The Miracle at St. Bruno's

I stepped back into the cell. I examined the walls. I could see no place where a confession could be secreted. I touched the walls, all the time looking over my shoulder, so convinced was I that I was not alone.

The cold dankness of the place chilled me. I looked into several of the cells-all alike. If only I could discover which one was Ambrose's that would help. A confession secreted in the wall! Why should Ambrose have confessed when his great desire was to cover up his sin?

I wanted to convince myself that there was no confession, and the reason was that I wanted to get out of this place and never come here again. I could not rid myself of the feeling that I was overlooked and that something evil was waiting to catch up with me.

There were forty cells on this landing. I looked into all of them; they were all alike, every one of them. How could I possibly tell which had belonged to Ambrose?

At either end of the landing was a spiral staircase. I reminded myself that while I was mounting one stairway, someone else could be mounting the other. Someone could lurk in one of the cells and leap out on me.

Who?

What was the matter with me? At one moment I was afraid of ghosts, at another I was looking for a human assailant.

I could not understand myself. All I knew was that whenever I entered the monks’ dorter I was conscious of something warning me that if I were wise I should keep away.

Kate wrote that she was bringing Catherine back to the Abbey.

I replied that I would be delighted to see her as always, and I trusted that Catherine had behaved with the decorum which was now becoming necessary to her increasing years.

I looked forward to Catherine's return and the arrival of Kate with great pleasure.

Both of them had a cheering effect on me.

I had not yet found the confession although I had been several times to the dorter.

I would attempt to search and then some inescapable feeling of imminent danger would come to me. I should look through my grille expecting to find someone standing there and even when my gaze met nothing, the fear persisted.

I began to dread going there and yet had a great compulsion to do so.

I should have liked to confide in someone. Kate was not the one on this occasion.

Rupert? I thought. No, I could not talk to Rupert. The fact that he had asked me to marry him and still thought of me tenderly debarred me from that for I could not speak openly to him of my feelings for Bruno. In fact I scarcely knew myself what they were.

I went again to the dorter. I mounted the stone stairs. I always hoped that this would be the time when I should find what I sought. I had examined six of the cells thoroughly, touching the stone slabs on the walls carefully to assure myself that nothing could be secreted there. My efforts had been without success.

Perhaps this afternoon, I thought.

How quiet it was everywhere on that afternoon. A pleasant June day; the sun was hot on the grass outside but the dorter was cold as ever.

My steps on the stairs had a hollow echo. I mounted them quickly and stood on the landing, and as I did so I thought I heard a sound from below. I stood still listening.

There was nothing.

I went into the seventh cell. Lightly I touched the buttress, then the walls which separated this one from that on the other side. I went to the long narrow slit and looked through the aperture in the very thick wall. Suddenly I felt the goose pimples rise on my skin because I knew that I was not alone. I swung around. A pair of eyes were watching me through the grille.

I heard myself gasp and putting out my hands grazed them against the granite wall.

The eyes disappeared.

I wanted to get out of this place but I had to know who was there in the dorter.

But had I imagined those eyes peering at me? I thought of monks who had lain in their cells and suddenly looked up to see a pair of eyes watching them. That was the purpose of the grille-that someone outside could look in and catch the cell's occupant unaware.

I began to shiver. I went out into the corridor. I walked along it, looking into the cells. They were empty except for the pallets which had served as beds and which Cromwell's men had not thought worthy of taking away. I stood still and listened.

Silence... and yet there was that uncanny awareness which clung to me and which told me I was not alone.

I pushed open the door of one of the cells. I stared aghast. Seated on one of the pallets was a man. I looked again to assure myself that it was Bruno. His eyes were cold, snakelike. He gave a sudden low laugh which had an unpleasant ring.

"Bruno," I cried, "what are you doing here?”

"I might ask what you are doing here.”

"It was you who looked at me through the grille.”

"Did that disturb you?”

"Naturally. It was so... uncanny. Why didn't you speak? Why didn't you let me know you were there? Why go away so dramatically?”