altar and the image of our Lady. She started a little, I thought, as I came in, and then said, easily enough:
"So this is the sacred image which has stood since the time of St. Ethelburga, and the fame of which has drawn her grace to this out-of-the-way corner. What a hideous old idol it is!"
This did not seem to me the way to speak in a church, so I held my tongue; whereat she said, in a light, mocking way, but with perfect good humor, "Oh, you are one of the devout, Mistress Rosamond. I cry your pardon! How shall I atone for my offence? I wonder whether news from a certain gallant squire would do it?"
"I don't understand you, Mistress Bullen," I answered, I dare say stiffly enough, though there was that in her manner which made my cheeks flame.
"O no, I see you don't," she answered. "Methinks your cheeks tell another story. Come, be honest now, and tell me what would you give for news from this same cousin Richard, whom a few weeks at court has transformed from a West country clown, into as handsome and saucy a squire as may be found in all the court. Suppose this same squire, knowing me to be bound hitherward, had entrusted me with a packet for his dear cousin Rosamond. What then?"
"Then my cousin Richard would have done a very unwise and inconsiderate thing, and one of which I should not have suspected him," said I, trying to answer quietly, though my heart beat and my cheeks glowed. "He knows my position here, and that such a step must needs compromise me with my superiors."
"But your superiors need not know everything, simple maiden," she answered, in her light fashion, and then dropping a packet in my lap, she fled away, and I presently heard her singing some light French love song in the garden.
The packet was not a large one, and it was directed in Richard's hand-writing. I own I was tempted to open it on the spot, and I dare say I should have done so, but just then, Sister Catherine entered. She has greatly affected this shrine since the Queen came hither, though I never saw her near it before. Her eyes fell on the packet before I had time to put it up, as I certainly should have done.
"So!" she exclaimed, in a tone of triumph! "So, fair Rosamond, this is the secret of your devotion to St. Ethelburga's shrine, is it? So this is our young saint, who watches, and prays, and translates devout books." Then changing her tone—"Ah, Rosamond, Rosamond, beware! You are on the high road to destruction. How dare you profane this holy place with love tokens, aye, and love meetings, for aught I know? Is it not enough to draw down the vengeance of heaven not only on yourself, but on all this house and family?"
By this time, I was quite cool and collected. "You are making a leap in the dark, as usual, Sister Catherine," I said. "This packet has but just been put into my hands, and if you will go with me, yourself shall see me put it unopened into those of Mother Superior. And since we are here together, let us remember the Bishop's sermon, and join our prayers for that charity of which he spoke, which thinketh no evil, but hopeth all things."
She looked taken aback for a moment, and then—"Ah, sister, sister! But I am thankful if my chance incoming saved you from profaning this holy place, even once. I do not doubt you will now give that package to Mother Superior, unopened. But how many have already been received and read here?"
At this I lost patience. "Methinks, sister, your head must be very full of love tokens, and such matters, since you must needs be talking of them in the very chapel itself," I said. "Perhaps, if you have exhausted the subject, you will give me leave to say my prayers;" and with that I withdrew myself to the other side, and knelt down to my devotions, which I fear were too full of distractions to be very acceptable. I was angry at Richard for bringing me into such a scrape, and at Mistress Bullen for helping him; I was angry at Sister Catherine for her unkind construction, and at myself, for retorting on her. Beside I forsaw real and serious annoyance, growing out of Richard's imprudence.
When I had finished, I rose and said to Sister Catherine, "Now, if you will go with me, you shall be satisfied."
"If I go with you, it will be from no idle curiosity, but to save you from committing another sin," said she, severely.
I made her no answer, and we went together, and in silence, to Mother Superior's room, where we found her looking over some papers.
"So!" said she, sharply. "Sister Catherine, I was about sending for you. Rosamond, what brings you hither?"
"A sad occasion, dear Mother," answered Sister Catherine, before I had time to speak. "I bring you a sinner, but let us hope a repentant one, and I entreat you, dearest Mother, to consider her youth and the temptations under which she hath lately been placed, and not judge her hardly. Rosamond hath received—from what source I know not certainly, though I have a shrewd guess—a private packet. Yes, even in the holy shrine of St. Ethelburga, where sacrilege hath been so fearfully avenged before this time, she hath received a love token—how many more I know not. Alas! The post of a favorite is ever a dangerous one, and pride goeth before a fall!"
"What is all this, Rosamond?" asked Mother Superior, turning to me.
For all answer I told her as shortly and plainly as I could, what had chanced, suppressing only the name of Mistress Anne, as not fit to be revealed before Sister Catherine.
"But who was the go-between and messenger?" asked Sister Catherine. "Methinks our young Sister's confession is incomplete. Alas, that I should live to see this holy house fall into such disorder. But I ever said what would come of these irregularities. We shall see no good till we are reformed from top to bottom."
