Chapter XIX: The Parting of the Clouds

Very full of stress and excitement were the days that followed this tragic end of the Vicar of St. Sepulchre’s and of Ventris Blake the millionaire. The British police, being British no doubt, are very slow to move where it is a case of the proof of the innocence of a prisoner whom they have taken in charge, and not of his guilt--and for several days after the news of the murder and suicide had leaked out Arthur Hudson had to content himself with his lot in that tiny cell in Scarborough police-station.

Paul Renishaw, of course, stuck loyally to him, and visited him daily. Nor, as the reader may perhaps guess, was he the only visitor who braved those wild easterly gales that sweep over that Yorkshire coast in the early days of the year. Winifred quickly followed the officer sent down from Scotland Yard to confer with the local Chief Constable--and while these two wise heads were deep in the technicalities of criminal law and lunacy, and the discussion of how far they were justified in accepting an admitted madman’s confession as correct, these two young hearts found joy and brightness and solace in each other; and once again hope beat high within their breasts.

In the longest lane, too, comes the inevitable turning, and, perhaps, it was as well Arthur did not regain his liberty at once, for there was much of shame and scandal and intolerable suspicion to lift from his shoulders, which only Time--the greatest healer of all--could be trusted to do with any effect. Happily, just as the details of the murder at Scarborough and his arrest had been published broadcast, so the news of his innocence, his sufferings and his fortitude were now printed, with the result that public opinion swung round once again in his favour; and he was hailed as a man who had been the victim of one of the cruellest conspiracies known in fashionable London life. Indeed, it is a mistake to suppose that all this sensationalism of the Press makes for evil. It cleanses the hidden sewers of crime--and it is almost the only instrument we possess that sets the innocently-accused up securely on their public seats.

In the sunshine of Winifred’s love too, Arthur quickly forgot all the terrible hours of anguish that had been meted out to him. Young hearts like his are intensely recuperative, and to-day he often recalls with a merry laugh the conversation they had when he was finally released from the police-station one morning early, to avoid any popular demonstration, and they strolled almost at break of day through the Valley, down to the sea with its ceaseless message of high purpose and great endeavour, and of the undying dignity of breadth and freedom and resistless power.

“Do you grieve, dearest,” questioned Winnie suddenly, turning on him two eyes that shone with devotion and trust, “that we did not find the course of true love smooth? Is there any bitterness in your heart that all at once, through no apparent fault of our own, we were called on to suffer so much shame and hurt?”

For a full minute he paused, and thought deeply. Then, just as the yellow sun came steering out from behind a mass of billowy cloud, so did the eternal instinct of the creature towards the Creator, arise in him and call him, as it calls each one of us in our several fashions, to the great act of renunciation of self.

“I do not grieve, dearest,” he answered slowly, simply, reverently. “Nay, I am thankful that I have been tried as by fire in a furnace, and that neither you nor I have sunk down under it, but have arisen the better, the wiser, the stronger, may I say, the sweeter for our day of affliction.” Then slowly lifting his hat he looked far out across the sea, and there came floating into his mind the one triumphant prayer of the Catholic Church, when its greatest service and mystery have moved in all their majestic splendour to that crowning act on Calvary, so intensely symbolical of the Divine Life as well as the Human.

“Benedicamus Domino,” he said in his clear purposeful tones.

“Deo Gratias,” responded Winifred with a great sigh of thankfulness--and their eyes involuntarily filled with tears.