The house, when they approached it a little later in the moonlight—for Ben’s suggestion had met with favor from the others—presented a blank and shuttered white surface, against which the dark outline of the trees around it showed in jagged forms. It had been a fine old dwelling, built in a day when carpenters and joiners took a real love in their work and were as eager to make a graceful, artistic window or doorway as the medieval masons of Europe were to perfect every detail of their great cathedrals.
Broad steps led up to the front door, which was wide and adorned with a big brass knocker and knob. Tuckerman, taking a little electric flashlight from his pocket, aimed it at the moulding above the door. “Aha,” he exclaimed, “there’s the green and gold pineapple in all its glory! They used to put beautifully carved pineapples like that in such places in colonial days; they were the emblems of hospitality. My ancestor Sir Peter seems to have been friendly disposed when he built his dwelling at least.”
“I’ve seen pineapples like that over the doors of some old houses in Barmouth,” said Ben, “but I never thought much about them. That was a pretty nice idea. There’s some style to that front.”
“There was style, real dignified style to the houses of those days,” Tuckerman agreed. “We may think we’re pretty smart nowadays, but let me tell you those ancestors of ours who settled the country could teach us a good deal.” He felt in his pocket for a key. “Well, the pineapple bids us welcome. If there are any ghosts in the house, I think they’ll turn out friendly.”
The lock was rusty, but finally opened to the new owner’s efforts. They stepped into a large hallway, from which a wide stairway ascended at one side. Using his flashlight, Tuckerman discovered a gatelegged table, on which stood a cluster of small candlesticks, all ready for use.
“Now that’s something like—hospitality again!” he declared in a pleased voice. “They used candles in the old days; every guest in the house had one to light him to bed. I suppose these have been waiting for me here ever since Uncle Christopher died.” Lighting the candles with a match, he handed one to each of his companions. “I’m beginning to feel at home already, boys. Welcome to Cotterell Hall.”
Even David, who could see nothing very thrilling in going over an old house, felt something of the excitement that had so obviously taken possession of John Tuckerman. As for Tom and Ben, they peered up the stairway and through the open doors as if they half-expected to see gentlemen in curled wigs, knee-breeches and small swords advancing to meet them.
Tuckerman led the way into the room on the left, a spacious apartment, wainscoted and with a pictured paper, representing scenes in fields and woods, covering the walls to the ceiling. There was a large fireplace, with a carved mantel above it. Fine old pieces of furniture filled the room, and, except for the musty air that is to be found in all houses that have been closed for some time, the place looked precisely as though it were lived in, even to a pile of magazines and books that lay on the centre-table.
“The drawing-room,” said Tuckerman, holding his candle high as he gazed about him. “And there, if I’m not mistaken, is old Sir Peter himself.”
Ben gave a start and looked quickly around. But it was not a ghost to which Tuckerman referred; it was a large painting that hung on the wall across from the fireplace, the portrait of a man in buff-colored coat and breeches, wearing a white tie-wig, and with his right hand resting on the head of a greyhound that rubbed against his knees.