The Candlish mausoleum had been built by an architect who had an
excellent idea of the beauties of the Jacobean style, and he had got
over the many-windowed difficulty by making those windows blank. The
stone mullions, with their tracery, were handsome, and the way in which
the arms of the Candlish family had been introduced where there was room
reflected great credit upon him. In places where the arms would not
stand there was always room for a crest or a shield, so that the
chapel-like structure was an improvement to the old church.
But after the exterior had been named, with its grand roof, massive
door, and finely forged gate and rails, the less said about design the
better. Mausoleums were evidently not the architect's strong point; and
when he came to the interior he was at his worst.
This was to be a partly underground structure, and the architect's ideas
of underground structures were divided between coal-cellars and cellars
to hold wine.
Now the former, he felt, would be antiseptic, and a great improvement
upon the unhealthy contrivance designed by the sculptors of a past
generation to do honour to the first baronet at the expense of his
fellow-creatures who have malefited to a horrible extent by the
proceedings of our forefathers in regard to the disposal of their mortal
remains; but this architect wisely decided that the coal-cellar idea
would be repugnant to the builder; so he fell back upon the other.
Consequently for generations the Candlishes had been regularly stowed
away in so many stone bins, with labels at the ends of the coffins, to
tell who and what they were.
But the great family did not resemble wine, for they did not improve by
keeping; and when Moredock struck a match, and lit his lanthorn to hold
it above his head, there were traces on all sides of the touch of time.
The wine-cellar idea was there, for the floor was deeply covered with
turpentiny sawdust; cobwebs hung in folds; here and there
loathsome-looking, slimy fungi had sprung up; mouldering destruction
everywhere nearly; and Moredock watched the doctor eagerly as he gazed
round, seeing much, but not that which the sexton wished concealed, for
if the light of careful inspection had been brought to bear here, sad
recollections respecting costly handles and plates would have been
brought to light, while, had the inspection been carried further by the
modern representatives of the family, the number of uncles and aunts and
grandparents who were wholly or partially missing, as well as their
leaden homes, would have been startling, and about all of whom Jonadab
Moredock could have told a tale.
But the doctor's was only a cursory glance round at the niches
containing the dead, for he turned at once to the coffin lying upon a
stone table in the very centre of the vault, which place it would occupy
till the doors yawned for another of the Candlishes, when the late Sir
Luke would be stowed somewhere on one side.
It was a weird scene as the doctor set down a small leather bag upon the
stone table beside the coffin, and produced a lamp with chimney and
shade. This lamp when lit cast a yellow glare all over the place, and
reflections were cast by tarnished plates and gilded nail-heads from the
more obscure portions of the vault.
The sexton looked on curiously after setting his lanthorn, with open
door, just inside one of the vacant niches, and his yellow features gave
him the aspect of some ghastly old demon come hither for the performance
of hideous rites.
"I've brought some tools, doctor," he whispered, as he took a large
screw-driver from his pocket.
"I too have come provided," said the doctor, taking sundry implements
from his black bag. "Now, Moredock, I want everything to remain here
night after night, just as I leave it, ready for me when I come again."
"Come again?" growled the sexton.
"What, shan't you finish to-night?"
"Perhaps not this month," was the stern answer.