Kitabı oku: «Two Penniless Princesses», sayfa 5
‘That reiver, Patrick Hepburn, let the priest from Haddington come to assoilzie and housel her,’ responded Jean.
‘Ah! Masses shall be said for her by my bedesmen at St. Cross, and at all my churches,’ said the Cardinal, crossing himself. ‘And you are on your way to your sister, the Dolfine, as your knight tells me. It is well. You may be worthily wedded in France, and I will take order for your safe going. Meantime, this is a house where you may well serve your poor mother’s soul by prayers and masses, and likewise perfect yourselves in French.’
This was not at all what Jean had intended, and she pouted a little, while the Cardinal asked, changing his language, ‘Ces donzelles, ont elles appris le Francais?’
Jean, who had tried to let Father Romuald teach her a little in conversation during the first part of the journey, but who had dropped the notion since other ideas had been inspired at Fotheringay, could not understand, and pouted the more; but Eleanor, who had been interested, and tried more in earnest, for Margaret’s sake, answered diffidently and blushing deeply, ‘Un petit peu, beau Sire Oncle.’
He smiled, and said, ‘You can be well instructed here. The Reverend Mother hath sisters here who can both speak and write French of Paris.’
‘That have I truly, my good Lord,’ replied the Prioress. ‘Sisters Isabel and Beata spent their younger days, the one at Rouen, the other at Bordeaux, and have learned many young ladies in the true speaking of the French tongue.’
‘It is well!’ said the Cardinal, ‘my fair nieces will have good leisure. While sharing the orisons that I will institute for the repose of your mother, you can also be taught the French.’
Jean could not help speaking now, so far was this from all her hopes. ‘Sir, sir, the Duke and Duchess of York, and the Countess of Salisbury, and the Queen of the Isle of Wight all bade us to be their guests.’
‘They could haply not have been aware of your dool,’ said the Cardinal gravely.
‘But, my Lord, our mother hath been dead since before Martinmas,’ exclaimed Jean.
‘I know not what customs of dool be thought befitting in a land like Scotland,’ said the Cardinal, in such a repressive manner that Jean was only withheld by awe from bursting into tears of disappointment and anger at the slight to her country.
Lady Drummond ventured to speak. ‘Alack, my Lord,’ she said, ‘my poor Queen died in the hands of a freebooter, leaving her daughters in such stress and peril that they had woe enough for themselves, till their brother the King came to their rescue.’
‘The more need that they should fulfil all that may be done for the grace of her soul,’ replied the uncle; but just at this crisis of Jean’s mortification there was a knocking at the door, and a sister breathlessly entreated—
‘Pardon! Merci! My Lord, my Lady Mother! Here’s the King, the King himself—and the King and Queen of the Isle of Wight asking licence to enter to visit the ladies of Scotland.’
Kings were always held to be free to enter anywhere, even far more dangerous monarchs than the pious Henry VI. Jean’s heart bounded up again, with a sense of exultation over the old uncle, as the Prioress went out to receive her new guest, and the Cardinal emitted a sort of grunting sigh, without troubling himself to go out to meet the youth, whom he had governed from babyhood, and in whose own name he had, as one of the council, given permission for wholesome chastisements of the royal person.
King Henry entered. He was then twenty-four years old, tall, graceful, and with beautiful features and complexion, almost feminine in their delicacy, and with a wonderful purity and sweetness in the expression of the mouth and blue eyes, so that he struck Eleanor as resembling the angels in the illuminations that she had been studying, as he removed his dark green velvet jewelled cap on entering, and gave a cousinly, respectful kiss lightly to each of the young ladies on her cheek, somewhat as if he were afraid of them. Then after greeting the Cardinal, who had risen on his entrance, he said that, hearing that his fair cousins were arrived, he had come to welcome them, and to entreat them to let him do them such honour as was possible in a court without a queen.
‘The which lack will soon be remedied,’ put in his grand-uncle.
‘Truly you are in holy keeping here,’ said the pious young King, crossing himself, ‘but I trust, my sweet cousins, that you will favour my poor house at Westminster with your presence at a supper, and share such entertainment as is in our power to provide.’
‘My nieces are keeping their mourning for their mother, from which they have hitherto been hindered by the tumults of their kingdom,’ said the Cardinal.
