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.
CONCLUSION
Now if you, my reader, go to Scarborough to-day and wander in and
out amongst those quaintly designed mansions on the South Cliff that
are the pride of the inhabitants, and the wonder of all the visitors,
for in the most cunning fashion they recall all the beauty and
strength of dead-and-gone masters, you will assuredly pause before St.
Michael’s Mount, the most artistic and delightful of them all. Should
you inquire of any passer-by who it is lives there, he will tell you
it is owned by the famous Mr. Arthur Hudson and his charming wife--and
he will be of a peculiarly garrulous type almost unknown to Yorkshire
if he ever tells you anything further about the Filey Road murder, for
Scarborough people feel as keenly the injustice of Arthur’s and
Winifred’s sufferings as though they had been their own. Arthur,
indeed, could never bear the idea of returning to London again, and so
they made their home in this, one of the most beautiful spots on our
coast, and no longer is he a partner in the firm of Palamountains, but
one who frankly and freely spends his life and wealth simply in “doing
good.”
As Vera had foreseen, the Eastern leprosy of the Abyssinian Ring ate
quickly into her system--and, although her father, who suddenly became
intolerably grey and broken, threw up his practice at the Bar and
chartered a private yacht to take them out to Abyssinia in the hope of
discovering some antidote from the natives, she never rallied. The
hideous thing made its fearsome inroads quite unchecked, and as they
journeyed home again she took advantage of one dark night and her
attendant’s sleepiness in the tropics to throw herself from the side
of the yacht, and was never seen again.
As for Ventris Blake’s wealth, that went to his gentle old aunt,
Prudence Gordon. For a time it was feared the shock of the exposure of
her nephew’s villainies would kill her outright, but she rallied,
although frailer than ever, and after she had purchased an annuity for
Mrs. Kilroy and her daughter, she found her main delight in appearing
mysteriously at the offices of different charities like Dr. Barnado’s
and St. Thomas’s Hospital, and in handing the secretary of each a Bank
of England note for one thousand pounds, and then disappearing,
unknowing and unknown. Long may she be spared to practise this
unselfish form of good work!
The caretaker, Charlton, was killed the same week as Blake, in a
drunken brawl in Seven Dials--and rumour whispers that the good wife
Rebecca, who is now quite comfortably off, does not regret him quite
as bitterly as one might have expected. I think, too, I know the
reason. I called the other day on her in that bright little house
which she has taken in Ravenscourt Park, and I was startled to find
that she had one lodger with whom I, for one, had a certain amount of
acquaintance--Josiah Sawdry, who blushed furiously when I was shewn
in, and only his landlady and himself were present. Can it be that
they have loved each other years longer than they care to remember?
Does it portend an alliance between the one thousand pounds she got
from Arthur, and the annuity of five pounds a week which Arthur
purchased for him in full redemption of Paul’s promise? I wonder, yet
I don’t wonder very much. Do you?
And the mention of Paul’s promise reminds me of Paul himself. I wish I
could, as a last word, tell you something new and startling and
strange of Paul himself. Only I can’t. As a matter of fact, Paul went
quietly, and loyally, and simply back to his sub-editorial work on
_The Moon_, his heart perhaps a little more sensitive to the
sufferings of “a world bursting with sin and sorrow,” his brain
perhaps, a little more eager to think the better of people and not the
worse. Such men as he are the salt and sweetness of journalism. I
tremble to think what might happen if my old craft were given over
entirely to clever young men, and men who had never felt the pinch of
want or known what it was to sit by the bedside of a dying child.
A little voice and a little bird, it is true, sometimes whispers to me
that Paul did love once, and that the little locket which the
sentimental fellow wears around his neck does not contain the portrait
of his grandmother who found a mighty cure for rheumatism, as he
pretends, at all: but of Winifred herself.
Only sometimes I am not quite sure little birds are so simple and
innocent as they appear. I know for a fact Paul started a terribly
fierce correspondence in _The Moon_, with a column-letter on “Do
Journalists Really Love?” in which he made out nobody who cared for
journalism in the big sense and had that great aching love of humanity
which characterises all who pursue that craft, could content himself
with the love of one simple silly girl when an entire people clamoured
for sympathy and comprehension at the doors of his heart.
Only I must see inside that locket before I really decide. Perhaps
though it only contains a duplicate of that Shield of Black which was
published in _The Moon_ and which gave a most startling presentiment
of The Three Glass Eyes.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. armchair/arm-chair, tea-rooms/tea
rooms, unbiased/unbiassed, etc.) have been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Add ToC.
Adjust the chapter numbering--the source text skipped XVI.
Change two instances of “Reverend Duncan Kilroy, M.A., _B.D._” to
_D.D._
Change five instances of _Aimeé_, and one of _Aimee_, to _Aimée_.
Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings and some
missing periods and commas.
[Chapter I]
Change “came to my office--_aud_ did business with me” to _and_.
[Chapter III]
“repulsed with some scorn _aud_ a good deal of quite unnecessary” to
_and_.
[Chapter IV]
(discreetly announce “Tragedy at _Scarborongh_,”) to _Scarborough_.
“I have given a _gool_ deal of thought to this same subject” to
_good_.
