Made and Printed in Great Britain at _The Mayflower Press,
Plymouth_. William Brendan & Son, Ltd.
PREFACE
IN a former book, called _Lord of the World_, I attempted to
sketch the kind of developments a hundred years hence which, I
thought, might reasonably be expected if the present lines of
what is called "modern thought" were only prolonged far enough;
and I was informed repeatedly that the effect of the book was
exceedingly depressing and discouraging to optimistic Christians.
In the present book I am attempting--also in parable form--not in
the least to withdraw anything that I said in the former, but to
follow up the other lines instead, and to sketch--again in
parable--the kind of developments, about sixty years hence which,
I think, may reasonably be expected should the opposite process
begin, and ancient thought (which has stood the test of
centuries, and is, in a very remarkable manner, being
"rediscovered" by persons even more modern than modernists) be
prolonged instead. We are told occasionally by moralists that we
live in very critical times, by which they mean that they are not
sure whether their own side will win or not. In that sense no
times can ever be critical to Catholics, since Catholics are
never in any kind of doubt as to whether or no their side will
win. But from another point of view every period is a critical
period, since every period has within itself the conflict of two
irreconcilable forces. It has been for the sake of tracing out
the kind of effects that, it seemed to me, each side would
experience in turn, should the other, at any rate for a while,
become dominant, that I have written these two books.
Finally if I may be allowed, I should wish to draw attention to
my endeavours to treat of the subject of "religious persecution,"
since I strongly believe that in some such theory is to be found
the explanation of such phenomena as those of Mary Tudor's reign
in England, and of the Spanish Inquisition. In practically every
such case, I think, it was the State and not the Church which was
responsible for so unhappy a policy; and that the policy was
directed not against unorthodoxy, as such, but against an
unorthodoxy which, under the circumstances of those days, was
thought to threaten the civil stability of society in general,
and which was punished as amounting to treasonable, rather than
to heretical, opinions.
ROBERT HUGH BENSON.
ROME Lent 1911
THE DAWN OF ALL
PROLOGUE
Gradually memory and consciousness once more reasserted
themselves, and he became aware that he was lying in bed. But
this was a slow process of intense mental effort, and was as
laboriously and logically built up of premises and deductions as
were his theological theses learned twenty years before in his
seminary. There was the sheet below his chin; there was a red
coverlet (seen at first as a blood-coloured landscape of hills
and valleys); there was a ceiling, overhead, at first as remote
as the vault of heaven. Then, little by little, the confused
roaring in his ears sank to a murmur. It had been just now as the
sound of brazen hammers clanging in reverberating caves, the
rolling of wheels, the tramp of countless myriads of men. But it
had become now a soothing murmur, not unlike the coming in of a
tide at the foot of high cliffs--just one gentle continuous note,
overlaid with light, shrill sounds. This too required long
argument and reasoning before any conclusion could be reached;
but it was attained at last, and he became certain that he lay
somewhere within sound of busy streets. Then rashly he leapt to
the belief that he must be in his own lodgings in Bloomsbury; but
another long slow stare upwards showed him that the white ceiling
was too far away.
The effort of thought seemed too much for him; it gave him a
sense of inexplicable discomfort. He determined to think no more,
for fear that the noises should revert again to the crash of
hammers in his hollow head. . . .
He was next conscious of a pressure on his lip, and a kind of
shadow of a taste of something. But it was no more than a shadow:
it was as if he were watching some one else drink and perceiving
some one else to swallow. . . . Then with a rush the ceiling came
back into view: he was aware that he was lying in bed under a red
coverlet; that the room was large and airy about him; and that
two persons, a doctor in white and a nurse, were watching him. He
rested in that knowledge for a long time, watching memory
reassert itself. Detail after detail sprang into view: farther
and farther back into his experience, far down into the childhood
he had forgotten. He remembered now who he was, his story, his
friends, his life up to a certain blank day or set of days,
between him and which there was nothing. Then he saw the faces
again, and it occurred to him, with a flash as of illumination,
to ask. So he began to ask; and he considered carefully each
answer, turning it over and reflecting upon it with what seemed
to him an amazing degree of concentration.