‘Ah!’ said the King, crossing himself, and instantly moved, ‘far be it from me to break into their holy retirement for such a purpose.’ (Jean could have bitten the Cardinal.) ‘But I will take order with my Lord Abbot of Westminster for a grand requiem mass for the good Queen Joanna, at which they will, I trust, be present, and they will honour my poor table afterwards.’
To refuse this was quite impossible, and the day was to be fixed after reference to the Abbess. Meantime the King’s eye was caught by the illuminated breviary. He was a connoisseur in such arts, and eagerly stood up to look at it as it lay on the desk. Eleanor could not but come and direct him to the pages with which she had been most delighted. She found him looking at Jacob’s dream on the one side, the Ascension on the other.
‘How marvellous it is!’ she said. ‘It is like the very light from the sky!’
‘Light from heaven,’ said the King; ‘Jacob has found it among the stones. Wandering and homelessness are his first step in the ladder to heaven!’
‘Ah, sir, did you say that to comfort and hearten us?’ said Eleanor.
There was a strange look in the startled blue eyes that met hers. ‘Nay, truly, lady, I presumed not so far! I was but wondering whether those who are born to have all the world are in the way of the stair to heaven.’
Meantime the King of Wight had made his request for the presence of the ladies at a supper at Warwick House, and Jean, clasping her hands, implored her uncle to consent.
‘I am sure our mother cannot be the better for our being thus mewed up,’ she cried, ‘and I’ll rise at prime, and tell my beads for her.’
She looked so pretty and imploring that the old man’s heart was melted, all the more that the King was paying more attention to the book and the far less beautiful Eleanor, than to her and the invitation was accepted.
The convent bell rang for nones, and the King joined the devotions of the nuns, though he was not admitted within the choir; and just as these were over, the Countess of Salisbury arrived to take the Lady of Glenuskie to see their old friend, the Mother Clare at St. Katharine’s, bringing a sober palfrey for her conveyance.
‘A holy woman, full of alms-deeds,’ said the King. ‘The lady is happy in her friendship.’
Which words were worth much to Lady Drummond, for the Prioress sent a lay-sister to invite Mother Clare to a refection at the convent.
CHAPTER 5. THE MEEK USURPER
‘Henry, thou of holy birth,
Thou to whom thy Windsor gave
Nativity and name and grave!
Heavily upon his head
Ancestral crimes were visited.’
—SOUTHEY.
It suits not with the main thread of our story to tell of the happy and peaceful meetings between the Lady of Glenuskie and her old friend, who had given up almost princely rank and honour to become the servant of the poor and suffering strangers at the wharves of London. To Dame Lilias, Mother Clare’s quiet cell at St. Katharine’s was a blessed haven of rest, peace, and charity, such as was neither the guest-chamber nor the Prioress’s parlour at St. Helen’s, with all the distractions of the princesses’ visitors and invitations, and with the Lady Joanna continually pulling against the authority that the Cardinal, her uncle, was exerting over his nieces.
His object evidently was to keep them back, firstly, from the York party, and secondly, from the King, under pretext of their mourning for their mother; and in this he might have succeeded but for the interest in them that had been aroused in Henry by his companion, namesake, and almost brother, the King of Wight. The King came or sent each day to St. Helen’s to arrange about the requiem at Westminster, and when their late travelling companions invited the young ladies to dinner or to supper expressly to meet the King and the Cardinal—not in state, but at what would be now called a family party—Beaufort had no excuse for a refusal, such as he could not give without dire offence. And, indeed, he was even then obliged to yield to the general voice, and, recalling his own nephew from Normandy, send the Duke of York to defend the remnant of the English conquests.
He could only insist that the requiem should be the first occasion of the young ladies going out of the convent; but they had so many visitors there that they had not much cause for murmuring, and the French instructions of Sister Beata did not amount to much, even with Eleanor, while Jean loudly protested that she was not going to school.
The great day of the requiem came at last. The Cardinal had, through Sir Patrick Drummond and the Lady, provided handsome robes of black and purple for his nieces, and likewise palfreys for their conveyance to Westminster; and made it understood that unless Lady Joanna submitted to be completely veiled he should send a closed litter.
‘The doited auld carle!’ she cried, as she unwillingly hooded and veiled herself. ‘One would think we were basilisks to slay the good folk of London with our eyes.’
