Beyond the cruciform flower-beds, and the cloister wall, soared the Blue Jesus, the storied windows of its lofty galleries aglow with light.
“Most gracious Jesus. Help me to forget. For my heart aches. Uphold me now.”
But to forget to-day, was well-nigh she knew impossible....
Once it seemed she caught the sound of splendid music from the direction of the Park, but it was too early for music yet. Away in the palace, the Princess Elsie must be already astir ... in her peignoir, perhaps? The bridal-garment unfolded upon the bed: But no; it was said the bed indeed was where usually her Royal-Highness’ dogs....
With a long and very involuntary sigh, she began to sweep, and put in some order, her room.
How forlorn her cornette looked upon her _prie-Dieu_! And, oh, how stern, and “old”!
Would an impulse to bend it slightly but only so, _so_ slightly, to an angle to suit her face, be attended, later, by remorse?
“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper vergini, beato Michaeli Archangelo (et _tibi_ Pater), quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere,” she entreated, reposing her chin in meditation, upon the handle of her broom.
The bluish shadow of a cypress-tree, on the empty wall, fascinated her as few pictures had.
“Grant my soul Eyes,” she prayed, cheerfully completing her task.
In the corridor, being a general holiday, all was yet quite still. A sound, as of gentle snoring, came indeed from behind more than one closed door, and the new _pensionnaire_ was preparing to beat a retreat, when she perceived, in the cloister, the dumpish form of Old Jane.
Seated in the sun by the convent well, the Porteress was sharing a scrap of breakfast with the birds.
“You’re soonish for Mass, love,” she broke out, her large archaic features surcharged with smiles.
“It’s such a perfect morning, I felt I must come down.”
“I’ve seen many a more promising sunrise before now, my dear, turn to storm and blast! An orange sky overhead, brings back to me the morning that I was received; ah, I shall never forget, as I was taking my Vows, a flash of forked lightning, and a clap of Thunder (Glory be to God!) followed by a water-spout (Mercy save us!) bursting all over my Frinch lace veil....”
“Something light, love, as it’s a holiday.”