". . . So I am in Westminster Hospital," he considered. "That is
extraordinarily interesting and affecting. I have often seen the
outside of it. It is of discoloured brick. And I have been
here . . . how long? how long, did they say? . . . Oh! that is a
long time. Five days! And what in the world can have happened to
my work? They will be looking out for me in the Museum. How can
Dr. Waterman's history get on without me? I must see about that
at once. He'll understand that it's not my fault. . . .
"What's that? I mustn't trouble myself about that? But--Oh! Dr.
Waterman has been here, has he? That's very kind--very kind and
thoughtful indeed. And I'm to take my time, am I? Very well.
Please thank Dr. Waterman for his kindness and his
thoughtfulness in enquiring. . . . And tell him I'll be with him
again in a day or two at any rate. . . . Oh! tell him that he'll
find the references to the thirteenth-century Popes in the black
notebook--the thick one--on the right of the fire-place. They're
all verified. Thank you, thank you very much. . . . and . . . by
the way . . . just tell him I'm not sure yet about the
Piccolomini matter. . . . What's that? I'm not to trouble
myself? . . . But . . . Oh! very well. Thank you. . . . Thank
you very much."
There followed a long pause. He was thinking still very hard
about the thirteenth-century Popes. It was really very tiresome
that he could not explain to Dr. Waterman himself. He was certain
that some of the pages in the thick black notebook were loose;
and how terrible it would be if the book were taken out
carelessly, and some of the pages fell into the fire. They easily
might! And then there'd be all the work to do again. . . . And
that would mean weeks and weeks. . . .
Then there came a grave, quiet voice of a woman speaking in his
ear; but for a long time he could not understand. He wished it
would let him alone. He wanted to think about the Popes. He tried
nodding and murmuring a general sort of assent, as if he wished
to go to sleep; but it was useless: the voice went on and on. And
then suddenly he understood, and a kind of fury seized him.
How did they know he had once been a priest? Spying and
badgering, as usual! . . . No: he did not want a priest sent for.
He was not a priest any more; not even a Catholic. It was all
lies--lies from the beginning to the end--all that they had
taught him in the seminary. It was all lies! There! Was that
plain enough? . . .
Ah! why would not the voice be quiet? . . . He was in great
danger, was he? He would be unconscious again soon, would he?
Well, he didn't know what they meant by that; but what had it to
do with him? No: he did not want a priest. Was that clear
enough? . . . He was perfectly clear-headed; he knew what he was
saying. . . . Yes; even if he were in great danger . . . even if
he were practically certain to die. (That, by the way, was
impossible; because he had to finish the notes for Dr.
Waterman's new History of the Popes; and it would take months.)
Anyhow, he didn't want a priest. He knew all about that: he had
faced it all, and he wasn't afraid. Science had knocked all that
religious nonsense on the head. There wasn't any religion. All
religions were the same. There wasn't any truth in any of them.
Physical science had settled one half of the matter, and
psychology the other half. It was all accounted for. So he
didn't want a priest anyhow. Damn priests! There! would they let
him alone after that? . . .
And now as to the Piccolomini affair. It was certain that when
Aeneas was first raised to the Sacred College. . . .
Why . . . what was happening to the ceiling? How could he attend
to Aeneas while the ceiling behaved like that? He had no idea
that ceilings in the Westminster Hospital could go up like lifts.
How very ingenious! It must be to give him more air. Certainly he
wanted more air. . . . The walls too. . . . Ought not they also
to revolve? They could change the whole air in the room in a
moment. What an extraordinarily ingenious . . . Ah! and he wanted
it. . . . He wanted more air. . . . Why don't these doctors know
their business better? . . . What was the good of catching hold
of him like that? . . . He wanted air . . . more air . . . He
must get to the window! . . . Air . . . air! . . .
PART I
CHAPTER I
(I)
The first objects of which he became aware were his own hands
clasped on his lap before him, and the cloth cuffs from which
they emerged; and it was these latter that puzzled him. So
engrossed was he that at first he could not pay attention to the
strange sounds in the air about him; for these cuffs, though
black, were marked at their upper edges with a purpled line such
as prelates wear. He mechanically turned the backs of his hands
upwards; but there was no ring on his finger. Then he lifted his
eyes and looked.