The Drummond following, with fresh thyme sprays, beginning to turn brown, were drawn up in the outer court, all with black scarves across the breast—George Douglas among them, of course—and they presently united with the long train of clerks who belonged to the household of the Cardinal of Winchester. Jean managed her veil so as to get more than one peep at the throng in the streets through which they passed, so as to see and to be seen; and she was disappointed that no acclamations greeted the fair face thus displayed by fits. She did not understand English politics enough to know that a Beaufort face and Beaufort train were the last things the London crowd was likely to applaud. They had not forgotten the penance of the popular Duke Humfrey’s wife, which, justly or unjustly, was imputed to the Cardinal and his nephews of Somerset.
But the King, in robes of purple and black, came to assist her from her palfrey before the beautiful entry of the Abbey Church, and led her up the nave to the desks prepared around what was then termed ‘a herce,’ but which would now be called a catafalque, an erection supposed to contain the body, and adorned with the lozenges of the arms of Scotland and Beaufort, and of the Stewart, in honour of the Black Knight of Lorn.
The Cardinal was present, but the Abbot of Westminster celebrated. All was exceedingly solemn and beautiful, in a far different style from the maimed rites that had been bestowed upon poor Queen Joanna in Scotland. The young King’s face was more angelic than ever, and as psalm and supplication, dirge and hymn arose, chanted by the full choir, speaking of eternal peace, Eleanor bowed her head under her veil, as her bosom swelled with a strange yearning longing, not exactly grief, and large tears dropped from her eyes as she thought less of her mother than of her noble-hearted father; and the words came back to her in which Father Malcolm Stewart, in his own bitter grief, had told the desolate children to remember that their father was waiting for them in Paradise. Even Jean was so touched by the music and carried out of herself that she forgot the spectators, forgot the effect she was to produce, forgot her struggle with her uncle, and sobbed and wept with all her heart, perhaps with the more abandon because she, like all the rest, was fasting.
With much reverence for her emotion, the King, when the service was over, led her out of the church to the adjoining palace, where the Queen of Wight and the Countess of Suffolk, a kinswoman through the mother of the Beauforts, conducted the ladies to unveil themselves before they were to join the noontide refection with the King.
There was no great state about it, spread, as it was, not in the great hall, but in the richly-tapestried room called Paradise. The King’s manner was most gently and sweetly courteous to both sisters. His three little orphan half-brothers, the Tudors, were at table; and his kind care to send them dainties, and the look with which he repressed an unseasonable attempt of Jasper’s to play with the dogs, and Edmund’s roughness with little Owen, reminded the sisters of Mary with ‘her weans,’ and they began to speak of them when the meal was over, while he showed them his chief treasures, his books. There was St. Augustine’s City of God, exquisitely copied; there was the History of St. Louis, by the bon Sire de Joinville; there were Sir John Froissart’s Chronicles, the same that the good Canon had presented to King Richard of Bordeaux.
Jean cast a careless glance at the illuminations, and exclaimed at Queen Isabel’s high headgear and her becloaked greyhound. Eleanor looked and longed, and sighed that she could not read the French, and only a very little of the Latin.
‘This you can read,’ said Henry, producing the Canterbury Tales; ‘the fair minstrelsy of my Lady of Suffolk’s grandsire.’
Eleanor was enchanted. Here were the lines the King of Wight had repeated to her, and she was soon eagerly listening as Henry read to her the story of ‘Patient Grisell.’
‘Ah! but is it well thus tamely to submit?’ she asked.
‘Patience is the armour and conquest of the godly,’ said Henry, quoting a saying that was to serve ‘the meek usurper’ well in after-times.
‘May not patience go too far?’ said Eleanor.
‘In this world, mayhap,’ said he; ‘scarcely so in that which is to come.’
‘I would not be the King’s bride to hear him say so,’ laughed the Lady of Suffolk. ‘Shall I tell her, my lord, that this is your Grace’s ladder to carry her to heaven?’
Henry blushed like a girl, and said that he trusted never to be so lacking in courtesy as the knight; and the King of Wight, wishing to change the subject, mentioned that the Lady Eleanor had sung or said certain choice ballads, and Henry eagerly entreated for one. It was the pathetic ‘Wife of Usher’s Well’ that Eleanor chose, with the three sons whose hats were wreathen with the birk that
‘Neither grew in dyke nor ditch,
Nor yet in any shaugh,
But at the gates of Paradise
That birk grew fair eneugh.’
Henry was greatly delighted with the verse, and entreated her, if it were not tedious, to repeat it over again.
