It appeared that a bolt had struck and wrenched a huge limb from one of the great lime trees skirting the path; that the heavy butt of this, clapping down upon that spot of the gravel under which the end of the vault lay, had splintered the massive lid stone into half a dozen pieces, so that they collapsed and fell inward, crashing upon and breaking open in their fall the pauper’s coffin underneath.
“Whom God seeks to destroy, He first maddens.” Into this awful trap, in the rain and storm and darkness, Mr. Councilor walked plump, and there he was found in the morning, dead and ghastly, his already once-wounded leg caught in a crevice made by the broken stone and wood—his heel actually resting in the bony hand of his enemy who had waited for him so long.
All that by the way. It was a grim enough story by itself, no doubt, but I mention it only here as bearing indirectly upon a little matter of my own.
Old Peggy had retailed it to me, with much grisly decoration, on the afternoon following the night of the tempest. The thorns of her mind were stored with a wriggling half-hundred of such tales.
By and by I walked out to visit the scene of the tragedy. It was dark and gloomy and still threatening storm. There was little left of the ruin of the night. The fallen branch had been sawed to lengths and carted away, and only its litter remained; the vault had been covered in again with a great slab lifted and brought from one of the precinct pathways that were paved with ancient gravestones; a solitary man was raking and trimming the gravel over the restored surface. The crowds who no doubt had visited the spot during the day were dwindled to a half-dozen morbid idlers, and a sweeping flaw of tempest breaking suddenly from the clouds even as I approached drove the last of these to shelter.
I myself scuttled for a long low tunnel that pierced a south wing of the cathedral and promised the best cover available. This was to be reached by way of a double-arched portal which enjoyed the distinction of conveying ill-luck to any who should have the temerity to walk through a certain one of its two openings.
Turning when I reached the archway, I saw that the solitary grave-trimmer was running for the same shelter as myself. With head bent to the storm, he bolted through the gate of ill-omen; stopped, recognized his error, hurriedly retraced his steps; spat out the evil and came through the customary opening at slower pace. As he approached me I saw, what I had not noticed before, that he was my friend the sexton of St. John’s.
“Good-afternoon,” said I, as he walked under the tunnel, seized off his cap and jerked the rain drops from it.
I fancied there was a queer wild look on his face, and at first he hardly seemed to be able to make me out.
“Ah!” he said, suddenly. “Good-arternoon to you.”