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.
Chapter LXXII
Another Surprise
From Parkminster I went to Hindhead and I was delighted with the cordial reception given me by Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Castle. Their home, almost hidden from the road, looked down into a valley, and then away across a moor that stretched up and over a long, high hill.
I was not the only guest in the house. There was a private chapel upstairs, and they had been given the rare privilege of having the Blessed Sacrament reserved in the little tabernacle. Here I said Mass each morning for the household, and nearly all went to Holy Communion.
The following morning I went up to Bramshott to see Father Knox. He had now a beautiful chapel built near the C. W. L. hut, under the patronage of St. Peter and St. Paul; so now the Catholics were no longer obliged to use the garrison church hut. After I had talked with him for a while, he told me to go alone to the hospital, which was just a few hundred feet away. Somebody wished to see me in Ward 18, bed 20. “You will see what you will see,” said Father Knox enigmatically, as he followed me to the door.
This is what I saw after I had entered Ward 18 and had walked a few steps down the aisle. A young fellow was sitting up in bed 20, his finger marking the place in a little black book with red edges, his eyes smiling a friendly greeting. But who was he? I approached still nearer. Then I recognized him. It was the Spanish lad who had come to Father Knox’s room about one year and a half before to tell him that he had lost the faith and was no longer a Catholic.