XIII. — FONTHILL.
Mohun spurred up the hill; reined in his horse in front of the great portico, and, dismounting, fastened his bridle to the bough of a magnificent exotic, one of a hundred which were scattered over the extensive grounds.
I imitated him, and we entered the house together, through the door, which gave way at the first push. No one had come to take our horses. No one opposed our entrance. The house was evidently deserted.
I looked round in astonishment and admiration. In every thing appertaining to the mansion were the indications of almost unlimited wealth, directed by the severest and most elegant taste. The broken furniture was heavy and elaborately carved; the remnants of carpet of sumptuous velvet; the walls, ceiling, doorways, and deep windows were one mass of the richest chiselling and most elaborate fresco-painting.
On the walls still hung some faded portraits in the most costly frames. On the mantel-pieces of variegated marble, supported by fluted pillars, with exquisitely carved capitals, rested a full length picture of a gentleman, the heavy gilt frame tarnished and crumbling.
The house was desolate, deserted, inexpressibly saddening from the evident contrast between its present and its past. But about the grand mansion hung an august air of departed splendor which to me, was more striking than if I had visited it in the days of its glory.
“Let me introduce ‘Fonthill’ to you, or rather the remains of it, Surry,” Mohun said, with a sad smile. “It is not pleasant to bring a friend to so deserted a place; but I have long been absent; the house is gone to decay like other things in old Virginia. Still we can probably find two chairs. I will kindle a blaze, and we can light a cigar and talk without interruption.”
With these words, Mohun proceeded to the adjoining apartment, from which he returned a moment afterward, dragging two chairs with elaborately carved backs.
“See,” he said, with a smile, “they were handsome once. That one with the ragged remnants of red velvet was my father’s. Take a seat, my dear Surry. I will sit in the other—it was my mother’s.”
Returning to the adjoining room, Mohun again reappeared, this time bearing in his arms the broken remnants of a mahogany table, which he heaped up in the great fireplace.
“This is all that remains of our old family dining-table,” he said. “Some Yankee or straggling soldier will probably use it for this purpose—so I anticipate them!”
And, placing combustibles beneath the pile, Mohun had recourse to the metallic match case which he always carried with him in order to read dispatches, lit the fuel, and a blaze sprung up.
Next, he produced his cigar case, offered me an excellent Havana, which I accepted, and a minute afterward we were leaning back in the great chairs, smoking.
“An odd welcome, this,” said Mohun, with his sad smile; “broken chairs, old pictures, and a fire made of ruined furniture! But one thing we have—an uninterrupted opportunity to converse. Let us talk, therefore, or rather, I will at once tell you what I promised.”