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"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Berry, feeling she was called upon for an appropriate sentiment; "you may say so, Mr. Stack. Such is life!"
Cicero, munching his bread-and-cheese, felt that his imposing personality was being neglected, and seized upon what he deemed his opportunity.
"If this company will permit," he said, "I propose now to give a recitation apropos of the present melancholy event. Need I say I refer to the lamented death of Mr. Marlow?"
"I'll have no godless mumming here," said Mrs. Timber firmly. "Besides, what do you know about Mr. Marlow?"
Whereupon Cicero lied lustily to impress the bumpkins, basing his fiction upon such facts as his ears had enabled him to come by.
"Marlow!" he wailed, drawing forth his red bandana for effect. "Did I not know him as I know myself? Were we not boys together till he went to Africa?"
"Perhaps you can tell us about Mr. Marlow," said the schoolmaster eagerly. "None of us knows exactly who he was. He appeared here with his daughter some five years ago, and took the Moat House. He was rich, and people said he had made his riches in South Africa."
"He did! he did!" said Cicero, deeply affected. "Millions he was worth--millions! I came hither to see him, and I arrive to find the fond friend of my youth dead. Oh, Jonathan, my brother Jonathan!"
"His name was Richard," said Mrs. Timber suspiciously.
"I know it, I know it. I use the appellation Jonathan merely in illustration of the close friendship which was between us. I am David."
"H'm!" snorted Mrs. Timber, eying him closely, "and who was Mr. Marlow?"
This leading question perplexed Mr. Gramp not a little, for he knew nothing about the man.
"What!" he cried, with simulated horror. "Reveal the secrets of the dead? Never! never!"
"Secrets?" repeated the lean stonemason eagerly. "Ah! I always thought Mr. Marlow had 'em. He looked over his shoulder too often for my liking. An' there was a look on his face frequent which pointed, I may say, to a violent death."
"Ah! say not that my friend Dick Marlow came to an untimely end."
This outcry came from Cicero; it was answered by Mrs. Timber.
"He died of a fit," she said tartly, "and that quietly enough, considering as Dr. Warrender can testify. But now we've talked enough, an' I'm going to lock up; so get out, all of you!"
In a few minutes the taproom was cleared and the lights out. Cicero, greatly depressed, lingered in the porch, wondering how to circumvent the dragon.
"Well," snapped that amiable beast, "what are you waitin' for?"
"You couldn't give me a bed for the night?"
"Course I could, for a shillin'."
"I haven't a shilling, I regret to say."
"Then you'd best get one, or go without your bed," replied the lady, and banged the door in his face.
Under this last indignity even Cicero's philosophy gave way, and he launched an ecclesiastic curse at the inhospitable inn.
Fortunately the weather was warm and tranquil. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees. The darkling earth was silent--silent as the watching stars. Even the sordid soul of the vagabond was stirred by the solemn majesty of the sky. He removed his battered hat and looked up.
"The heavens are telling the glory of God," he said; but, not recollecting the rest of the text, he resumed his search for a resting-place.
It was now only between nine and ten o'clock, yet, as he wandered down the silent street, he could see no glimmer of a light in any window. His feet took him, half unconsciously as it were, by the path leading towards the tapering spire. He went on through a belt of pines which surrounded the church, and came suddenly upon the graveyard, populous with the forgotten dead--at least, he judged they were forgotten by the state of the tombstones.
On the hither side he came upon a circular chapel, with lance-shaped windows and marvelous decoration wrought in gray-stone on the outer walls. Some distance off rose a low wall, encircling the graveyard, and beyond the belt of pines through which he had just passed stretched the league-long herbage of the moor. He guessed this must be the Lady Chapel.
Between the building and the low wall he noticed a large tomb of white marble, surmounted by a winged angel with a trumpet. "Dick Marlow's tomb," he surmised. Then he proceeded to walk round it as that of his own familiar friend, for he had already half persuaded himself into some such belief.
But he realized very soon that he had not come hither for sight-seeing, for his limbs ached, and his feet burned, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. He rolled along towards a secluded corner, where the round of the Lady Chapel curved into the main wall of the church. There he found a grassy nook, warm and dry. He removed his gloves with great care, placed them in his silk hat, and then took off his boots and loosened his clothes. Finally he settled himself down amid the grass, put a hand up either coat-sleeve for warmth, and was soon wrapped in a sound slumber.
He slept on undisturbed until one o'clock, when--as say out-of-door observers--the earth turns in her slumber. This vagrant, feeling as it were the stir of Nature, turned too. A lowing of cows came from the moor beyond the pines. A breath of cool air swept through the branches, and the somber boughs swayed like the plumes of a hearse. Across the face of the sky ran a shiver. He heard distinctly what he had not noticed before, the gush of running water. He roused himself and sat up alert, and strained his hearing. What was it he heard now? He listened and strained again. Voices surely! Men's voices!
There could be no mistake. Voices he heard, though he could not catch the words they said. A tremor shook his whole body. Then, curiosity getting the better of his fear, he wriggled forward flat on his stomach until he was in such a position that he could peer round the corner of the Lady Chapel. Here he saw a sight which scared him.
Against the white wall of the mausoleum bulked two figures, one tall, the other short. The shorter carried a lantern. They stood on the threshold of the iron door, and the tall man was listening. They were nearer now, so that he could hear their talk very plainly.
"All is quiet," said the taller man. "No one will suspect. We'll get him away easily."
Then Cicero heard the key grate in the lock, saw the door open and the men disappear into the tomb. He was sick with terror, and was minded to make a clean bolt of it; but with the greatest effort he controlled his fears and remained. There might be money in this adventure.
In ten minutes the men came out carrying a dark form between them, as Cicero guessed, the dead body of Richard Marlow. They set down their burden, made fast the door, and took up again the sinister load. He saw them carry it towards the low stone wall. Over this they lifted it, climbed over themselves, and disappeared into the pine-woods.
Cicero waited until he could no longer hear the rustle of their progress; then he crept cautiously forward and tried the door of the tomb. It was fast locked.
"Resurrection-men! body-snatchers!" he moaned.
He felt shaken to his very soul by the ghastliness of the whole proceeding. Then suddenly the awkwardness of his own position, if by chance any one should find him there, rushed in upon his mind, and, without so much as another glance, he made off as quickly as he could in the opposite direction.