In return he promised to lend her some of the translations from the Latin of Lydgate, the Monk of Bury, and sent them, wrapped in a silken neckerchief, by the hands of one of his servants to the convent.
‘Was that a token?’ anxiously asked young Douglas, riding up to David Drummond, as they got into order to ride back to Winchester House, after escorting the ladies to St. Helen’s.
‘Token, no; ‘tis a book for Lady Elleen. Never fash yourself, man; the King, so far as I might judge, is far more taken with Elleen than ever he is with Jean. He seems but a bookish sort of bodie of Malcolm’s sort.’
‘My certie, an’ that be sae, we may look to winning back Roxburgh and Berwick!’ returned the Douglas, his eye flashing. ‘He’s welcome to Lady Elleen! But that ane should look at her in presence of her sister! He maun be mair of a monk than a man!’
Such was, in truth, Jean’s own opinion when she flounced into her chamber at the Priory and turned upon her sister.
‘Weel, Elleen, and I hope ye’ve had your will, and are a bit shamed, taking up his Grace so that none by yersell could get in a word wi’ him.’
‘Deed, Jeanie, I could not help it; if he would ask me about our ballants and buiks, that ye would never lay your mind to—’
‘Ballants and buiks! Bonnie gear for a king that should be thinking of spears and jacks, lances and honours. Ye’re welcome to him, Elleen, sin ye choose to busk your cockernnonny at ane that’s as good as wedded! I’ll never have the man who’s wanting the strick of carle hemp in the making of him!’
Eleanor burst into tears and pleaded that she was incapable of any such intentions towards a man who was truly as good as married. She declared that she had only replied as courtesy required, and that she would not have her harp taken to Warwick House the next day, as she had been requested to do.
Dame Lilias here interposed. With a certain conviction that Jean’s dislike to the King was chiefly because the grapes were sour, she declared that Lady Elleen had by no means gone beyond the demeanour of a douce maiden, and that the King had only shown due attention to guests of his own rank, and who were nearly of his own age. In fact, she said, it might be his caution and loyalty to his espoused lady that made him avoid distinguishing the fairest.
It was not complimentary to Eleanor, but Jean’s superior beauty was as much an established fact as her age, and she was pacified in some degree, agreeing with the Lady of Glenuskie that Eleanor was bound to take her harp the next day.
Warwick House was a really magnificent place, its courts, gardens, and offices covering much of the ground that still bears the name in the City, and though the establishment was not quite as extensive as it became a few years later, when Richard Nevil had succeeded his brother-in-law, it was already on a magnificent scale.
All the party who had travelled together from Fotheringay were present, besides the King, young Edmund and Jasper Tudor, and the Earl and Countess of Suffolk; and the banquet, though not a state one, nor encumbered with pageants and subtilties, was even more refined and elegant than that at Westminster, showing, as all agreed, the hand of a mistress of the household. The King’s taste had been consulted, for in the gallery were the children of St. Paul’s choir and of the chapel of the household, who sang hymns with sweet trained voices. Afterwards, on the beautiful October afternoon, there was walking in the garden, where Edmund and Jasper played with little Lady Anne Beauchamp, and again King Henry sought out Eleanor, and they had an enjoyable discussion of the Tale of Troie, which he had lent her, as they walked along the garden paths. Then she showed him her cousin Malcolm, and told of Bishop Kennedy and the schemes for St. Andrews, and he in return described Winchester College, and spoke of his wish to have such another foundation as Wykeham’s under his own eye near Windsor, to train up the godly clergy, whom he saw to be the great need and lack of the Church at that day.
By and by, on going in from the garden, the King and Eleanor found that a tall, gray-haired gentleman, richly but darkly clad, had entered the hall. He had been welcomed by the young King and Queen of Wight, who had introduced Jean to him. ‘My uncle of Gloucester,’ said the King, aside. ‘It is the first time he has come among us since the unhappy affair of his wife. Let me present you to him.’
Going forward, as the Duke rose to meet him, Henry bent his knee and asked his fatherly blessing, then introduced the Lady Eleanor of Scotland—‘who knows all lays and songs, and loves letters, as you told me her blessed father did, my fair uncle,’ he said, with sparkling eyes.
