(II)
The monk sighed humorously.
"Another of them," he said. "Well, my man?"
"Please, father—"
The monk closed his eyes as in resignation.
"You needn't try that on," he said. "Besides, I'm not a father. I'm a brother. Can you remember that?"
Frank smiled back.
"Very well, brother. I'm a Catholic myself."
"Ah! yes," sighed the monk briskly. "That's what they all say. Can you say the 'Divine Praises'? Do you know what they are?... However, that makes no difference, as—"
"But I can, brother. 'Blessed be God. Blessed be His—"
"But you're not Irish?"
"I know I'm not. But—"
"Are you an educated man? However, that's not my affair. What can I do for you, sir?"
The monk seemed to take a little more interest in him, and Frank took courage.
"Yes," he said, "I'm an educated man. My name's Frank Gregory. I've got two friends out on the road up there—a man and a woman. Their name's Trustcott—and the woman—"
"No good; no good," said the monk. "No women."
"But, brother, she really can't go any further. I'm very sorry, but we simply must have shelter. We've got two or three shillings, if necessary—"
"Oh, you have, have you?" said the monk keenly. "That's quite new. And when did you touch food last? Yesterday morning? (Don't say 'S'elp me!' It's not necessary.)"
"We last touched food about twelve o'clock to-day. We had beans and cold bacon," said Frank deliberately. "We're perfectly willing to pay for shelter and food, if we're obliged. But, of course, we don't want to."
The monk eyed him very keenly indeed a minute or two without speaking. This seemed a new type.
"Come in and sit down a minute," he said. "I'll fetch the guest-master."
It was a very plain little room in which Frank sat, and seemed designed, on purpose, to furnish no temptation to pilferers. There was a table, two chairs, a painted plaster statue of a gray-bearded man in black standing on a small bracket with a crook in his hand; a pious book, much thumb-marked, lay face downwards on the table beside the oil lamp. There was another door through which the monk had disappeared, and that was absolutely all. There was no carpet and no curtains, but a bright little coal fire burned on the hearth, and two windows looked, one up the drive down which Frank had come, and the other into some sort of courtyard on the opposite side.
About ten minutes passed away without anything at all happening. Frank heard more than one gust of rain-laden wind dash against the little barred window to the south, and he wondered how his friends were getting on. The Major, at any rate, he knew, would manage to keep himself tolerably dry. Then he began to think about this place, and was surprised that he was not surprised at running into it like this in the dark. He knew nothing at all about monasteries—he hardly knew that there were such things in England (one must remember that he had only been a Catholic for about five months), and yet somehow, now that he had come here, it all seemed inevitable. (I cannot put it better than that: it is what he himself says in his diary.)
Then, as he meditated, the door opened, and there came in a thin, eager-looking elderly man, dressed like the brother who followed him, except that over his frock he wore a broad strip of black stuff, something like a long loose apron, hanging from his throat to his feet, and his head was enveloped in a black hood.
Frank stood up and bowed with some difficulty. He was beginning to feel stiff.
"Well," said the priest sharply, with his bright gray eyes, puckered at the corners, running over and taking in the whole of Frank's figure from close-cut hair to earthy boots. "Brother James tells me you wish to see me."
"It was Brother James who said so, father," said Frank.
"What is it you want?"
"I've got two friends on the road who want shelter—man and woman. We'll pay, if necessary, but—"
"Never mind about that," interrupted the priest sharply. "Who are you?"
"The name I go by is Frank Gregory."
"The name you go by, eh?... Where were you educated?"
"Eton and Cambridge."
"How do you come to be on the roads?"
"That's a long story, father."
"Did you do anything you shouldn't?"
"No. But I've been in prison since."
"And your name's Frank Gregory.... F.G., eh?"
Frank turned as if to leave. He understood that he was known.
"Well—good-night, father—"
The priest turned with upraised hand.
"Brother James, just step outside."
Then he continued as the door closed.
"You needn't go, Mr.—er—Gregory. Your name shall not be mentioned to a living being without your leave."
"You know about me?"
"Of course I do.... Now be sensible, my dear fellow; go and fetch your friends. We'll manage somehow." (He raised his voice and rapped on the table.) "Brother James ... go up with Mr. Gregory to the porter's lodge. Make arrangements to put the woman up somewhere, either there or in a gardener's cottage. Then bring the man down here.... His name?"
"Trustcott," said Frank.
"And when you come back, I shall be waiting for you here."