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August 2.
I MET Mrs. Bullen in the garden this morning, and was passing her with a grave salutation, when she stopped me.
"So, Mistress Rosamond, you have well requited my good-nature. A fine lecture I have had from my mistress and your starched Lady Abbess! I am beholden to you for bringing me into disgrace, and I will remember it, I assure you!"
I told her that I had not meant to bring her into disgrace, and was sorry that I had done so—that I had had no choice about showing the package, which had brought me into danger of disgrace and punishment as well.
"Well, well!" said she, lightly. "I meant you a kindness, and nothing more. I dare say Cousin Richard will easily console himself. There are plenty of fair ladies about the French court who will not scorn the favor of a handsome young Englishman. I would I were back there myself, for this English court is triste and dull enow, even without keeping retreats in this grim old jail. As to my Lady Abbess, let her look to her reign and enjoy it while she can. There is thunder abroad in the air, and who knows where it will strike!"
"Do you mean this Lutheran heresy?" I asked. "Surely the King does not favor it, and the Queen abhors it."
"O yes, the Queen abhors it!" said she, catching up my words with a mocking tone. "And doubtless her Grace's influence is all powerful with his Majesty. Nevertheless, it did not prevail to save the convents which yonder proud cardinal put down the other day. But why should I say these things to you? You are but a doll, like all nuns—a puppet that must needs dance as your strings are pulled."
"Then if I am a puppet, I will strive to be an obedient one," said I; "methinks a puppet would do little, setting up for itself."
She laughed at the conceit, in her pretty, merry way.
"Well, well, 'tis no use to be angry with you, I see, and if you brought me into a scrape, I did the same by you, so we are even. As for Cousin Richard, he will soon console himself, as I said. Country cousins will be of little account with him when he sees the fair damsels that cluster round the French Queen. No disparagement to you, fair Rosamond!"
So we parted, good friends enough; but I cannot but be vexed with myself for dwelling on her words. What is it to me whether Richard consoles himself or not? I hope his simpleness will not be befooled, that is all. If I could have read his letter I might have guessed—but what am I saying?
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August 12, Feast of St. Clare.
THE Queen goes to-morrow, and I am right glad on't. Not that I have aught against her Grace. She has been a good mistress to me, and I have learned many things of Mistress Patience, chiefly the art of knitting stockings, with which I am delighted. Moreover, I believe the restraint I have had to put on myself in the presence, has been good discipline for me, who am ever apt to speak without thought.
Another privilege I have gained by my attendance on the Queen, which I fear I shall sorely miss. I mean that of walking abroad. The Queen hath visited the poor people in the village, and all about here, even to two or three miles distant; and as Amice cannot walk far on account of her lame ancle, I have attended her Grace, along with Mistress Patience, and Master Griffith, who is a very sober, good-natured gentleman, about as old as my father. It did seem marvellous pleasant to be going to the cottages once more, nursing the babes, chatting with the good wives, and making acquaintance with the children. Mistress Bullen sometimes goes with us, and the men are loud in praise of her beauty and kindness. I don't think the women fancy her so much, and I must say I don't fancy her at all any more.
The Queen is very liberal, and gives with an open hand; but she is shrewd, too, and will not be imposed upon. Roger Smith, whom she met in the street, told her Grace a pitiful tale of his sick wife and children, and his want of work. She said but little at the time, giving him a small alms, but presently she turned to me and asked if I knew anything about them. I told her that he had help constantly from our house; besides that, we bought fish of him, whenever we could get them.
"And can he not get them as oft as you need them?" she asked.
I told her I knew no reason why he could not, as the sea was but a few miles away, and I knew he owned a boat; but added that I thought he was not over fond of work, so long as he could get bread without. She made no remark that day, but the next time we were out, she asked a little urchin who was playing in a pool of dirty water, where Roger Smith lived. He put his thumb in his mouth and hung down his head, but presently pointed out a very dirty cottage, with a dunghill before the door, strewed all over with fish-heads and the like. The smell was so bad, that Mrs. Patience ventured a remonstrance, but her Grace persevered, and we entered the cottage. There lay Roger on the settle bed, in what was plainly a drunken sleep. On the rude table lay the remains of a couple of fowls, amid fish-bones, fragments of bread, and ribs of some animal looking mightily like a deer's, while a slatternly woman, and a bold, impudent-looking girl were just beginning to clear away, though it was nearly nine o'clock of the morning. It was clear there had been a debauch over night; and that, whatever else might be needed, there was no want of food. Her Grace looked deliberately round the room, and then turned away.
"What do you please to want, Madam?" asked the woman, in a half servile, half impudent tone.
"I heard there was a sick woman with sick children living here;" answered her Grace, "and that they were in want of food; but fowls, and venison, and strong waters, and a man asleep at this time of day, are no arguments either of poverty or honesty."
