Dawn of All | Page 6

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