Dawn of All | Page 8

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