Lady Rosamond's book

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"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."