"Sister Catherine, with your leave, I will judge of this matter myself," said Mother Superior, sharply; "and, meantime, I must needs say, you forget yourself strangely when you take the words out of my mouth and use such language to me, who am the head of this house. Do you talk to me of disorders, and that when your own charge is so misordered and neglected, as I have found it only this morning? Betake yourself to the wardrobe and store-room, and leave them not while a grain of dust or a cobweb remains. Let every piece of cloth and linen, yea, every napkin and kerchief, and skein of thread be taken down and folded anew, and the shelves wiped clean of dust and mold, and let all presses and drawers be filled with fresh rose leaves, lavender and southernwood. Leave not your work either for meal-time or recreation till it is finished; and when I next visit the wardrobe let me find the neatness and order befitting a religious house. Public penance may be well, but secret humility and faithfulness are far better. And do you not breathe a word of this matter to any living soul, if you would avoid such discipline as will bring you neither comfort nor honor. I have long borne with your carelessness in your own charge, and your ceaseless meddling and impertinence, out of pity for your weakness; but faithfulness to mine own duty will let me endure it no longer. Go, and presume not to show your face either at table or recreation until your work is finished. As you cannot well fold the clothes alone, I will send Sister Bridget to help you; but mind, let not a word be spoken between you, save what your work absolutely demands."
Angry as I was at poor Sister Catherine, I did feel sorry for her, though I knew the reproof was just. The wardrobe and store-room have been fearfully misordered of late, so that the moths have got into everything. Sister Catherine was so taken aback that she was retiring at once, when Mother Superior recalled her.
"Do you go without any sign?" said she. "Is that the way you receive reproof and command?"
Sister Catherine knelt and kissed the ground at the superior's feet. Again I felt truly sorry for her. When she was gone, Mother turned to me.
"And you, minion, what is this I hear? Must you turn giglet on my hands? Let me hear what you have to say on this matter, and beware you tell me nothing but truth."
I felt my pride rising, but I put it down, and kneeling at her feet I laid the packet on her lap with the seal unbroken.
"From whom had you this?" she asked.
I told her from Mrs. Anne Bullen.
"And who sent it?" she asked again.
I told her that the hand was my cousin Richard's, and that Mrs. Bullen told me it came from him, but farther than that I did not know. I ventured to add that it had but just been placed in my hands when Sister Catherine came in. She looked at the packet, and her face relaxed as she saw the seals were unbroken.
"Rosamond," said she, laying her hand on my head, as I knelt before her, and speaking with great earnestness: "you were given me by your own mother, the dearest friend I ever had, and I have loved you like a daughter. I have ever found you open and true as the day, and I cannot but believe you so still, though appearances are against you. Tell me, as if you were speaking to the priest at confession. Is this the first time you have received packet or token from your cousin?"
"From my cousin, or any one else," I told her.
"And what had Mistress Bullen to say to you?"
I repeated every word, as near as I could remember. She laid the packet aside, and seemed to muse a little, still keeping her hand on my head.
"Well, well, I believe you and trust you," she said, finally. "Do you leave the matter with me, and avoid any intimacy or conversation with Mrs. Bullen, so far as you can without exciting remark. Remember that though you have not taken the vows, you have promised your mother and been promised by her, and that 'tis a deadly sin for a religious so much as to entertain a thought of earthly love. It is treason to your heavenly Bridegroom, to whom all your allegiance is due. He has called you to a grace compared to which the highest earthly marriage is degradation and pollution; and the day that sees you vowed to Him will be the proudest of your life."
Much more she said in the same strain, as to the putting down all earthly affections and desires, and remembering that I had now no more to do with the world in any form. "You have talent and address," she concluded, "and I would fain train you up to succeed me in this chair, though it is a seat of thorns. The notion hath somehow gotten abroad that the discipline of this house is relaxed and disordered. It was that which brought us the Bishop's unexpected visit. I fear I have indeed been lax in government, and that some irregularities have crept in, as in the case of the wardrobe and storerooms, which could never have gotten into such a state if they had had due superintendence. So soon as the Queen leaves us we must have a thorough reform. Go now, my child, and as this is not your day of attendance on the Queen, you shall return to your translation, which I fear has fared but badly of late."
And with that she gave me her blessing and dismissed me to my work. I suppose I am very perverse. When Richard's packet was in my hand I was so angry with him for his thoughtlessness that I cared only to get rid of it; and now that it is out of my reach I would give anything to have it again. I dare say it is nothing after all but a simple brotherly gift, with some book of devotion or case of working tools, such as I remember he promised to send me. I am not sorry I gave it to Mother Superior, because it was the right thing to do; but—but I am a fool, and there is an end. I will never believe that Richard hath become any such court gallant as Mrs. Anne says. 'Twas not in his nature, and if I had read his letter I should have found it just such a simple, blundering epistle as he used to write me from Exeter. Strange, how my mind runs on it!