Duke Humfrey looked well pleased as he greeted her. ‘Ever the scholar, Nevoy Hal,’ he said, as if marvelling at the preference above the beauty, ‘but each man knows his own mind. So best.’ Eleanor’s heart began to beat high! What did this bode? Was this King fully pledged? She had to fulfil her promise of singing and playing to the King, which she did very sweetly, some of the pathetic airs of her country, which reach back much farther than the songs with which they have in later times been associated. The King thoroughly enjoyed the music, and the Duke of York came and paid her several compliments, begging for the song she had once begun at Fotheringay. Eleanor began—not perhaps so willingly as before. Strangely, as she sang—
‘Owre muckle blinking blindeth the ee, lass,
Owre muckle thinking changeth the mind,’—
her face and voice altered. Something of the same mist of tears and blood seemed to rise before her eyes as before—enfolding all around. Such a winding-sheet which had before enwrapt the King of Wight, she saw it again—nay, on the Duke of Gloucester there was such another, mounting—mounting to his neck. The face of Henry himself grew dim and ghastly white, like that of a marble saint. She kept herself from screaming, but her voice broke down, and she gave a choking sob.
King Henry’s arm was the first to support her, though she shuddered as he touched her, calling for essences, and lamenting that they had asked too much of her in begging her to sing what so reminded her of her home and parents.
‘She hath been thus before. It was that song,’ said Jean, and the Lady of Glenuskie coming up at the same time confirmed the idea, and declined all help except to take her back to the Priory. The litter that had brought the Countess of Salisbury was at the door, and Henry would not be denied the leading her to it. She was recovering herself, and could see the extreme sweetness and solicitude of his face, and feel that she had never before leant on so kind and tender a supporting arm, since she had sat on her father’s knee. ‘Ah! sir, you mind me of my blessed father,’ she said.
‘Your father was a holy man, and died well-nigh a martyr’s death,’ said Henry. ‘’Tis an honour I thank you for to even me to him—such as I am.’
‘Oh, sir! the saints guard you from such a fate,’ she said, trembling.
‘Was it so sad a fate—to die for the good he could not work in his life?’ said Henry.
They had reached the arch into the court. A crowd was round them, and no more could be said. Henry kissed Eleanor’s hand, as he assisted her into the litter, and she was shut in between the curtains, alone, for it only held one person. There was a strange tumult of feeling. She seemed lifted into a higher region, as if she had been in contact with an angel of purity, and yet there was that strange sense of awful fate all round, as if Henry were nearer being the martyr than the angel. And was she to share that fate? The generous young soul seemed to spring forward with the thought that, come what might, it would be hallowed and sweetened with such as he! Yet withal there was a sense of longing to protect and shield him.
As usual, she had soon quite recovered, but Jean pronounced it ‘one of Elleen’s megrims—as if she were a Hielander to have second sight.’
‘But,’ said the young lady, ‘it takes no second sight to spae ill to yonder King. He is not one whose hand will keep his head, and there are those who say that he had best look to his crown, for he hath no more right thereto than I have to be Queen of France!’
‘Fie, Jean, that’s treason.’
‘I’m none of his, nor ever will be! I have too much spirit for a gudeman who cares for nothing but singing his psalter like a friar.’
Jean was even more of that opinion when, the next day, at York House, only Edmund and Jasper Tudor appeared with their brother’s excuses. He had been obliged to give audience to a messenger from the Emperor. ‘Moreover,’ added Edmund disconsolately, ‘to-morrow he is going to St. Albans for a week’s penitence. Harry is always doing penance, I cannot think what for. He never eats marchpane in church—nor rolls balls there.’
‘I know,’ said Jasper sagely. ‘I heard the Lord Cardinal rating him for being false to his betrothed—that’s the Lady Margaret, you know.’
‘Ha!’ said the Duke of York, before whom the two little boys were standing. ‘How was that, my little man?’
‘Hush, Jasper,’ said Edmund; ‘you do not know.’
‘But I do, Edmund; I was in the window all the time. Harry said he did not know it, he only meant all courtesy; and then the Lord Cardinal asked him if he called it loyalty to his betrothed to be playing the fool with the Scottish wench. And then Harry stared—like thee, Ned, when thy bolt had hit the Lady of Suffolk: and my Lord went on to say that it was perilous to play the fool with a king’s sister, and his own niece. Then, for all that Harry is a king and a man grown, he wept like Owen, only not loud, and he went down on his knees, and he cried, “Mea peccata, mea peccata, mea infirmitas,” just as he taught me to do at confession. And then he said he would do whatever the Lord Cardinal thought fit, and go and do penance at St. Albans, if he pleased, and not see the lady that sings any more.’