And with that she turned and left the house, without another word said, only the girl gave an insolent laugh. Dame Lee, on whom we called afterward, and whom we found spinning of fine thread, though she is above eighty years old, told us that the Smiths were a shame and scandal to the whole village—that the housewife herself was no better than she should be, and Roger a good deal worse.
"That is the way the good Sisters get imposed upon, because they cannot go out to see for themselves," said she. "There is no need for that family ever to ask an alms, and the same is true of others in the place; while those who really need help, are many of them too modest to ask, or too feeble to reach the gate, or hold their own amid the press about it."
"Can you direct us to some of these poor souls of whom you speak?" asked the Queen.
Dame Lee spoke of several, and pointed out their dwelling-places to us, and then mentioned another.
"There is Magdalen Jewell, who lives alone by herself in the moor, at the foot of Grey Tor," said she. "'Tis a lonesome place, and perhaps your ladyship may not care to walk so far."
"How far?" asked the Queen.
"Nay, 'tis but a scant mile, but the way is somewhat rough," answered the dame.
"And is this Magdalen of whom you speak a widow?" asked the Queen.
"No Madam, she hath never been married. She took care of her old father as long as he lived, and was a most dutiful and kind daughter to him; and since his death she has bided alone, till of late that she hath adopted a little orphan maid, one of the survivors of the great wreck last winter. Magdalen owns the house she lives in, and a small garden and orchard, which, with the thread she spins, makes most part of her living. I fear she is often pinched, but she never complains, or asks for help. She might have changed her condition many times, for she was wonderful fair when I first knew her, and of good conditions, and she is a well-favored woman even now; but, nobody knows why, she would none of her suitors, and still lives alone, save, as I said, for the child she hath adopted."
"We must see this woman, I think," said the Queen, turning to Patience and myself. "And now, dame, can we do naught for you?"
The old woman drew herself up with gentle pride.
"I thank your goodness, Madam, but I have need of nothing;" said she. "I have eight sons living hereabouts, besides two sailing on the high seas, and they let their parents want for nothing. My husband is old and infirm, but he still makes a shift to busy himself about our bit of flax land and our orchard, and he also makes and mends nets, and with a good husband and dutiful children, I have no need to ask help of any one."
"Ten sons!" repeated the Queen, musingly, and methought very sadly. "You have indeed much for which to be thankful. How long have you been wedded?"
"Sixty years, Madam, have my good man and I lived together without e'er a quarrel or a wish for change," answered the dame, with gentle pride. "We have had our troubles and our pinches, specially when our children were young, and my eldest child, my only maiden, died of a long waste at seventeen. But we won through them all by the blessing of God, and in all our troubles kept a stout and loving heart. I am sure we never wished ourselves apart, or would have spared one of our little troublesome, hungry brood. I wish all wedded folk could say as much as that!"
"I wish, indeed, they might," said the Queen, with another sad cloud crossing her face (and methought I saw another on the face of Mrs. Patience). "Well, dame, since we can bestow no alms upon you, will you not bestow one upon us, and give us a draught of milk or fair water?"
The dame was evidently well pleased, and bustled about to bring forth her milk and cream, her brown bread and honey, and a dish of early apples. The Queen ate and drank, and would have us do the same. Mrs. Bullen said she was not hungry.
"Then you may eat a little to please the good woman," said the Queen, speaking in French, and more sharply, methought, than was needful; but, somehow, I think she is apt to be sharp with Mistress Anne. "I have seen you make your court before now by eating when you had no need."
Mistress Anne colored as red as fire, but she obeyed without a word. When we had eaten and drank, her Grace took from her breast a very small gold crucifix.
"This cross, good dame, hath had the blessing of our holy Father at Rome, and holds, beside, some earth from the holy sepulchre. I pray you keep it as an aid to your devotion and a remembrance of Queen Catherine; and when you look thereon, give me the benefit of your prayers."
"There now is a woman to be envied, if envy were not a sin," said her Grace, as we quitted the house. "Think you not so, maidens?"
"Not I, for one, Madam," answered Mistress Bullen. "What has her life been but one long slavery? What pleasure is there in such a life—just mending, and saving, and cooking, and washing—nursing stupid children, and waiting on her clod of a husband. Methinks one hour of real life, such as we had at the French court, would be worth it all!"
"And you, maiden, what do you think?" asked her Grace, turning to me.
"It was a saying of my honored mother's that love makes easy service, Madam," I answered. "I think such a life as that of the good dame's may be as noble and honorable in the sight of God, as that of any woman in the world."
"That is a strange speech for a nun," said Mrs. Anne, with her usual levity. "What, as honorable as that of a religious?"
"Yes, if she were called to it," I answered.
"And to last so long—sixty years of drudging and poverty," said Mrs. Anne, with a shudder: "No, no! A short life and a merry one for me."
[I thought of these words many a time after that short and merry life had come to its miserable close, and that fair head, with the crown it coveted and wrought for, lay together on the scaffold. I did never believe the shameful charges brought against her, by which her death was compassed, but 'tis impossible to acquit her of great lightness of conduct, and want of womanly delicacy, or of the worse faults of lawless ambition and treachery against her kind mistress, than whom no one need wish a better. Though I am and have long been of the reformed religion, my feelings have ever been on the side of Queen Catherine.]
