Chapter X: 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.]