The Miracle at St. Bruno's

I thought a great deal about that conversation. It was inevitable of course now that they were growing up that they should form their own opinions. When they had been little I had kept them away from him, knowing that there was no time in his life for young children. I did wonder whether it would have been different if Catherine had been a boy.

I considered them now-Catherine was nearly twelve years old, Honey fourteen-almost a woman, Honey, for she had developed earlier than most. There was a certain touch of Keziah's voluptuousness about her and her beauty had by no means diminished. Those startling violet black-lashed eyes alone would have made her a beauty.

But she was not as easy to know as Catherine, who was all effervescence, her feelings close to the surface, tears and anger coming quickly and as quickly dispersing. Catherine showed her affection with a quick hug or a kiss; she could laugh derisively at one's failings and then show a quick penitence if she thought she had inflicted a wound.

How different was Honey! I was aware that I must be careful with Honey and I always had been, taking the utmost pains to show that I loved her equally with Catherine.

For me she had, I was fully aware, a deep and passionate devotion. It gratified me and the same time alarmed me a little, for one could never be quite sure of Honey.

How her name belied her! She was wild and passionate.

It was disturbing now that they were growing up and developing such distinct personalities; and the more adoration Catherine showed for Bruno the more loathing Honey seemed to feel; and because they were young neither of them could cloak their feelings; and as Bruno realized his daughter's growing appreciation and interest in him, so he was aware of Honey's intensifying repulsion.

I decided that I would speak to Honey about it and I asked her to walk with me one morning around the garden and pick flowers with me. I was growing like my mother, I thought, in that I had become so domesticated; but I never had a great interest in these things and when I did my flowers my thoughts would be far away with what was happening at Court, for instance, and what effect any change there might have on our lives.

"Honey," I said, "Catherine talks to you often of her father.”

"She talks of nothing else nowadays. Sometimes I think that Catherine is not very intelligent.”

"My dear Honey," I replied, in what Catherine called my unnaturally virtuous voice, "is it unintelligent for a daughter to admire her father?”

"Yes," retorted Honey, "if he is not admirable.”

"My dear child, you must not talk so. It is... ungrateful and unbecoming.”

"Should I be grateful to him?”

"You have lived your life under his roof.”

"I prefer to think it has been under yours.”

"He provided it.”

"He never wanted me here. It was only because you insisted that I was allowed to stay. I know so much. I go to my grandmother in the woods.”

"Does she speak of these things?”

"She is a wise woman, Mother, and she speaks sometimes in riddles as wise people do. I wonder why. Is it because they are afraid that if they speak clearly we might learn as much as they know?”

"That could be a reason.”

"My grandmother has told me some truths. She says it is well for me to know of certain matters. I often think how different life might have been for me but for you.”

"My darling Honey, you have been a joy and a comfort to me.”

"I shall always endeavor to be that," she answered fervently. "My blessed child, you are my own daughter, remember." "But by adoption. Tell me about my mother." "Does not your grandmother tell you?”

"I would like you to tell me for people see others in different ways.”

"She was gay and in a way beautiful... though you are more so.”

"Am I like her then?”

"No, not in your ways.”

"She was not married to my father. He came to disband the Abbey. What was he like?”

"I saw little of him," I said evasively.

"And my mother fell in love with him and I was born.”

I nodded. So she had in a way and I could not tell Honey the horrible truth.

"I am his sister," she said. "My grandmother told me. She said: 'You are both my grandchildren.' And when I heard it I could not believe it. My grandmother says it is why he hates me. He would rather not have to see me.”

"He does not believe it, because he will not accept the fact that your mother was his.”

"He believes himself to be divine." She laughed. "Do divine people care so much that people shall adore them?”

"He believes he has a great mission in life. He has given homes to these people here.”

"He never gives without counting what will come back to him in return. That is not true giving.”

She was too discerning, my Honey.

"You should try to understand him.”

"Understanding does not increase my respect for him. Perhaps I understand too well, as might be expected since we came of the same mother.”

"Honey, I would like you to forget that. I think of myself as your mother. Could you not try to do the same?”

She turned to me and I saw the blazing devotion in her eyes.