He was seated on some kind of raised chair beneath a canopy. A
carpet ran down over a couple of steps beneath his feet, and
beyond stood the backs of a company of ecclesiastics--secular
priests in cotta, cassock, and biretta, with three or four
bare-footed Franciscans and a couple of Benedictines. Ten yards
away there rose a temporary pulpit with a back and a
sounding-board beneath the open sky; and in it was the tall
figure of a young friar, preaching, it seemed, with extraordinary
fervour. Around the pulpit, beyond it, and on all sides to an
immense distance, so far as he could see, stretched the heads of
an incalculable multitude, dead silent, and beyond them again
trees, green against a blue summer sky.
He looked on all this, but it meant nothing to him. It fitted on
nowhere with his experience; he knew neither where he was, nor at
what he was assisting, nor who these people were, nor who the
friar was, nor who he was himself. He simply looked at his
surroundings, then back at his hands and down his figure.
He gained no knowledge there, for he was dressed as he had never
been dressed before. His caped cassock was black, with purple
buttons and a purple cincture. He noticed that his shoes shone
with gold buckles; he glanced at his breast, but no cross hung
there. He took off his biretta, nervously, lest some one should
notice, and perceived that it was black with a purple tassel. He
was dressed then, it seemed, in the costume of a Domestic
Prelate. He put on his biretta again.
Then he closed his eyes and tried to think; but he could remember
nothing. There was, it seemed, no continuity anywhere. But it
suddenly struck him that if he knew that he was a Domestic
Prelate, and if he could recognize a Franciscan, he must have
seen those phenomena before. Where? When?
Little pictures began to form before him as a result of his
intense mental effort, but they were far away and minute, like
figures seen through the wrong end of a telescope; and they
afforded no explanation. But, as he bent his whole mind upon it,
he remembered that he had been a priest--he had distinct memories
of saying mass. But he could not remember where or when; he could
not even remember his own name.
This last horror struck him alert again. _He did not know who he
was_. He opened his eyes widely, terrified, and caught the eye of
an old priest in cotta and cassock who was looking back at him
over his shoulder. Something in the frightened face must have
disturbed the old man, for he detached himself from the group and
came up the two steps to his side.
"What is it, Monsignor?" he whispered.
"I am ill . . . I am ill . . . father," he stammered.
The priest looked at him doubtfully for an instant.
"Can you . . . can you hold out for a little? The sermon
must be nearly---"
Then the other recovered. He understood that at whatever cost he
must not attract attention. He nodded sharply.
"Yes, I can hold out, father; if he isn't too long. But you must
take me home afterwards."
The priest still looked at him doubtfully.
"Go back to your place, father. I'm all right. Don't attract
attention. Only come to me afterwards."
The priest went back, but he still glanced at him once or twice.
Then the man who did not know himself set his teeth and resolved
to remember. The thing was too absurd. He said to himself he
would begin by identifying where he was. If he knew so much as to
his own position and the dresses of those priests, his memory
could not be wholly gone.
In front of him and to the right there were trees, beyond the
heads of the crowd. There was something vaguely familiar to him
about the arrangement of these, but not enough to tell him
anything. He craned forward and stared as far to the right as he
could. There were more trees. Then to the left; and here, for the
first time, he caught sight of buildings. But these seemed very
odd buildings--neither houses nor arches--but something between
the two. They were of the nature of an elaborate gateway.
And then in a flash he recognized where he was. He was sitting,
under this canopy, just to the right as one enters through Hyde
Park Corner; these trees were the trees of the Park; that open
space in front was the beginning of Rotten Row; and Something
Lane--Park Lane--(that was it!)--was behind him.
Impressions and questions crowded upon him quickly now--yet in
none of them was there a hint as to how he got here, nor who he
was, nor what in the world was going on. This friar! What was he
doing, preaching in Hyde Park? It was ridiculous--ridiculous and
very dangerous. It would cause trouble. . . .
