Inside Tresco held a lighted candle in his hand. In front of him stood Jake, spellbound.
Overhead, the ceiling was covered with white and glistening stalactites; underfoot, the floor was strewn with bits of carbonate and the broken bases of stalagmites, which had been shattered to make a path for the ruthless iconoclast who had made his home in this pearly-white temple, built without hands.
Tresco handed Jake another lighted candle.
“Allow me to introduce you, my admirable Jakey, to my country mansion, where I retire from the worry of business, and turn my mind to the contemplation of Nature. This is the entrance hall, the portico: observe the marble walls and the ceiling-decorations—Early English, perpendicular style.”
Jake stood, open-mouthed with astonishment.
“Now we come to the drawing-room, the grand salon, where I give my receptions.” Benjamin led the way through a low aperture, on either side of which stalactites and stalagmites had met, leaving a low doorway in the centre. Beyond this, the candles’ dim light struggled for supremacy in a great hall, whose walls shone like crystal. On one side the calcareous encrustations had taken the form of a huge organ, cut as if out of marble, with pipes and key-board complete.
“Holee Christopher!” exclaimed the apprentice.
“Nature’s handiwork,” said the goldsmith. “Beautiful.... Been making, this thousand years, for me—an’ you.”
“Then I reckon Nature forgot the chimbley—it’s as cold as the grave.”
“On the contrary, there is a chimney; but Nature doesn’t believe in a fireplace in each room. Proceed. I will now show you my private apartments. Mind the step.”