The next day we went across the moor, to see the woman, Magdalen Jewell, of whom Dame Lee had told us. Mistress Anne was not with us, pleading a headache as an excuse, and I was not sorry to miss her company, but we had Master Griffith instead, and a serving man, who led the Queen's donkey. The rest of us walked; and oh, what joy it was to me to feel the springy turf under foot, and smell the fresh odors of the moorland once more! How beautiful the world is! I can't think why God hath made it so fair, and then set it before us as our highest duty to shut ourselves from it between stone walls. "The earth is the Lord's and the fulness thereof," we sing in the Venite, and all the Psalms are full of such thoughts. But this is beside the matter.
We had a charming walk over the high, breezy moor, and Master Griffith entertained us with remembrances of his own country of Wales, where he says the people speak a language of their own, as they do in some parts of Cornwall. The Queen riding before us, would now and then put in a word to keep him going.
Presently the path dipped into a little hollow, and there we saw the cottage at the foot of the Tor which had been our landmark all the way. 'Twas to my mind more like a nest than a cottage, so small was it, and so covered (where the vine gave the stones leave to show themselves) with gray and yellow lichens. A humble porch well shaded with a great standard pear, and fragrant with honeysuckle and sweetbriar, held the good woman's chair, wherein lay a spindle and distaff.
Magdalen herself was at work in her garden, gathering of herbs to dry, and attended by quite a retinue. There was a very old dog lying blinking in the sunshine, and a motherly cat with two or three mischievous kitlings, and also a lame and tame goose, which attended her mistress' footsteps, and now and then with hisses and outspread wings chased away the kitlings, when they made too free. A more important member of the party was the little orphan maid, a child of some five years, who with grave and womanly industry, was carrying away the cut herbs, and spreading them in the shade to dry. A row of beehives reached all the length of the garden wall, and before them a bed of sweet flowers and herbs, such as bees love. On one side was a field in which fed a cow and an ass, while on the other was a small and old, but well-tended orchard, and at the bottom of this a still, glassy pool. Behind all, rose the gray, steep Tor, like a protecting fortress. It was a lovely picture, and one on which I could have gazed an hour; but presently, the woman catching sight of us, laid aside her industry, and came forward to give us welcome, which she did I must say somewhat stiffly at the first. But she presently thawed into more cordiality under the charm of her Grace's manner, and remarking that we had had a long walk, she busied herself to provide refreshment.
"Pray do not incommode yourself, my good woman," said the Queen: "we have come but from the convent yonder, where I am at present abiding, and this is one of the young pupils, whom I dare say you have seen."
"Not I, madam!" she answered, somewhat bluntly. "I have no errand to take me to the convent since I desire no alms at the hands of the ladies, and I have naught to sell but that which their own gardens supply."
"You might go thither for purposes of devotion," said the Queen: "'tis a great privilege to worship in a church possessed of so many holy relics."
A strange look, methought, passed over the woman's face, as her Grace spoke, but she made no answer to the Queen, only to press us to eat and drink.
"And you live here quite alone, save this child?" said the Queen, after she had asked and heard an account of the little maiden.
"Aye, madam, ever since my old father died, some ten years since, till this child was sent me, as it were."
"But had you no brother, or other relative?" Again the strange look crossed Magdalen's face, as she answered: "I had a brother once, and for aught I know he may be living now; but 'tis long since I have seen or heard from him. Our paths went different ways."
"How so?" asked the Queen.
"Because I chose to maintain my old father in his helplessness, and he chose to bestow himself in yonder abbey of Glastonbury, with his portion of my gaffer's goods."
"Doubtless he chose wisely!" she added, with a scorn which I cannot describe. "'Twas an easier life than tilling barren land, and bearing with the many humors of a childish, testy old man."
"You should not speak so of your brother," said the Queen, somewhat severely.
"You are right, Madam;" answered Magdalen, softening. "Scorn becomes not any sinner, whose own transgressions have been many. Nevertheless, under your favor, I believe my brother did mistake his duty in this thing."
"Yet you yourself have chosen a single life, it seems!" said the Queen. "Why was that?"
"I did not choose it," she said quietly, but yet her face was moved. "'Twas so ordered for me, and I make the best of it. I doubt not many married women are happier than I; but yourself must see, Madam, that no single woman, so she be good and virtuous, can possibly be as miserable as is many a good and virtuous wife, through no fault of her own; aye—and while she hath nothing of which she may complain before the world."
"'Tis even so!" said her Grace; and again saw the cloud upon her brow. I wonder if she is unhappy with her husband? After a little silence, the Queen fell to talking of the child, and after some discourse, she offered to leave with the parish priest such a sum of money as should be a dower for the girl, whether she should marry or enter a convent. Magdalen colored and hesitated.
