VII.

THE reader has perhaps not forgotten that old Stenson lived in a

pavilion at the end of the small second court, which, together with

the outer enclosure, which was somewhat larger, and the buildings

adjoining, composed the dilapidated manor of Stollborg. There was a

legend connected with the original erection of this ancient castle.

At the time of the first introduction of Christianity into Sweden, it

was said to have grown out of the rock in one night, in consequence

of a vow of the pagan castellan, whose house (then built of wood) had

nearly been blown off into the lake by an autumnal gale, and who had

thereupon promised to embrace the new religion, if heaven would protect

him securely from the wind. The roof of the house had already been

carried away, but scarcely had he pronounced his vow, when a granite

tower arose, as if by enchantment, from the rock. The castellan was

forthwith baptized, and no hurricane could ever again harm his strongly

and solidly-built habitation.

Notwithstanding this veracious history, the antiquaries of the country

have the hardihood to assert that the square tower of Stollborg dates

no further back than to the reign of King Birger, that is to the

fourteenth century. However that may be, the chateau and its small

domain, in the fifteenth century, became the property of a brave

gentleman of the name of Waldemora. In the seventeenth century,

Olaf de Waldemora became a favorite of Queen Christina, who, by

arbitrarily alienating portions of the crown domains, conferred upon

him considerable landed estates in this part of Dalecarlia. History

does not name this Waldemora as a lover of the fantastic inheritrix

of Gustavus Adolphus. Possibly, in some strait for money, the queen

may have sold him these valuable estates at a low price. It is certain

that at the reduction of 1680, when the energetic Charles XI. revised

the titles of all grants of land, and reunited to the crown domain all

that had been unlawfully alienated by his predecessors--a terrible

but salutary measure, to which Sweden owes the endowment of her

universities, schools, and magistracy, the creation of the post-office,

the army _indelta_, and other benefactions, for which the “old

caps” had hardly forgiven the crown at the time of our story--at this

time the titles of the Baron de Waldemora were found valid; he retained

the great estates which he had inherited from his grandfather, and

completed the embellishments of the new chateau, built by the latter

upon the shore of the lake, and called by his name.

One tower was all that remained standing of the old family chateau.

This tower appeared to be extremely lofty, in consequence of the

great substructure of masonry built up to its base from the very edge

of the water, but it was in fact but two stories high, and contained

only the bear-room and the guard-room, which were on the ground-floor,

almost on a level with the court, and two or three chambers above,

where for twenty years, that is, ever since the door on the staircase

had been built up, no person had entered. The rest of the manor had

been rebuilt several times, and formed, what is called in Norway, a

_gaard_; or, in other words, an assembly of several families

living in a community. Dwelling-rooms, kitchens, dining-rooms, stables,

and store-rooms, in such communities, instead of being brought together

as much as possible under one roof, as is the common practice, form

separate buildings, each with a roof of its own; so that altogether

they present the aspect of a numerous group of small houses entirely

distinct from each other. Many customs prevail equally in Sweden and

Norway, especially along the mountainous frontier of Dalecarlia. At

the period when Stollborg, deserted for the new chateau, became a mere

farmstead, there were several _gaards_, similar to the one we

have described, scattered through the country. As is commonly the case

all over Sweden, and in all countries where they build in wood, these

premises had often caught fire, and the more ancient of the little

edifices still showed traces of it. Their charred ridge-poles and

warped roofs were sharply defined, like black spectres, upon the white

background of the mountain.

The court, surrounded by its mossy shed, which gave a unity--such as

it was--to all these different buildings, and from whose eaves hung a

glittering fringe of icy stalactites, thus presented the appearance

of a group of abandoned Swiss chalets. The farm establishment had

long ago been transferred elsewhere, and the whole manor had been

left under the charge of Stenson, who no longer had any repairs made

upon the worthless houses, which were now only used to store fodder

and dry vegetables. The rough flags of the court were furrowed in all

directions by a thousand irregular little hollows, ploughed by the

violence of currents in thaws; not one of the doors was on its hinges,

and it seemed as if, unless prevented by some vow as efficacious as

that of the first castellan, the least gust of the winds of spring or

fall would sweep the ruinous structures off into the lake.

