“Are we to put on our wraps, Uncle?” asked Kittie, in some doubt whether the Den was out-of-doors. “O, I wish Pet was here!”
“Pet shall come too, the very first rainy day. No; you’ll need no wraps, dear. Only follow me softly, and don’t speak aloud!” And his eyes twinkled again as he led the way out of the kitchen, and toward the front part of the house.
I have already, in the former volume of this series, partly described this old “mansion-house” which the Percivals had occupied for generations. The earliest of the family, Sir Richard Percyvalle, came over from the north of England in 1690 or thereabouts. Half a Scotchman, he brought with him alike the love of wild country, and of the ancient castles and baronial halls so dear to the Englishman. This “mansion-house,” as it was called throughout the county, situated in the heart of a pine forest, near rugged hills and dancing brooks, was the result. And here some branch of the Percival stock had lived contentedly ever since, respected and loved by their few neighbors; some, indeed, finding their way to the great cities and universities and even back across the Atlantic, in pursuit of their education and professional studies; but at least one manly representative of the family always inhabiting the old house, which stood as stanchly as ever against the blasts of the North Wind and the rigors of the New England winter. It had all sorts of wings, ells and additions built on, extending the original structure as the occupant’s whims or needs demanded. The portion in actual use by the family throughout the year was but a small fraction of the whole house.
The injunction not to speak aloud considerably increased the fun as well as the awe of the occasion, as Randolph, with his cousins, followed their uncle in a dumb but not altogether silent row.
Leaving the kitchen, they crossed a narrow passage-way leading into the sitting-room. Beyond this was a sort of closet or cloak-room, and then the front entry, a cold, cheerless place with a green fan-light over the door which was now entirely disused.
“Here the carriages used to drive up in ancient days,” said Mr. Percival, “the postilions cracking their whips and the clumsy wheels lumbering heavily over the driveway. Then elegant ladies would alight, and passing through the open door ascend that staircase, their long gowns, stiff with silk and brocade, trailing behind them. Hark! Do you hear them rustling past us and up the stairs?”
The girls listened, partly for the fun of the thing, and partly because of the impressiveness of their uncle’s manner. The rain beat drearily upon the door, and long, hanging vines brushed against it on the outside. Within, it was so dark that they could scarcely distinguish the staircase.
On they went again, up the very stairs the bygone beauties had ascended, through two broad chambers whose shutters were closed and nailed tight. Then down again, over a narrow flight of steps, and along a crooked passage, so dark that they had to feel their way.
Kittie laughed nervously, as she clutched Bessie’s hand.
“Did you ever see anything like it!” she whispered. “I feel exactly as if I were in a story.”