"I thank you much for your kindness," said she, at last. "I have never yet received an alms, but the child is an orphan, and hath no earthly protection but myself; and should I die before my brother, he, or the men with whom he has placed himself, would take that small portion of goods which belongs to me, and little Catherine would be left wholly destitute. I believe Sir John, the village priest, to be a good man, so far as his lights go, and anything you may be pleased to place in his hands will be safe. I therefore accept your offer and thank you with all my heart; and may the blessing of the God of the fatherless abide upon you."
"That seems like a good woman," remarked Master Griffith to Mistress Patience, after we had left the cottage.
"Yet I liked not her saying about the priest," returned Mrs. Patience, austerely. "What did she mean by her limitation—'A good man, so far as his lights go,' forsooth! What is she, to judge of his lights? Methinks the saying savored somewhat too much of Lollardie, or Lutheranism."
"Then, if I thought so, I would not say so," said Master Griffith, in a low tone. "You would not like to cast a suspicion on the poor creature, which might bring her to the stake at last."
Whereat Mistress Patience murmured something under her breath about soft-heartedness toward heretics being treason to the Church; but she added no more. I think Master Griffith hath great influence over her, and if I may venture to say so, over his mistress as well; and I wonder not at it, for he hath a calm, wise way with him, and a considerate manner of speaking, which seems to carry much weight. It was odd, certainly, what Magdalen Jewell said about the priest, and also about her brother. It does seem hard that he should have gone away and left her to bear the whole burden of nursing and maintaining her father, and yet, as we are taught to believe, it is he who hath chosen the better part. Another thing which struck me about this same Magdalen was, that she was so wonderful well spoken, for a woman in her state of life. Even her accent was purer than that of the women about here, and she used marvellous good phrases, as though she were conversant with well-educated people.
This was the last of our walks. To-morrow the Queen goes, and then I shall fall back into my old way of life again, I suppose—writing, and working, and walking in the garden for recreation. Well, I must needs be content, since there is no other prospect before me for my whole life. It will not be quite so monotonous as that of the poor lady who lived for twenty years in the Queen's room, and never looked out.
I ought to say, that when we returned from visiting Magdalen Jewell, we found that a post had arrived with letters for the Queen, and also a packet for Mistress Anne, who seemed wonderful pleased with her news, and with a fine ring which she said her brother had sent her.
"Your brother is very generous," said her Grace, (and I saw her face flush and her eyes flash.) "Methinks I have seen that same ring before. 'Tis not very becoming for your brother to make so light of his Majesty's gifts, as to bestow them, even on his sister."
"I trust your Grace will be so good as not to betray my poor brother's carelessness to his Majesty," answered Mrs. Bullen, with an air and tone of meekness, which seemed to me to have much of mocking therein. "It might prove the ruin of us both."
To my great terror and amazement, the Queen turned absolutely pale as ashes, and put out her hand for support. Both Mrs. Anne and myself sprang forward, but she recovered herself in a moment, and her color came back again.
"'Tis nothing," said she, quietly. "I think the heat was too much for me. Patience, your arm; I will lie down awhile."
The glance which Patience cast on Mrs. Bullen in passing, was such as one might give to a viper or other loathsome reptile. Mrs. Bullen, on her part, returned it, with a mocking smile. Presently I saw her in the garden in close conference with Amice, as indeed I have done several times before. I cannot guess what they should have in common, and it is all the more odd that I know Amice does not like her.
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August 14.
HER Grace left us yesterday, and to-day Amice and I have been helping Mother Gertrude to put her rooms to rights, and close them once more.
"How lonely they look," said I, as we were going round closing the shutters. "I suppose they will always be called, 'The Queen's Chambers,' after this; and will be looked on as a kind of hallowed ground."
"They will always be hallowed ground to me, I am sure," said Amice, so warmly, that I looked at her in surprise.
"Well, well, I am not sorry they are empty once more," said Mother Gertrude. "I trust now we shall go back to our old quiet ways, and at least we shall have no more singing of love songs and receiving of love tokens, within these holy walls. Yonder fair Bullen is no inmate for such a place as this."
"Why should you think of love tokens, dear Mother?" I asked, feeling my checks burn, and wondering whether she referred to me, though indeed I might have known she did not. 'Tis not her way to hint at anything.
"Because Mistress Anne must needs show me her fine diamond ring, and tell me in a whisper how it was a token from a gallant gentleman, as great as any in this realm."
"She said it came from her brother," said I, unguardedly, and then I all at once remembered what she had said in the presence, and the Queen's answer. Can it be that her Grace was jealous, and that she had cause for jealousy? However, that is no business for me.
Mrs. Bullen must needs watch her chance and ask me whether I had no message or token for my cousin? I told her no—that in my position, it did not become me to be sending messages or tokens: but I did not add what I thought—that if I had any such message, she would be the last person I should trust therewith.
"Well, well, I meant you naught but kindness," said she. "I dare say our squire wont break his heart."
To which I made no answer.
