[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.]
[CHAPTER XI.]
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!"