Chapter I

I SUPPOSE I had better begin by telling how I came by this book, though that is not the beginning either, but perhaps it will do as well as any other to start from. Dear Mother says I am to write a chronicle of my life, as it seems some ladies of our family have done before me. So here I begin by first putting the date:

_St. Swithin's Day, in the year of Grace, 1529._

Dear Mother Superior was in the library this morning, looking at the work I have been helping Sister Gertrude to finish, of putting the books in order, and writing out a fair list of them. Sister Gertrude cannot write on account of her eyes, and she does not know Latin, and as I do, and can write a fair hand, I was able to help her, which pleased us both well.

[I do shrewdly suspect there was another hindrance more vital than the dear Sister's eyes, but I would not have hinted such a thing for the world. If she did not know writing, she knew many another thing better worth knowing.] *

Well, Mother Superior did commend our diligence, and gave Sister Gertrude much praise, which she in turn transferred to me, at which Sister Catherine, who must be on hand as usual, exclaimed:

"What holy humility Sister Gertrude shows!"

"Nay, I thought not of humility, but only of justice, and giving the child her due," answered Sister Gertrude.

"I fear 'twill be long before our dear young Rosamond emulates your example," continued Sister Catherine, as if Sister Gertrude had not spoken. "I fear her gifts are but a snare to her in that respect. Dear Rosamond, remember nothing was so dear to St. Frances as humility."

* The sentences in brackets were writ on the margin of Lady Rosamond's book, but in transcribing I have put them in the body of the work. Most of them seem to have been added at a later date.—D. C.

"Sister Catherine, is not your charge in the wardrobe at this hour?" asked Mother Superior (methought somewhat dryly). Sister Catherine retired without a word, but I can't say she looked very humble. If she were not a devoted religious, I should say she looked ready to bite.

"You have made a good piece of work between you, my children," said Mother; "and now we are in order, we must keep in order. 'Tis not often that a lady's house possesses so many books as ours, and we have, I fear, hardly prized them as we ought. When Rosamond comes to be abbess, she will make our poor house a seminary of learning."

"What have you got there, child?"

"'Tis a great book of blank paper, dear Mother," said I, showing this book to her. "It has been begun as an accompt, as I think, and then as a receipt, but it is mostly empty."

"And you would like to fill it?" said Mother, smiling: "Well, well, you have been a good maid, and deserve a reward. You shall have the book, and write a chronicle of your life therein, as did your great grandame of hers. You are a true Corbet, and 'Corbys will have quills,' is an old saying of your house."

I was well pleased, for I do love to write; but what can I say about my own life, only the little things which happen every day, and much the same to every one. To be sure, in the lives of saints, as well as in the history books, I do love best to read about the common things, even such as what they ate, and how they slept, and so on. It seems to bring them nearer to one. Not that I shall ever be a saint, I am sure. Sister Catherine was right there. I should be more likely to make a good housewife. Sometimes I fear I have no vocation at all, though I have, as it were, grown up with a veil on my face. Richard Stanton used to say I should never make a nun.

Now I am going to begin my life. My name is Rosamond Corbet, and I was born in Devonshire. My father is a worshipful knight, Stephen Corbet by name, and my mother Alice Stanton, a niece of my Lord Stanton, at the great house. The Corbets are the elder family, having lived at Fresh Water long before the Stantons, who only came in with the Conqueror. The name used to be writ Corby, and the common folk call it so to this day. The corby, or hooded crow, is the cognizance of our house, and this bird, commonly of evil omen, is said to be lucky to our race. 'Tis not a nice bird, and I could wish we had an eagle or a falcon to our crests; but after all they are alike birds of prey. They say we are not Saxon, but British in descent, and that is how we come by our black hair and eyes. The Stantons, who should, methinks, be dark, are all fair.

I was the youngest of my family. My mother was a great friend of the Lady Margaret Vernon, our dear Mother Superior. It was thought at one time she had herself a strong vocation, but she met with Sir Stephen, and there was an end of that. So to make amends, I suppose, she promised her second girl to this house, or her first, if she had but one. So I, being the second maid, the lot fell on me, and I have spent at least half my time here since I was five years old. I like it well enough too, though I confess I am now and then glad to get back home and run about the woods' and sands, and play with the babes in the cottages. I do love children, specially young children. I think my vocation will be to teaching, or else to the pantry and pastry-room. Once I told Sister Gertrude so, and she said it reminded her of her younger brother, who when asked what he would do when he was grown up, answered that he would be a bishop, or else a fisherman, like old Will Lee.

Once I stayed at home six years. It was then I learned to write and to construe Latin, from my brother's tutor, Master Ellenwood. I was always a great pet of his, and when he offered to teach me Latin, my father made no objection, saying that a little learning would do me no harm, and might sometime stand me in good stead.

That was a happy time. We three young ones and Dick Stanton studied together all the morning, and played together all the afternoon, save for the two hours or so of needlework, and the like, which my mother exacted from us girls. I may say without vanity that brother Henry and I were the best scholars. Alice was passable, but poor Dick was always in disgrace. In all the manly exercises, such as riding the great horse, shooting with both long and cross-bow, sword play, and so on, however, Dick was far beyond any of the other lads. So he was in managing a horse, a dog, or a hawk, and 'twas wonderful how all dumb creatures loved him. Now he is a squire in France, with my Lord his uncle, and I am here. I don't suppose I shall ever see him again in this world.

My mother was alive then. She was a most notable lady, always very still and quiet, but attending well to the ways of her household, and keeping all in their places, not by any assumption of greatness, but by the dignity and kindness of her own manners. She was a most kind mother, but not so fond as some, at least to me. It used to trouble me sometimes, till one day, by chance, I found out the reason, by overhearing some words spoken between her and an old gentlewoman, a kinswoman of hers, who stayed some time with her.

"Methinks Rosamond is no favorite," said my old lady. "And yet 'tis a good, docile little maid, more to my mind than Alice, with all her beauty."

"You are right, kinswoman," replied my mother; "but he who has the keeping of another's treasure, if he be wise, does not suffer himself to be overmuch looking upon or handling, the same. Rosamond is not mine. She is given to the Church, and I dare not give my mother's heart its way with her, lest my natural affections should rise up against my Lord's demands."

[I remember my own heart rather rose against this doctrine, even then. It seemed to me that our Lord cared for His own mother even on the cross. I knew that much, though I had never seen the Scriptures at that time, and I could not see why He should have given people natural affections only to be trampled on. Now I know that St. Paul places them who are without natural affection in no flattering category.]

When I showed this that I have written to dear mother, she said I must run my pen through what I wrote about Sister Catherine.* She said we must concern ourselves with our own faults and not with those of others. But somehow our own faults and other people's will get mixed together.

* So she did, but not so that I could not read it, and I judged
best to write it out with the rest.—D. C.