The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 832: Original text: Chapter 385 In the Name of the Father Modified after:

I come from Hell and am going to Heaven, passing through the Mortal World.

——Stendhal, “Red and Black”

The afterglow of the sunset brought a soft light, falling into St Martin’s Church through the colorful stained glass windows.

The air was filled with the mixed scents of candle smoke and the woody aroma accumulated over the years. In the prayer hall, far away from the bustling crowds of Trafalgar Square, an unknown drama was unfolding in a neglected area.

William Turner’s brush paused for a moment as he looked up at the girl half-kneeling beside the black oak coffin.

In her hand, she tightly clutched a clean, moist white towel, her trembling fingers gently brushing over the now cold skin, as if for the last time, wiping away the fatigue and suffering of this world for him.

The towel dampened Arthur’s lips, and perhaps it was an illusion, but Turner always felt that the dead man’s pale face showed a faint blush and softness from this minuscule moisture.

Seeing this scene, Turner’s calm heart couldn’t help but be touched by a tinge of sorrow. Utilizing the faint candlelight and the dim sunset, he moved his brush swiftly and accurately captured this moment of life and death dependency, trying to imprint this secret and sincere emotion forever in the world of painting through colors and lines.

Suddenly, a low, hoarse chanting voice sounded in his ears.

The priest, John Newman from Oxford, stood alone not far away, holding a weather-beaten Bible, reciting sacred texts with a deep and melodious intonation that expressed endless grief.

His voice, like a soothing melody, traversed the empty hall, resonating with the quiet prayers of the weeping girl, the swift strokes of the painter’s brush, and the sighs of the deceased’s friends seated in the front rows, merging into one.

“Now, I tell you a mystery: we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed—in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we will be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to the Father, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.

His wrath lasts only a moment, but his favor lasts a lifetime. Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning. Our Lord has shown us; he has abolished death and brought life and immortality to light through the gospel.

See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are. The reason why the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared. But we know that when he appears, we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is.”

Fiona raised her hand and gently touched Arthur’s cheek. The icy sensation from her fingertips made her feel as if she were plunged into the Arctic Circle in the heart of winter. She couldn’t see anything in front of her, or perhaps she saw everything, unable to discern if it was rain or snow before her eyes.

Tears slid down her nose to the corners of her mouth and then dripped from her chin onto Arthur’s forehead.

To many, this was a rather disrespectful act, but at that moment, no one wanted to intervene, as even the strongest person couldn’t snap out of the scene before their eyes.

“Fiona.”

Suddenly, Fiona seemed to hear someone call her name.

She was stunned at first, then raised her arm and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

How she wished she could see an open pair of eyes at that moment, those dark, unforgettable eyes with a hint of red.

However, God seemed to be playing a joke on her; her hopes fell short.

Arthur’s tightly closed eyes were like the stone gates of an ancient sanctuary; once closed, they were forever locked.

Yes!

He was dead, in an eternal sleep, like a calm autumn lake.

Fiona stared blankly for a long while, her widened eyes eventually softened again. She gently caressed Arthur’s side face and neck, as if trying to remember the feeling.

Fragments of memory surfaced in her mind, and she seemed to see that vibrant young man once again.

The man in a dark blue tailcoat, wearing an officer’s sword, and a high top hat, striking a match to light the pipe between his lips as he leaned against the corner of the church.

With a heavy inhalation, the pipe’s spark lit up, and thick smoke poured from his mouth, as if it would envelop his entire being.

Suddenly, he lifted his head and glanced at her, revealing a somewhat embarrassed yet polite warm smile.

He took off his hat and slightly nodded to her apologetically.

“Sorry, Fiona, I didn’t know you were there. It might be a bit rude for a gentleman to smoke in front of a lady.”

Fiona playfully blinked, “Sir, you know I don’t mind.”