The second court, which was in the rear of this one, was a modern

addition, much less picturesque, but infinitely more comfortable. It

had been built by the Baron Olaus de Waldemora at the time when he

inherited the property of his brother Adelstan. He caused this second

small _gaard_ to be erected for his faithful Stenson, so as to

prevent the latter, who had a horror of the place, from going to live

elsewhere. This addition consisted of another group of buildings,

lower than the first, and upon the opposite slope of the rock. Their

steep roofs rested at the back against the solid rock itself, and were

constructed in the singular manner usual in that country, with a layer

of pine logs well caulked with moss, covered with strips of birch-bark,

over which is laid finally a bed of earth turfed on the top. This turf,

on the roofs of rustic cottages in Sweden, is very carefully tended, as

is well known, and is sometimes laid out like a garden with flowers and

shrubs. The grass upon them is very thick and rich, and the cattle find

it their choicest pasturage.

It was in this portion of the old manor, called especially the

_gaard_, while the other was called the court, that Stenson had

lived for twenty years. Of late, he had become so old and feeble that

he hardly ever left his own house, which was well warmed, very neatly

furnished, and painted on the outside of an iron-rust red. Here he

was certainly very conveniently situated. His dwelling-rooms were

separate from his nephew’s lodging, and he had a kitchen in one small

edifice, and a dairy in another. This only served, however, to render

the existence of the mysterious old man more monotonous and melancholy.

It was observed, or at least it had been observed when the house was

built, how careful he had been to have all the doors and windows

looking away from the tower. The only communication between the two

buildings was a small side-door, and to reach Stenson’s pavilion it

was necessary to go through a narrow zigzag passage. It looked as if

he had been afraid to have a door opening directly towards the tower,

lest he should see it. But he may have barricaded himself in this way

merely as a precaution against the west wind, which blew from that

direction.

As if in confirmation of the reports current about him, it was

extremely rare for Stenson to quit his house, unless to enjoy a little

sunshine in the small orchard at the water’s edge. Even here he always

turned his back to the tower as he walked, and when the declining sun

threw the slender shadow of the weathercock upon his alleys, it was

said that he would leave them and flee precipitately into his house,

as if he were filled with horror and pain by this ill-omened shade.

The free-thinkers of the new chateau--a major-domo and footmen of the

modern sort--attributed his peculiarities to the excessive caution and

timidity, carried almost to monomania, of a frail and sickly old man;

but Ulphilas and his companions regarded them as the irrefragable proof

that the gloomy old castle was haunted by evil spirits and frightful

spectres. Never, for twenty years, they said, had Stenson crossed the

court and entered the western gate. Whenever business called him to the

new chateau, he went by way of the little orchard, at whose base his

own boat used to lie in the summer.

The presence of the baron at the new chateau--his usual residence when

he was not attending to his duties as a member of the Stendœrne, or

Diet--made no changes in Stenson’s daily life; but still Ulphilas had

for some days observed that his uncle was singularly agitated. He asked

questions concerning the donjon, as if he was solicitous about the

preservation of this accursed old giant. He inquired of Ulph whether

he went there from time to time to ventilate the bear-room, at what

hours his visits were made, and whether he had seen anything remarkable

there. To-day, Ulph, not without remorse, but without hesitation, told

him a lie; he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as a sign that

he had seen nothing new. In fact, Ulph had strong reasons for hoping

that Stenson, who was confined to his room by the cold, would not learn

anything about what had happened; and he had heard the rattling of

certain crowns intended for him, in the pocket of M. Goefle, without

seeing any signs that the old vaults of Stollborg proposed to crumble

with indignation for so small a matter. Without being greedy, Ulph did

not dislike making a little money, and perhaps he was beginning to feel

somewhat reconciled to the donjon.

After telling this direct falsehood, and serving his uncle’s second

meal, he was going away, when the old man asked for a certain Bible

which he seldom used, and which stood on a particular shelf of his

library. Stenson directed him to place it before him on the table, and

then motioned him to retire. Ulph, however, was curious to see what his

uncle was about, and as he was very certain that he would not be heard,

he came in again in a moment, and standing behind the old man’s chair,

peeped over and saw him pass the knife at random between the leaves of

the large book, and then open it, and look attentively at the verse

where the point of the knife had stopped. Three times he tried this

experiment; a practice half devout and half cabalistic, that prevails

even among the Catholics of the north, for inquiring of the Almighty

the secrets of the future, according to the interpretation of the

words supposed to be indicated by destiny. When he had performed this

ceremony, Stenson buried his face in his hands upon the closed book, as

if to consult it with his brain, after having questioned it with his

eyes; and Ulph went away, a good deal disquieted with the result of the

experiment. He had read the three verses over his uncle’s head. They

were these, in the order in which they had chanced to occur:

“Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our

ears.”

