Mr.Wendover led me through a little labyrinth of lowly graves to a high and ponderous iron railing surrounding a square space, in the midst of which there is a stately stone monument.

In the railing there is a gate, from which a flight of stone step leads down to the door of a vault.

It is altogether rather a pretentious affair, wherein one sees the evidence of substantial wealth unelevated by artistic grace or poetic grandeur.
This is the family vault of the Caulfields and Haygarths.
"I've brought you to look at this tomb," said the rector, resting his hand upon the rusted railing, "because there is rather a romantic story connected with it--a story that concerns Matthew Haygarth, by the bye.
I did not think of it just now, when we were talking of him; but it flashed on my memory as we came through the garden.

It is rather a mysterious affair; and though it is not very likely to have any bearing upon the object of your inquiry, I may as well tell you about it,--as a leaf out of family history, you know, Mr.Hawkehurst, and as a new proof of the old adage that truth is stranger than fiction." I assured the rector that I should be glad to hear anything he could tell me.
"I must premise that I only tell the story as I got it from my old clerk, and that it may therefore seem rather indistinct; but there is an entry in the register yonder to show that it is not without foundation.

However, I will waste no more words in preamble, but give you the story, which is simply this:"-- The rector seated himself on a dilapidated old tombstone, while I leaned against the rails of the Haygarth vault, looking down upon him.
"Within a month or two of Matthew Haygarth's death a kind of melancholy came over him," said the rector.