"We haven't done as we ought to by t' church," said another, "but you'll see that altered, Mr. Byars. Eh! but our faith has been weak! There'll be many a Christian's heart full of shame and sorrow for the past months this night, I'm thinking."

They crowded round him, this knot of expensively dressed people, hard-faced and harsh-spoken, with a warmth and contrition which moved the old man inexpressibly.

Never before had he been so near to them. Dimly he began to think he saw a wise and awful purpose of G.o.d, who had allowed this iniquity and calamity that the faith of the world might be strengthened.

"We'll never forget what you've done for us, Mr. Byars."

"If we've been lukewarm before, vicar, 't will be all boiling now!"

"Praise G.o.d that He has spoken at last, and G.o.d forgive us for forgetting Him."

The air was electric with love and praise.

"Will you say a prayer, vicar?" asked one of the churchwardens. "It seems the time for prayer and a word or two like."

The company knelt down.

It was a curious scene. In the richly furnished drawing-room the group of portly men and matrons knelt at chairs and sofas, stolid, respectable, and middle-aged.

But here and there a shoulder shook with suppressed emotion, a faint sob was heard. This, to many of them there, was the greatest spiritual moment they had ever known. Confirmation, communion, all the episodic mile-stones of the professing Christian's life had been experienced and pa.s.sed decorously enough. But the inward fire had not been there. The deep certainty of G.o.d's mysterious commune with the brain, the deep love for Christ which glows so purely and steadfastly among the saints still on earth--these were coming to them now.

And, even as the fires of the Paraclete had descended upon the Apostles many centuries before, so now the Holy Spirit began to stir and move these Christians at Walktown.

The vicar offered up the joy and thanks of his people. He prayed that, in His mercy, G.o.d would never again let such extreme darkness descend upon the world. Even as He had said, "Neither will I again smite any more every thing living, as I have done."

He prayed that all those who had been cast into spiritual darkness, or who had left the fold of Christ, might now return to it with contrite hearts and be in peace.

Finally, they said the Lord's Prayer with deep feeling, and the vicar blessed them.

And for each one there that night became a precious, helpful memory which remained with them for many years.

Afterwards, while servants brought coffee, always the accompaniment to any sort of function in Walktown, the talk broke out into a hushed amazement.

The news which had been telegraphed everywhere consisted of a statement signed by the Secretary of State and the archbishops that the discovery in Palestine was a forgery executed by Sir Robert Llwellyn at the instigation of Constantine Schuabe.

"Ample and completely satisfying evidence is in our possession," so the wording ran. "We render heartfelt grat.i.tude to Almighty G.o.d that He has in His wisdom caused this black conspiracy to be discovered. The thanks of the whole world, the grat.i.tude of all Christians, must be for those devoted and faithful men who have been the instruments of Providence in discovering the Truth. Sir Michael Manichoe, the Rev. Basil Gortre, the Rev. Arthur Ripon, and Mr. Harold Spence have alone dispelled the clouds that have hung over the Christian world."

It was a frightful shock to these people to know how a great magnate among them, a business _confrere_, the member for their own division, an intimate, should have done this thing.

As long as the world lasted the Owner of Mount Prospect who had spoken on their platforms would be accursed. It was too startling to realise at once; the thought only became familiar gradually, in little jerks, as one aspect after another presented itself to their minds.

It was incredible that this antichrist had been long housed among them but a mile from where they stood.

"What will they do to him?"

"Who can say! There's never been a case like it before, you see."

"Well, the paper doesn't say, but I expect they've got them safe enough in London--Mr. Schuabe and the other fellow."

"Just to think of our Mr. Gortre helping to find it out! Pity we ever let him go away from the parish church."

"They can't do less than make him a bishop, I should think."

"Miss Byars, you ought to be proud of your young man. There's many folk blessing him in England this night."

And so on, and so forth; simple, homely speeches, not indeed free from a somewhat hard commercial view, but informed with kindliness and grat.i.tude.

At last, one by one, they went away. It was close upon midnight when the last visitor had departed.

The vicar read a psalm to his daughter:

"_Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people._"

Basil was to come to them on the morrow for a long stay.

EPILOGUE

IN THREE PICTURES

NOTE.--_The three pictures all synchronise. The episodes they portray take place five years after the day upon which Sir Robert Llwellyn died._--G. T.

I. THE GRAVE

Two figures walked over the cliffs.

The day was wild and stormy. Huge clouds, bursting with sombre light, sailed over the pewter-coloured sea. The bleak magnificence of the moor stretched away in endless billows, as sad and desolate as the sea on which no sail was to be seen.

The wayfarers turned out of the struggle of the bitter wind into a slight depression. A few scattered cottages began to come into the field of their vision.

Soon they saw the whitewashed buildings of a coast-guard station and the high, square tower of a church.

"So it's all settled, Spence," said one of the men, a tall, n.o.ble-faced man, dressed as a clerk in Holy Orders.

"Yes, Father Ripon," Spence said. "They have offered me the paper. It was one of poor Ommaney's last wishes. Of course, we were injured in our circulation by the fact that we were the first to publish the news of the great forgery. But in two years Ommaney had brought the paper to the front again. He was wonderful, the first editor of his age.

"I was there with Folliott Farmer and the doctors when he died. Fancy, it was the first time I had ever been in his flat, though we had worked together all these years! The simplest place you ever saw. Just a couple of rooms, where he slept all the daytime. No luxury, hardly even comfort. Ommaney had no existence apart from his work. He'd saved nearly all his very large salary for many years. I am an executor of his will.

He left a legacy to Farmer, and to me also, and the rest to the Inst.i.tute of Journalists. But I am persuaded that he did not care in the least what happened to his money. He never did. He wasn't mean in any way, but he worked all night and slept all day, and simply hadn't any use for money. A good-hearted man, a very brilliant editor, but utterly detached from any _personal_ contact with life."

Father Ripon's keen face, still as eager and powerful as before, set into lines of thought.

He sighed a little. "A modern product," he said at length. "A modern product, a sign of the times. Well, Spence, a power is entrusted to you now such as no priest can enjoy. I pray that your editorship of this great paper will be fine. Try to be fine always. I believe that the Holy Spirit will be with you."

They rose up towards the moor again. "There's the church," said Spence, "where she lies buried. Gortre sees that the grave is kept beautiful with flowers. It was an odd impulse of yours, Father, to propose this visit."