Dawn of All | Page 7

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