CHAPTER LXXI
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.