Michael was glad to think that Dom Cuthbert’s plans seemed to be coming to perfection in their course. How long was it since he and Chator were here? Eight or nine years; now Chator was a priest, and himself had done nothing.
The Abbey Gatehouse was majestic in the darkness, and the driver pealed the great bell with a portentous clangor. Michael recognized the pock-marked brother who opened the door; but he could not remember his name. He felt it would be rather absurd to ask the monk if he recognized him by this wavering lanthorn-light.
“Is the Reverend—is Dom Cuthbert at the Abbey now?” he asked. “You don’t remember me, I expect? Michael Fane. I stayed here one Autumn eight or nine years ago.”
The monk held up the lanthorn and stared at him.
“The Reverend Father is in the Guest Room now,” said Brother Ambrose. Michael had suddenly recalled his name.
“Do you think I shall be able to stay here to-night? Or have you a lot of guests for Easter?”
“We can always find room,” said Brother Ambrose. Michael dismissed his driver and followed the monk along the drive.
Dom Cuthbert knew him at once, and seemed very glad that he had come to the Abbey.
“You can have a cell in the Gatehouse. Our new Gatehouse. It’s copied from the one at Cerne Abbas in Dorsetshire. Very beautiful. Very beautiful.”
Michael was introduced to the three or four guests, all types of ecclesiastical laymen, who had been talking with the Abbot. The Compline bell rang almost at once, and the Office was still held in the little chapel of mud and laths built by the hands of the monks.