He leaned forward to listen, as the friar with a wide gesture
swept his hand round the horizon. "Brethren," he cried, "Look
round you! Fifty years ago this was a Protestant country, and the
Church of God a sect among the sects. And to-day--to-day God is
vindicated and the truth is known. Fifty years ago we were but a
handful among the thousands that knew not God, and to-day we rule
the world. 'Son of man, can these dry bones live?' So cried the
voice of God to the prophet. And behold! they stood up upon their
feet, an exceeding great army. If then He has done such things
for us, what shall He not do for those for whom I speak? Yet He
works through man. 'How shall they hear without a preacher?' Do
you see to it then that there are not wanting labourers in that
vineyard of which you have heard. Already the grapes hang ready
to pluck, and it is but we that are wanting. . . . Send forth
then labourers into My vineyard, cries the Lord of all."
The words were ill-chosen and commonplace enough, and uttered in
an accent indefinably strange to the bewildered listener, but the
force of the man was tremendous, as he sent out his personality
over the enormous crowd, on that high vibrant voice that
controlled, it seemed, even those on the outskirts far up the
roads on either side. Then with a swift sign of the cross,
answered generally by those about the pulpit, he ended his sermon
and disappeared down the steps, and a great murmur of talk began.
But what in the world was it all about, wondered the man under
the canopy. What was this vineyard? and why did he appeal to
English people in such words as these? Every one knew that the
Catholic Church was but a handful still in this country.
Certainly, progress had been made, but. . . .
He broke off his meditations as he saw the group of
ecclesiastics coming towards him, and noticed that on all sides
the crowd was beginning to disperse. He gripped the arms of the
chair fiercely, trying to gain self-command. He must not make a
fool of himself before all these people; he must be discreet and
say as little as possible.
But there was no great need for caution at present. The old
priest who had spoken to him before stepped a little in advance
of the rest, and turning, said in a low sentence or two to the
Benedictines; and the group stopped, though one or two still
eyed, it seemed, with sympathy, the man who awaited him. Then the
priest came up alone and put his hand on the arm of the chair.
"Come out this way," he whispered. "There's a path behind,
Monsignor, and I've sent orders for the car to be there."
The man rose obediently (he could do nothing else), passed down
the steps and behind the canopy. A couple of police stood there
in an unfamiliar, but unmistakable uniform, and these drew
themselves up and saluted. They went on down the little pathway
and out through a side-gate. Here again the crowd was tremendous,
but barriers kept them away, and the two passed on together
across the pavement, saluted by half a dozen men who were pressed
against the barriers--(it was here, for the first time, that the
bewildered man noticed that the dresses seemed altogether
unfamiliar)--and up to a car of a peculiar and unknown shape,
that waited in the roadway, with a bare-headed servant, in some
strange purple livery, holding the door open.
"After you, Monsignor," said the old priest.
The other stepped in and sat down. The priest hesitated for an
instant, and then leaned forward into the car.
"You have an appointment in Dean's Yard, Monsignor, you remember.
It's important, you know. Are you too ill?"
"I can't. . . . I can't. . . ." stammered the man.
"Well, at least, we can go round that way. I think we ought, you
know. I can go in and see him for you, if you wish; and we can at
any rate leave the papers."
"Anything, anything. . . . Very well."
The priest got in instantly; the door closed; and the next
moment, through crowds, held back by the police, the great car,
with no driver visible in front through the clear-glass windows,
moved off southward.
(II)
It was a moment before either spoke. The old priest broke the
silence. He was a gentle-faced old man, not unlike a very shrewd
and wide-awake dormouse; and his white hair stood out in a mass
beneath his biretta. But the words he used were unintelligible,
though not altogether unfamiliar.
"I . . . I don't understand, father," stammered the man.
The priest looked at him sharply.
"I was saying," he said slowly and distinctly, "I was saying that
you looked very well, and I was asking you what was the matter."
The other was silent a moment. How, to explain the
thing! . . . Then he determined on making a clean breast of it.
This old man looked kindly and discreet. "I . . . I think it's a
lapse of memory," he said. "I've heard of such things. I . . . I
don't know where I am nor what I'm doing. Are you . . . are you
sure you're not making a mistake? Have I got any right----?"
The priest looked at him as if puzzled.
"I don't quite understand, Monsignor. What can't you remember?"
"I can't remember anything," wailed the man, suddenly broken down.
"Nothing at all. Not who I am, nor where I'm going, or where I come
from. . . . What am I? Who am I? Father, for God's sake tell me."
