They ascended the stairs, and entered a large room at the rear of the house upon the floor above.
Ruin and desolation met their gaze wherever the feeble rays of the lantern fell.
Filled with rich and costly furniture, adorned with pictures, expensive cabinets, and rich hangings about the windows and doors, the chamber—once that of the master of the mansion—was a forcible illustration of the truth of that memorable warning against riches.
Upon earth Jeremiah Mansfield had heaped up treasures.
Moth and rust had corrupted—thieves had broken in to steal.
The rich carpet, the elegant hangings were worn and faded, the costly furniture heaped up in the corners rotting with dampness and decay.
From one side of the wall a large strip of heavy gilt had fallen away, green with mold, displaying the discolored plaster behind, dust covered the picture frames, the floor, the ceiling—in fact, everything in and about the room, and more than all the bedstead upon which the old miser had met his end.
This cumbrous piece of mahogany, tilted forward into the room, from the lapse of one decaying leg, was a dust heap in itself.
Tisdale looked about him shudderingly.
"Lije, it's enough to give a man the horrors!" he mutteringly said.