Mother Superior gave me leave to write to my father by Master Griffith, who kindly offered to carry a letter. When I had finished, I carried it to her, as in duty bound. She just glanced at it, and then opening a drawer, she took therefrom poor Richard's packet and enclosed all together, sealing them securely, and said she would give the parcel into Master Griffith's hands, together with certain letters of her own. My heart gave a great leap at sight of the packet, and I must confess a great ache when I saw it sealed up again, because I knew how sadly Richard would feel at having his poor little letter and token returned on his hands; and I am quite sure he meant no harm in sending them, though it was ill considered.
The Queen gave magnificently to the Church and house on leaving, and also bestowed presents on those members of the family who have waited on her, mostly books of devotion, beads, and sacred pictures. She hath also provided for an annual dole of bread and clothing on her birthday to all the poor of the village.
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August 25.
WE have begun the general reformation which Mother Superior promised us. I suppose, like other storms, it will clear the air when all is done, but at present it raises a good deal of dust, and makes every body uncomfortable.
Mother Gabrielle and Mother Gertrude still keep their old places, the one as sacristine, the other as mistress of the novices and pupils. But Sister Catherine is discharged of the care of the wardrobe, and Sister Bridget, of all people, set in her place. Sister Bonaventure takes Sister Bridget's place in the laundry, and Sister Mary Paula is in charge of the kitchen, which I fancy she does not like over well, though she says nothing. Sister Mary Agnes has the accounts, and Sister Placida the alms. As to Sister Catherine, she is nowhere and nobody, which I suppose will give her all the more time to meddle with everybody. She has been in retreat for a week, and is still very mum and keeps quiet. I have still charge of the library, to my great joy, and Amice is by special favor appointed to help Mother Gabrielle in the sacristy.
Our rules are to be more strictly enforced in future. No more exclusive friendships are to be permitted. Silence is to be rigidly enforced, and in short we are to turn over a new leaf entirely. A great deal of needlework is to be put in hand directly, including new altar covers for the shrine of Saint Ethelburga in the garden, for which her Grace hath given very rich materials. Besides we are to make many garments for the poor against winter.
A good many wry faces have been made over all these changes. For my own part I like them well enough. I think people are always more comfortable when each one knows his own place and his own work. Perhaps I should feel differently if I had been put out of office, like Sister Catherine, or set to work I did not like, as was Sister Mary Paula. Poor Sister Catherine! She little thought how it was to end when she used to talk about the enforcement of discipline. I must say, that as far as the wardrobe goes, she had no right to complain, for she did keep everything at sixes and sevens, so that two whole pieces of nice black serge were spoiled by her negligence, and many of the spare napkins were moulded through and through. I ventured to ask Mother Gertrude how she thought Sister Bridget would succeed.
"Why, well enough, child," she answered. "Sister Bridget's mind is not very bright, but she always gives the whole of it to whatever she does."
"I have noticed that," said I. "If she is folding a napkin, or ironing an apron, you may ask her as many questions as you will, and you will get no answer from her till she has done folding or ironing, as the case may be."
"Just so; and she hath another good quality, in that she will take advice. When she does not know what to do she will ask, which is to my mind a greater argument of humility than any kissings of the floor, or such like performances."
Amice and I do not see as much of each other as we used, but she is always loving when we meet. She appears to me, somehow, very greatly changed. At times she seems to have an almost heavenly calmness and serenity in her face; at others she seems sad and anxious, but she is always kind and gentle. She is much in prayer, and reads diligently in the Psalter, which the Queen gave her. Sister Gabrielle has grown very fond of her, though she was vexed at first that Amice was assigned to her instead of myself; but she says Amice is so gentle and humble, so anxious to please, and to improve herself in those points wherein she is deficient, that she cannot but love the child. I have, at Amice's own request, taught her all the lace and darning stitches I know, and she practises them diligently, though she used to despise them. I am teaching her to knit stockings, an art I learned of Mistress Patience, and we mean to have a pair made for the Bishop against his next visit.
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St. Michael's Eve, Sept. 28.
IT is a long time since I have touched this book, and many things have happened. Ours is now a sad household. Out of the twenty-three professed Sisters and novices who used to meet in the choir, but fifteen remain. The rest lie under the turf in our cemetery. Mother Gabrielle is gone, and poor Sister Bridget, and of the novices, Sisters Mary Frances and Agatha. Mother Gertrude had the disease, but was spared. Three others recovered. The rest were not attacked. The disease was the dreadful Sweating sickness. It began first in the village, in the household of that same Roger Smith, but broke out in three or four other cottages the same day. The news was brought to the convent gates the next morning by some who came for alms, as they use to do on Wednesdays and Fridays, and produced great consternation.
"What are we to do now?" said Sister Catherine, while the elders were in conference by themselves.
"We shall do as we are told, I suppose," answered Sister Bridget, with her wonted simplicity.
"But don't you suppose Mother Superior will order the gates to be shut, and no communication held with the villagers?" said Sister Mary Paula.
