Dawn of All | Page 7

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