PARKMINSTER AGAIN
Father Knox returned to Bramshott the following morning and in the
afternoon I left for Parkminster. The life at the front had been one
of such excitement and turmoil and frequent changes that I longed for
quiet and peace. The very day I left for Parkminster Bishop Fallon
and party left by auto for Oxford University. They had invited me
to accompany them, but I had already made arrangements to revisit
Parkminster and did not wish to change my program. I shall always
feel sorry, however, not only that I missed seeing Oxford University,
but also that I lost the opportunity of meeting a number of priests
whose names were then famous in the literary world, among them Fathers
Martindale, Plater and Ricaby.
It was a beautiful afternoon when I walked up the winding drive
that led to the gates of the monastery. This time I was greeted as
an old friend. But the aged monk who had been Retreat Master on my
former visit did not appear this time. He had been succeeded by an
alert young English priest who, I think, had but lately come to the
monastery. I missed greatly the dear old priest with whom I had made my
former retreat.
This time I did not settle down to the deep quiet of the monastery. The
year at the front had done its work too well, and I now experienced
the effects of that tension which all who have taken part in the World
War know so well. A strange restlessness possessed me, and I felt a
distinct relief when my time was up. But a little surprise was awaiting
me.
I was told, when about to leave, that the prior wished to see me, and
so I waited in the parlor till he came. He was a very tall man and I
think had he followed the routine of life that ordinary mortals follow
he would have been fat. But now he was slight. He was from France,
but had been at Parkminster a number of years. He enquired about my
work and I related some of my military experiences. He took a great
interest in all I told him, and agreed with me that the war, terrible
as it was, was bringing many souls back to God. When I told him of the
procession of the Blessed Sacrament at Bailleul-aux-Cornailles his eyes
opened wide and he looked at me strangely, so that for a second or two
I became just a little perturbed.
“Where,” he asked quickly, “did this procession take place?” as if he
felt he had not heard aright.
“At Bailleul-aux-Cornailles,” I repeated.
Then he sat back in his chair and the tense look went out of his face
and he regarded me smilingly. “Why,” he said, “that is my own parish.
It was there I was born!”
It was now my turn to be surprised, and I am afraid I did not pay very
much attention to his words as he continued speaking. I just sat there
quietly wondering at the strange things that take place up and down the
ways of the world.