"I should certainly suppose not;" answered Sister Placida. "Think what you are saying, dear Sister! Would you deprive the poor souls of their alms, just when they are most wanted? Methinks it would ill become religious women to show such cowardly fears."
"Beside that I don't believe it would make any difference," said I. "Master Ellenwood, who has studied medicine, told my father the disease was not so much infectious, as in the air. I wish we might go out among the poor folk, to see what they need, and help to nurse the sick, as my mother and her women used to do."
"Rosamond is always ready for any chance to break her enclosure," said Sister Catherine, charitable as usual. "She would even welcome the pestilence, if it gave her a pretext to get outside her convent walls."
"Sister Catherine," said Sister Placida, reprovingly, "you are wrong to speak so to the child. Why should you be so ready to put a wrong construction on her words? I am sure the wish is natural enough. I had thought of the same thing myself."
"O yes, I dare say," retorted Sister Catherine. And then, with one of her sudden changes, "but I am wrong to answer you so, Sister. It is my part to accept even undeserved reproof with humility, and be thankful that I am despised."
"Nonsense," returned Sister Placida, who is by no means so placid as her name, "I think you would show more humility by considering whether the reproof was not deserved. As to being thankful for being despised, that is to my mind a little too much like being thankful for another's sin."
"How so?" I asked.
"Why, in order to being despised, there must needs be some one to despise you, child, and is not contempt a sin?"
I do like Sister Placida, though she is just as often sharp with me as Sister Catherine, but it is in such a different way.
"Anyhow, I hope they wont shut out the poor folk," said Sister Bridget.
"Who is talking about shutting out the poor folk?" asked Mother Gertrude's voice, coming in sharp and clear as usual, (by the way I ought to call her Mother Assistant now, but I never can remember to do so.) "Children, why are you all loitering here, instead of being about your business in the house? Let every one set about her duty just as usual, and at obedience, you will hear what has been decided."
[Obedience is that hour in a convent when the nuns assemble with the Superior to give an account of their labors, to receive special charges, and not seldom special reproofs as well. In our house this gathering took place just after morning recreation. Amice and I, not being even regular postulants, had no business there, and since the reformation in the house, we have never attended, but we were called in to-day, and took our places at the lower end of the line, and therefore next the Superior, who addressed us in few but weighty words, which I will set down as well as I can remember them.]
There was no doubt, she said, that the pestilence known as the sweating sickness had broken out in the village, and we might with reason expect its appearance among ourselves, at any time. She said she had heard with sorrow that some of her children had desired to have the gates closed against the poor folk who used to come for alms. Such cowardliness as this was unbecoming to any well-born lady, and above all to religious, who were doubly bound to set a good example of courage and resignation: but she was willing to think this only a momentary failing, which a second thought would correct; and she bade us consider that there would be no use in shutting the gates now, since they were opened yesterday, as usual.
Then she told us what she, with the advice of our confessor and the other elders, had decided upon. The doles were to be given out at the outer gate, by the proper officers, only they were to be given every day, instead of Wednesdays and Fridays. The two distributing Sisters were to be helped by two others, taken in turn from the professed, to hand the things as they were wanted. All embroidery, with other unnecessary work of every kind, was to be laid aside, and all were to employ themselves under the direction of the Mother Assistant and herself in making linen and in preparing food, cordials, and drinks for the poor. If any Sister felt herself ill in any way, she was at once to repair to the infirmary, and report herself to Sister Placida. Finally, we were all to have good courage, to give ourselves as much as possible to prayer, and such religious meditation as should keep us in a calm, cheerful, and recollected frame of mind, observing our hours of recreation as usual; and she added that nobody was to presume to take on herself any extra penances or exercises without express permission from her superior or confessor.
"We are all under sentence of death, dear children, as you know!" concluded Mother, "And it matters little how our dismissal comes, so we are ready. Let us all confess ourselves, so that the weight, at least, of mortal sin may not rest on our consciences here, or go with us into the other world. If we are called to suffer, let us accept those sufferings as an atonement for our sins, considering that the more we have to endure here, the less we may believe will be the pains of purgatory hereafter. As for these children," she added, turning to Amice and myself, who stood next her, "what shall I say to them?"
"Say, dear Mother, that we may take our full share of work and risk with the Sisters!" exclaimed Amice, kneeling before her. "I am sure I speak for Rosamond as well as myself, when I say that is what we desire most of all, is it not, Rosamond?"
"Surely," I answered, as I knelt by her side: "I ask nothing more than that."
"And what becomes of the Latin and Music lessons, and the embroidery, and our learned librarian's translations?" asked Mother Superior, smiling on us.
"They can wait," I answered.
"And surely, dearest Mother, the lessons we shall learn will be far more valuable than any Latin or music," added Amice.
"Well, well, be it as you will!" said dear Mother, laying her hands on our heads as we knelt before her. "Surely, dear children, none of us will show any fear or reluctance, since these babes set us such a good example. Well, hold yourselves ready, my little ones, and wherever you are wanted, there shall you be sent."
