Chapter VIII

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.