[Chapter V]
“end of his knowledge of the millionaire’s _villanies_” to
_villainies_.
“_Tbe_ man snarled for a few seconds longer, but” to _The_.
[Chapter VI]
“depression that was stealing over him. he broke into a low” change
the period to a comma.
“smashed the whole _contrivanee_ to atoms” to _contrivance_.
“eyes were fixed upon him, with that _huugry_, strained” to _hungry_.
“let him see Arthur safely _ensconsed_ in his cell” to _ensconced_.
“and had no _donbt_ had long consultations” to _doubt_.
[Chapter VII]
“For a second an _indiscribable_ sense of nausea seized” to
_indescribable_.
“provincial town in which she had taken _np_ her quarters” to _up_.
(“you will _hononr_ us with your presence in the Vicarage”) to
_honour_.
they were horrified to see the young _women_, clad from head to foot”
to _woman_.
“and on a _conspicious_ board had been written the warning-notice” to
_conspicuous_.
[Chapter VIII]
“the Scarborough paper did he think any more of the _occurence_” to
_occurrence_.
(“As _yon_ know, Ventris Blake has set his mind) to _you_.
(“By _jove_,” he said quickly, “I had forgotten one) to _Jove_.
[Chapter IX]
“before Arthur could confide to Paul any _fnrther_ particulars” to
_further_.
“scrambled on one of the red _busses_ that run from Liverpool Street”
to _buses_.
“is a _neice_ of that eminent barrister, Mr. Russell Langford” to
_niece_.
“another reason in requesting you to let me see Miss _Pohtifex_” to
_Pontifex_.
(“and she tells me she ain’t _agoin_ to stay here) to _agoin’_.
“taking her to some tea rooms in Bond _Steeet_” to _Street_.
(“the prospect of being rich _dosen’t_ appeal to me) to _doesn’t_.
[Chapter X]
“to save _Arther_ Hudson from all that intolerable burden” to
_Arthur_.
(“You know we, Kaufmanns, as a family, don’t trust you) delete the
comma after _we_.
“in the widest sense, may be easy _enongh_” to _enough_.
“grieved at his sister’s child _heing_ turned adrift” to _being_.
(“Vera is out at present,” _hs_ said, “but left a note to say) to
_he_.
[Chapter XI]
“a member of the _misercordia_ who goes about in a habit” to
_misericordia_.
“the cloud of _douht_ and suspicion seemed to lift from his face” to
_doubt_.
“aroused a new source of interest _n_ him, no other than” to _in_.
“seclusion and remoteness of the office of of a responsible newspaper”
delete one _of_.
(“Why, Silas Q. Pinkerton, the great New York _dectective_,”) to
_detective_.
[Chapter XII]
(“First and foremost. it will stop his espionage on you) change the
period to a comma.
“certainly more dangerous, Thirdly--and this is the most important”
change the comma to a period.
“against a trotting horse and had _heen_ picked up dead” to _been_.
“but finally he _seemcd_ to throw prudence to the winds” to _seemed_.
“unless he yielded the information he _sougbt_” to _sought_.
“and exactly of the amount of _Five_ hundred pounds” to _five_.
“about how telegraph wires _conld_ be tapped” to _could_.
[Chapter XIII]
“but all the good impression he he had made was obliterated” delete
one _he_.
[Chapter XIV]
“I feel as though I should never be able to _breath_ anything” to
_breathe_.
(“Quite so,” replied the _psuedo_-detective. “What else) to _pseudo_.
(“What of that?” said Sawdry _cooly_. “Remember Rebecca) to _coolly_.
“her sisters in the early days were well known amateur _actressess_”
to _actresses_.
[Chapter XV]
“soft splash of the waves as they rolled against _she_ cliffs” to
_the_.
“Clear your mind for a second of all _prejndice_, and consider” to
_prejudice_.
(“Unfortunately, to-morrow morning may be _to_ late,”) to _too_.
“Paul promptly produced a _Five_ pound Bank of England note” to _five_.
[Chapter XVI]
“his feelings of honour, of family pride, of _loyality_” to _loyalty_.
“_althongh_ you seldom did oblige anyone except yourself” to
_although_.
“who I understand he will marry to-morrow at St. _Georges_, Hanover
Square” to _George’s_.
“I was mad with _jealously_ and rage because Jules Prendergast” to
_jealousy_.
[Chapter XVII]
“that meant ease and a certain _Five_ pound a week” to _five_.
“his _thoery_ that Ventris Blake had really killed his wife” to
_theory_.
“put that wretched rodent you are hugging, down for a moment”
delete the comma after _hugging_.
[Chapter XVIII]
“unbiassed auditors, No longer did they seek to persuade” change the
comma to a period.
“bundle of notes, _similiar_ to those they had on the table” to
_similar_.
“the officers expressed neither surprise. dissent, nor pleasure”
change the period to a comma.
“The poor woman, _Rebeccca_ Charlton, was carried out” to _Rebecca_.
[Chapter XIX]
“quickly forgot all the terrible hours of _auguish_” to _anguish_.
[Conclusion]
“she took advantage of of one dark night and her” delete one _of_.
“tell you something new and startling and strange of Paul
_him-himself_” to _himself_.
[End of text]