That afternoon there was a great bustle in the wardrobe; taking down of linen, and cutting out of shifts and bed-gowns, and the like, and in the still-room and kitchen as well, with preparing of medicines, chiefly cordial and restoratives, and mild drinks, such as barley and apple waters, and the infusion of lime blossoms, balm and mint. This was by the advice of Mother Mary Monica, who has seen the disease before, and understands its right treatment. She says that those who on the first sign of the disorder took to their beds and remained there for twenty-four hours, moderately covered, and perfectly quiet, and drinking of mild drinks, neither very hot, nor stimulating, nor yet cold, almost all recovered; but that purges, exercise, hot or cold drinks and stimulants, were equally fatal. The dear old Mother has seemed failing of late, but this alarm has roused her up and made her like a young woman again.
Thus things went on for more than a week. We heard of great suffering among the villagers for lack of nurses who knew how to treat the disease, and also because from selfish fear of taking the pestilence, people refused to go near the sick and dying. One day Mother Superior was called to the grate, and presently sent for me to the parlor, where I found her talking through the grate to a woman whom I at once knew as Magdalen Jewell of Torfoot. Hers is not a face to be forgotten.
"This good woman says she believes you were at her house with her Grace," says Mother.
I answered that I was so, and added that her Grace did much commend the neatness of the place and the kindness of Magdalen in taking the little one. I saw Magdalen's face work.
"The babe hath been taken home!" said she, almost sternly. "God's will be done! I have been telling these ladies that there are divers orphan maids in the village (left so by this sickness), who are running wild, and are like either to die for lack of care, or worse, to fall into the hands of gypsies and other lawless persons, whom this pestilence seems to have let loose to roam about this wretched land."
"Are there so many dead in the village?" asked Mother Gertrude.
"There is not a house where there is or hath not been one dead!" answered Magdalen; "And the terror is worse than the pestilence; children are deserted by parents, and they in their turn by children, and 'tis the same with all other relations. 'Tis a woeful spectacle!"
"Could not you yourself take these poor babes to your home, since you have one?" asked Mother Gertrude.
"I cannot be spared, madam," answered Magdalen: "I must nurse the sick."
"That is very good in you, and you must take comfort in the thought that you are thereby laying up merit for yourself!" said Mother Superior.
I saw an odd expression pass over Magdalen's face, but she made no reply.
"And you think we might take these babes and care for them, at least till the present emergency is passed?" said Mother.
"Nay, madam, I did but state the case to you," answered Magdalen; "'tis not for me to presume to offer advice."
"But what to do with them, if we took them?" said Mother Superior, in a musing tone. Then catching my eye, which I suppose ought to have been on the floor instead of on her face: "Here is Rosamond, with a ready-made plan, as usual. Well, child, you have permission to speak. What is brewing under that eager face?"
"I was thinking, dear Mother, that I am used to young children," said I. "Why could I not take these little maids into one of the rooms called the Queen's room, and tend them there? I suppose there are not many of them."
"I know of but five utterly friendless maids," answered Magdalen.
"Then I am sure I could care for them, with some help and advice," said I. "They would be away from the rest of the family, and would disturb no one; and if we were kept in health, I might teach them as well."
"'Tis a good thought, but we must do nothing hastily," said Mother Superior. "We ought to have the permission of our visitor, the Bishop, but he is now in Bristol, and some days must elapse before we could hear from him, and this seems a case for instant action."
"I am sure you would say so, madam, could you see the state of these poor babes!" returned Magdalen.
"Well, well, come to-morrow, and we will see," said Mother. "Meantime the holy relics are exposed in the church for the comfort of the faithful in this trying time. You had better visit them, and then go to the buttery and obtain some refreshment."
However, she did neither—I suppose from want of time. The next day she came again, and to my great joy, Mother consented, the need being so great, to receive the five little maidens, who were placed under my care in the Queen's room—Mother Mary Monica, at her own earnest request, being allowed to remain with us and oversee our proceedings. We began with a good washing and combing all round (not a nice piece of work by any means), and then dressed them in clean clothes, of which we had a plenty by us made up for our regular autumn doles. The dear old Mother was as pleased as a child with a new doll. I can't say the same for the poor children, who were strange, and scared, and at first hardly to be pacified; but by degrees they seemed to find the comfort of being clean, and by night they were all merrily at play, as if nothing had happened to them. We made up as many cot beds as there were children, and my own bed was moved into the room. Sister Anne also slept in the room till she was taken sick, when Amice was allowed to take her place.
I don't think, for my own part, that I was ever happier than when playing with these children, or teaching them their hornbook and the use of their little fat fingers. The oldest is about ten, a wise motherly little maid, and a great help to us with the others. The youngest is only three—the sole survivor of Roger Smith's family. Considering what the family was like, we may hope her loss may prove a gain.