"Monsignor, be quiet, please. You mustn't give way. Surely----"
"I tell you I can remember nothing. . . . It's all gone. I don't
know who you are. I don't know what day it is, or what year it
is, or anything----"
He felt a hand on his arm, and his eyes met a look of a very
peculiar power and concentration. He sank back into his seat
strangely quieted and soothed.
"Now, Monsignor, listen to me. You know who I am"--(he broke
off). "I'm Father Jervis. I know about these things. I've been
through the psychological schools. You'll be all right presently,
I hope. But you must be perfectly quiet----"
"Tell me who I am," stammered the man.
"Listen then. You are Monsignor Masterman, secretary to the Cardinal.
You are going back to Westminster now, in your own car----"
"What's been going on? What was all that crowd about?"
Still the eyes were on him, compelling and penetrating.
"You have been presiding at the usual midday Saturday sermon in
Hyde Park, on behalf of the Missions to the East. Do you remember
now? No! Well, it doesn't matter in the least. That was Father
Anthony who was preaching. He was a little nervous, you noticed.
It was his first sermon in Hyde Park."
"I saw he was a friar," murmured the other.
"Oh! you recognized his habit then? There, you see; your
memory's not really gone. And . . . and what's the answer to
_Dominus vobiscum_?"
"_Et cum spiritu tuo._"
The priest smiled, and the pressure on the man's arm relaxed.
"That's excellent. It's only a partial obscurity. Why didn't you
understand me when I spoke to you in Latin then?"
"That was Latin? I thought so. But you spoke too fast; and I'm
not accustomed to speak it."
The old man looked at him with grave humour. "Not accustomed to
speak it, Monsignor! Why----" (He broke off again.) "Look out of
the window, please. Where are we?"
The other looked out. (He felt greatly elated and comforted. It
was quite true; his memory was not altogether gone then. Surely
he would soon be well again!) Out of the windows in front, but
seeming to wheel swiftly to the left as the car whisked round to
the right, was the Victoria Tower. He noticed that the hour
pointed to five minutes before one.
"Those are the Houses of Parliament," he said. "And what's that
tall pillar in the middle of Parliament Square?"
"That's the image of the Immaculate Conception. But what did you
call those buildings just now?"
"Houses of Parliament, aren't they?" faltered the man, terrified
that his brain was really going.
"Why do you call them that?"
"It is their name, isn't it?"
"It used to be; but it isn't the usual name now."
"Good God! Father, am I mad? Tell me. What year is it?"
The eyes looked again into his.
"Monsignor, think. Think hard."
"I don't know. . . . I don't know. . . . Oh, for God's sake! . . ."
"Quietly then. . . . It's the year nineteen hundred and
seventy-three."
"It can't be; it can't be," gasped the other. "Why, I remember
the beginning of the century."
"Monsignor, attend to me, please. . . . That's better. It's the
year nineteen hundred and seventy-three. You were born in the
year--in the year nineteen hundred and thirty-two. You are just
forty years old. You are secretary and chaplain to the
Cardinal--Cardinal Bellairs. Before that you were Rector of St.
Mary's in the West. . . . Do you remember now?"
"I remember nothing."
"You remember your ordination?"
"No. Once I remember saying Mass somewhere. I don't know where."
"Stay, we're just there." (The car wheeled in swiftly under an
archway, whisked to the left, and drew up before the cloister
door.) "Now, Monsignor, I'm going in to see the Prior myself and
give him the papers. You have them?"
"I. . . I don't know."
The priest dived forward and extracted a small despatch-box from
some unseen receptacle.
"Your keys, please, Monsignor."
The other felt wildly about his person. He saw the steady eyes of
the old priest upon him.
"You keep them in your left-hand breast pocket," said the priest
slowly and distinctly.
The man felt there, fetched out a bundle of thin, flat keys, and
handed them over helplessly. While the priest turned them over,
examining each, the other stared hopelessly out of the window,
past the motionless servant in purple who waited with his hand on
the car-door. Surely he knew this place. . . . Yes; it was Dean's
Yard. And this was the entrance to the cloister of the Abbey. But
who was "the Prior," and what was it all about?
He turned to the other, who by now was bending over the box and
extracting a few papers laid neatly at the top.
"What are you doing, father? Who are you going to see?"
"I am going to take these papers of yours to the Prior--the
Prior of Westminster. The Abbot isn't here yet. Only a few of
the monks have come."