‘And I say,’ exclaimed Edmund, ‘what’s the good of being a king and a man, if one is to be rated like a babe?’
‘So say I, my little man,’ returned the Duke, patting him on the head, then adding to his own two boys, ‘Take your cousins and play ball with them, or spin tops, or whatever may please them.’
‘There is the king we have,’ quoth Richard Nevil ‘to be at the beck of any misproud priest, and bewail with tears a moment’s following of his own will, like other men.’
Most of the company felt such misplaced penitence and submission, as they deemed it, beneath contempt; but while Eleanor had pride enough to hold up her head so that no one might suppose her to be disappointed, she felt a strange awe of the conscientiousness that repented when others would only have felt resentment—relief, perhaps, at not again coming into contact with one so unlike other men as almost to alarm her.
Jean tossed up her head, and declared that her brother knew better than to let any bishop put him into leading-strings. By and by there was a great outcry among the children, and Edmund Tudor and Edward of York were fighting like a pair of mastiff-puppies because Edward had laughed at King Harry for minding what an old shaveling said. Edward, though the younger, was much the stronger, and was decidedly getting the best of it, when he was dragged off and sent into seclusion with his tutor for misbehaviour to his guest.
No one was amazed when the next day the Cardinal arrived, and told his grand-nieces and the Lady of Glenuskie that he had arranged that they should go forward under the escort of the Earl and Countess of Suffolk, who were to start immediately for Nanci, there to espouse and bring home the King’s bride, the Lady Margaret. There was reason to think that the French Royal Family would be present on the occasion, as the Queen of France was sister to King Rene of Sicily and Jerusalem, and thus the opportunity of joining their sister was not to be missed by the two Scottish maidens. The Cardinal added that he had undertaken, and made Sir Patrick Drummond understand, that he would be at all charges for his nieces, and further said that merchants with women’s gear would presently be sent in, when they were to fit themselves out as befitted their rank for appearance at the wedding. At a sign from him a large bag, jingling heavily, was laid on the table by a clerk in attendance. There was nothing to be done but to make a low reverence and return thanks.
Jean had it in her to break out with ironical hopes that they would see something beyond the walls of a priory abroad, and not be ordered off the moment any one cast eyes on them; but my Lord of Winchester was not the man to be impertinent to, especially when bringing gifts as a kindly uncle, and when, moreover, King Henry had the bad taste to be more occupied with her sister than with herself.
It was Eleanor who chiefly felt a sort of repugnance to being thus, as it were, bought off or compensated for being sent out of reach. She could have found it in her heart to be offended at being thought likely to wish to steal the King’s heart, and yet flattered by being, for the first time, considered as dangerous, even while her awe, alike of Henry’s holiness and of those strange visions that had haunted her, made her feel it a relief that her lot was not to be cast with him.
The Cardinal did not seem to wish to prolong the interview with his grand-nieces, having perhaps a certain consciousness of injury towards them; and, after assuring brilliant marriages for them, and graciously blessing them, he bade them farewell, saying that the Lady of Suffolk would come and arrange with them for the journey. No doubt, though he might have been glad to place a niece on the throne, it would have been fatal to the peace he so much desired for Henry to break his pledges to so near a kinswoman of the King of France. And when the bag was opened, and the rouleaux of gold and silver crowns displayed, his liberality contradicted the current stories of his avarice.
And by and by arrived a succession of merchants bringing horned hoods, transparent veils, like wings, supported on wire projections, long trained dresses of silk and sendal, costly stomachers, bands of velvet, buckles set with precious stones, chains of gold and silver—all the fashions, in fact, enough to turn the head of any young lady, and in which the staid Lady Prioress seemed to take quite as much interest as if she had been to wear them herself—indeed, she asked leave to send Sister Mabel to fetch a selection of the older nuns given to needlework and embroidery to enjoy the exhibition, though it was to be carefully kept out of sight of the younger ones, and especially of the novices.
The excitement was enough to put the Cardinal’s offences out of mind, while the delightful fitting and trying on occupied the maidens, who looked at themselves in the little hand-mirrors held up to them by the admiring nuns, and demanded every one’s opinion. Jean insisted that Annis should have her share, and Eleanor joined in urging it, when Dame Lilias shook her head, and said that was not the use the Lord Cardinal intended for his gold.