There were many different opinions in the house concerning the sheltering of these orphans. Sister Catherine, who has not had so much to say about discipline since her dismissal from office, opened her mouth once more to protest against the great irregularity of our taking the babes, and the utter impropriety of their being committed to the care of the youngest person in the house. But Sister Placida, who is great in the history of this and other orders, and who has no objection (or so I think) to putting down Sister Catherine, brought so many precedents to bear against her, that she was fain to betake herself to her humility, her usual refuge when worsted. Some were terrified at the notion of bringing infection into the house; but in general, I must say, the Sisters were very kind to the poor children, and very glad of an excuse to slip away, and play with them.
It was two weeks after the pestilence broke out in the village before it appeared in the house. Sister Bridget was the first victim. She was taken in the night, with the heat and sweat, and, poor creature, had no more wit than to rise and stand for half an hour or more at the open window of her cell, till Mother Gertrude, making her rounds, discovered her state. She was taken at once to the infirmary, and died in a few hours, very happy and resigned, and saying, with almost her last breath, poor thing, that everybody had been very kind to her. From that time we had a new case or two every day for a week. Almost every one who had resolution enough to remain quietly in bed and bear the all but intolerable discomfort of the heat and bad odor, recovered; but many were light-headed, and unless watched every moment, would throw off the clothes and otherwise expose themselves: and every one who got the slightest chill died without remedy.
It was a trying time, and one which showed what people were made of; for the discipline of the family was necessarily much relaxed, the care of the sick being the principal matter, and each one showed in her true colors—very unexpected colors some of them have been. Mother Gabrielle, who has always been rather fussy and fidgetty, and especially apt to be scared on small occasions, and to fret over little accidents and losses, was as calm and cheerful as a summer morning, till she was taken down herself, when she made a most edifying end. Mother Superior, though calm and composed, was very sad. Mother Gertrude, just as usual.
In general I must say the Sisters have behaved very well. Sister Catherine was the most alarmed of anybody, and made herself rather a trouble by going round asking everybody's pardon and wanting to kiss their feet, which was not always quite convenient when one had a jug of barley water, or a crying babe in one's arms. She wanted to help in the infirmary, but she cried so, and was besides so unwilling to obey orders without some little variation of her own, that Sister Placida dispensed with her help very suddenly. At last she took to her own bed with a kind of nervous fever; and as she was not very sick, everybody was rather glad to have her out-of-the-way.
Sister Mary Paula was quite different. From the first she attended steadily to her work, speaking but little, but very kind and sober in her demeanor. One morning, when I went to the kitchen for the children's dinner, at ten o'clock, she stopped me.
"Rosamond, did you know who it was told the Bishop of your sending a love token to your cousin?"
"Nay!" said I. "I had not an idea, nor do I wish to know, since no harm has come of it."
"Well, it was I!" said she, bluntly, turning scarlet as she spoke. "My brother is the Bishop's chaplain, and when he came to see me, I managed to slip a note into his hand, telling him the whole story, as I had heard it!"
"But, dear Sister, how could you do that, since yourself told me you could not write?" I asked, in amazement.
"I did not write it—that was done by another hand!" she answered me. "But 'twas I conveyed it to my brother. I fancied, or tried to fancy, that I was moved by zeal for religion and for the honor of this house; but my eyes have been opened lately, and I see things more clearly. 'Twas mere spite and envy, because I thought you a favorite. I desired to bring you into disgrace, or to cause your removal from the house; and I beg your pardon."
"I am sure you have it, with all my heart!" said I, kissing her. "Nay, there is naught to pardon, since all turned out to my advantage at last."
"Yes, the stones we threw returned on our own heads!" she answered. "And so they ought. Here, take these cakes for your brats. Do they all keep well?"
"All!" I told her, but added that she did not look well herself, and I feared she was working too hard.
"Nay, I am well enough," she said, "but Rosamond, will you pray for me? My mind is distracted with all this work and worry, and I fear my prayers are of little value."
I told her I did not believe such distraction hurt our prayers, and reminded her of what Father Fabian had said about offering our work and our very distractions. She kissed me again and I went my way. That was the last time I ever saw her alive. She dropped that evening in the chapel, and died before midnight. It seemed the signal for a new outbreak of the disease. Three of my charge were attacked, and two died, and of the Sisters, three within the next three days. Mother Gabrielle was the last, and I do think she died as much as anything from sheer fatigue. I had no touch of the disorder, though I nursed all the children who had it, and also Sister Anne, whom we hoped at one time might recover; but she had a relapse, I think from getting up too soon, despite the warnings of Mother Mary Monica.
Now things have returned to their usual course, save that with the Bishop's approbation, we have kept the three children who survived, and have also taken in two more. Amice and I have the charge of teaching and overseeing them, under the real superintendence of Mother Gertrude and the nominal care of Mother Mary Monica, which mostly consists in telling them stories, cutting out figures, and begging off from pains and penalties. What a dear old grandmother she would have made!
I have heard but once from my friends in London, who are all well. My father is coming home in a few weeks.