"Monks! Prior! . . . Father!"
The old man looked him in the eyes again.
"Yes," he said quietly. "The Abbey was made over again to the
Benedictines last year, but they haven't yet formally taken
possession. And these papers concern business connected with the
whole affair--the relations of seculars and regulars. I'll tell
you afterwards. I must go in now, and you must just remain here
quietly. Tell me again. What is your name? Who are you?"
"I. . . I am Monsignor Masterman. . . secretary to
Cardinal Bellairs."
The priest smiled as he laid his hand on the door.
"Quite right," he said. "Now please sit here quietly, Monsignor,
till I come back."
(III)
He sat in perfect silence, waiting, leaning back in his corner
with closed eyes, compelling himself to keep his composure.
It was, at any rate, good luck that he had fallen in with such a
friend as this--Father Jervis, was it not?--who knew all about
him, and, obviously, could be trusted to be discreet. He must
just attend to his instructions quietly then, and do what he was
told. No doubt things would come back soon. But how very curious
this all was about Hyde Park and Westminster. He could have
sworn that England was a Protestant country, and the Church just
a tiny fragment of its population. Why, it was only recently
that Westminster Cathedral was built--was it not? But then this
was the year seventy-three . . . and . . . and he could not
remember in what year the Cathedral was built. Then again the
horror and bewilderment seized him. He gripped his knees with
his hands in an agony of consternation. He would go mad if he
could not remember. Or at least----Ah! here was Father Jervis
coming back again.
The two sat quite silent again for a moment, as the car moved off.
"Tell me," said the priest suddenly, "don't you remember faces,
or people's names?"
The other concentrated his mind fiercely for a moment or two.
"I remember some faces--yes," he said. "And I remember some names.
But I cannot remember which faces belong to which names. . . . I
remember . . . I remember the name Archbishop Bourne;
and . . . and a priest called Farquharson----"
"What have you been reading lately? . . . Ah! I forgot. Well; but
can't you remember the Cardinal . . . Cardinal Bellairs?"
"I've never heard of him."
"Nor what he looks like?"
"I haven't a notion."
The priest again was silent.
"Look here, Monsignor," he said suddenly, "I'd better take you
straight up to your rooms as soon as we arrive; and I'll have a
notice put up on your confessional that you are unable to attend
there to-day. You'll have the whole afternoon--after four at
least--to yourself, and the rest of the evening. We needn't tell a
soul until we're certain that it can't be helped, not even the
Cardinal. But I'm afraid you'll have to preside at lunch to-day."
"Eh?"
"Mr. Manners is coming, you know, to consult with the Cardinal;
and I think if you weren't there to entertain him----"
Monsignor nodded sharply, with compressed lips.
"I understand. But just tell me who Mr. Manners is?"
The priest answered without any sign of discomposure.
"He's a member of the Government. He's the great Political
Economist. And he's coming to consult with the Cardinal about
certain measures that affect the Church. Do you remember now?"
The other shook his head. "No."
"Well, just talk to him vaguely. I'll sit opposite and take care
that you don't make any mistakes. Just talk to him generally.
Talk about the sermon in Hyde Park, and the Abbey. He won't
expect you to talk politics publicly."
"I'll try."
The car drew up as the conversation ended; and the man who had
lost his memory glanced out. To his intense relief, he
recognized where he was. It was the door of Archbishop's House,
in Ambrosden Avenue; and beyond he perceived the long northern
side of the Cathedral.
"I know this," he said.
"Of course you do, my dear Monsignor," said the priest
reassuringly. "Now follow me: bow to any one who salutes you; but
don't speak a word."
They passed in together through the door, past a couple of
liveried servants who held it open, up the staircase and beyond
up the further flight. The old priest drew out a key and unlocked
the door before them; and together they turned to the left up the
corridor, and passed into a large, pleasant room looking out on
to the street, with a further door communicating, it seemed, with
a bedroom beyond. Fortunately they had met no one on the way.
"Here we are," said Father Jervis cheerfully. "Now, Monsignor, do
you know where you are?"
The other shook his head dolorously.
"Come, come; this is your own room. Look at your writing-table,
Monsignor; where you sit every day."
The other looked at it eagerly and yet vaguely. A half-written
letter, certainly in his own handwriting, lay there on the
blotting-pad, but the name of his correspondent meant nothing to
him; nor did the few words which he read. He looked round the
room--at the bookcases, the curtains, the _prie-Dieu_ . . . And
again terror seized him.
"I know nothing, father . . . nothing at all. It's all new! For
God's sake! . . ."
"Quietly then, Monsignor. It's all perfectly right. . . . Now I'm
going to leave you for ten minutes, to arrange about the places
at lunch. You'd better lock your door and admit no one. Just look
round the rooms when I'm gone----Ah!"
Father Jervis broke off suddenly and darted at an arm-chair, where
a book lay face downwards on the seat. He snatched up the book,
glanced at the pages, looked at the title, and laughed aloud.
"I knew it," he said; "I was certain of it. You've got hold of
Manners' History, Look! you're at the very page."
He held it up for the other to see. Monsignor looked at it, still
only half comprehending, and just noticing that the paper had a
peculiar look, and saw that the running dates at the top of the
pages contained the years 1904-1912. The priest shook the book in
gentle triumph. A sheet of paper fell out of it, which he picked
up and glanced at. Then he laughed again.
"See," he said, "you've been making notes of the very period--no
doubt in order to be able to talk to Manners. That's the time he
knows more about than any living soul. He calls it the 'crest of
the wave,' you know. Everything dated from then, in his opinion."
"I don't understand a word----"
"See here, Monsignor," interrupted the priest in mild glee,
"here's a subject to talk about at lunch. Just get Manners on to
it, and you'll have no trouble. He loves lecturing; and he talks
just like a history-book. Tell him you've been reading his
History and want a bird's-eye view."
Monsignor started.
"Why, yes," he said, "and that'll tell me the facts, too."
"Excellent. Now, Monsignor, I must go. Just look round the rooms
well, and get to know where things are kept. I'll be back in ten
minutes, and we'll have a good talk before lunch as to all who'll
be there. It'll all go perfectly smoothly, I promise you."
(IV)
When the door closed Monsignor Masterman looked round him slowly
and carefully. He had an idea that the mist must break sooner or
later and that all would become familiar once again. It was
perfectly plain, by now, to his mind, what had happened to him;
and the fact that there were certain things which he recognized,
such as the Cathedral, and Hyde Park, and a friar's habit, and
Archbishop's House--all this helped him to keep his head. If he
remembered so much, there seemed no intrinsic reason why he
should not remember more.
But his inspection was disappointing. Not only was there not one
article in the room which he knew, but he did not even understand
the use of some of the things which he saw. There was a row of
what looked like small black boxes fastened to the right-hand
wall, about the height of a man's head; and there was some kind
of a machine, all wheels and handles, in the corner by the nearer
window, which was completely mysterious to him.
He glanced through into the bedroom, and this was not much
better. Certainly there was a bed; there was no mistake about
that; and there seemed to be wardrobes sunk to the level of the
walls on all sides; but although in this room he thought he
recognized the use of everything which he saw, there was no
single thing that wore a familiar aspect.
He came back to his writing-table and sat down before it in
despair. But that did not reassure him. He took out one or two of
the books that stood there in a row--directories and
address-books they appeared chiefly to be--and found his name
written in each, with here and there a note or a correction, all
in his own handwriting. He took up the half-written letter again
and glanced through it once more, but it brought no relief. He
could not even conjecture how the interrupted sentence on the
third page ought to end.
Again and again he tried to tear up from his inner consciousness
something which he could remember, closing his eyes and sinking
his head upon his hands, but nothing except fragments and
glimpses of vision rose before him. It was now a face or a scene
to which he could give no name; now a sentence or a thought that
owned no context. There was no frame at all--no unified scheme in
which these fragments found cohesion. It was like regarding the
pieces of a shattered jar whose shape even could not be
conjectured. . . .
Then a sudden thought struck him; he sprang up quickly and ran
into his bedroom. A tall mirror, he remembered, hung between the
windows. He ran straight up to this and stood staring at his own
reflection. It was himself that he saw there--there was no doubt
of that--every line and feature of that keen, pale,
professorial-looking face was familiar, though it seemed to him
that his hair was a little greyer than it ought to be.