“Did I not weep for him that was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved

for the poor?”

“A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children’s children; and the

wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just.”

Detached verses from this mysterious and sublime book will generally

adapt themselves to almost any meaning which the imagination is

desirous of obtaining. Accordingly, old Sten, who had trembled at the

first verse, and clasped his hands over the second, drew a long breath

at the third, as if his oppressed soul was relieved. But Ulphilas, who

had drank too much the night before to be a competent interpreter of

the utterances of the sacred volume, asked himself with anguish whether

the old Bible had not, under the form of some allegory too deep for his

intelligence, disclosed to his uncle the secret of his falsehood.

He was aroused from his revery by the appearance of a new visitor in

the court. This was Puffo, who had come to arrange for the evening’s

performance with Christian. Puffo was not a demonstrative person; he

did not like the country in winter, and he did not speak a word of

Dalecarlian. But still he was in a very good humor just at the present

moment, and for sufficient reasons. He bade Ulph good-day, in quite

a friendly manner, while the latter was greatly surprised to see him

enter the bear-room unceremoniously, as if he was quite at home there.

Puffo found Christian occupied in classifying the mineralogical

specimens in his box.

“Well, master, what are you thinking of?” said he. “It’s no time now to

be playing with those little pebbles; we must get ready for the piece

this evening.”

“_Parbleu!_ I know that very well,” replied Christian; “but what

could I do without you? It is high time for you to show yourself. Where

the devil have you been since yesterday?”

Puffo informed him--but without making any excuses for his

absence--that he had finally found a good supper and good bed at the

farm, that he had slept late, and having made acquaintance with a

servant from the chateau, who was there, had told whom it might concern

of the arrival of Christian Waldo at Stollborg. After breakfast the

major-domo of the new chateau had sent for him, had talked to him very

pleasantly, and informed him that the exhibition of marionettes would

be expected at eight precisely that evening. The major-domo had added:

“You will mention to your employer Christian, that his lordship wishes

a very brilliant entertainment, and he begs him to be infinitely witty.”

“Excellent!” said Christian. “Plenty of wit, by order of his lordship

the baron. Let him take care, lest I prove altogether too witty for

him! But, Puffo, did you hear nothing about the baron’s illness?”

“Yes, he was ill last night, it appears,” replied the stroller, “but he

has recovered. Perhaps he was only drunk, though the servants say he

does not drink at all. But who’s going to believe that a man as rich as

he is would cheat his stomach out of good liquor when he has it in his

cellar?”

“I wager that you did not cheat yourself, Puffo, out of whatever came

under your hand.”

“Faith,” said Puffo, “thanks to a servant who is in love with a little

girl at the farm, and who invited me to eat at his table, I had some

very decent brandy. It was corn brandy, rather rough, but it’s warming,

and I slept capitally after it.”

“I am delighted at your windfall, Master Puffo; but we must go to work.

Come, go at once and see that Jean has plenty to eat and drink, and

then come back and receive your instructions. Hurry!”

Puffo went out, and Christian, not without a sigh, closed his box of

minerals, and was opening that which contained the _burattini_,

when the noise of sleigh-bells drew him to the window. It was not the

doctor of laws returning so soon; it was the pretty blue and silver

sleigh which had brought Margaret to Stollborg the evening before.

Must we confess it? Christian had forgotten the promise which that

agreeable young lady had made to the apocryphal M. Goefle of repeating

her visit next day. The truth is, that he had no longer considered this

visit possible, on account of what had happened at the ball, and had

consequently said nothing about it to M. Goefle. Perhaps he regarded

the whole adventure as inevitably ended, and perhaps he even wished

to have it so; for to what could it lead, unless he should attempt to

abuse the inexperience of a child, and so secure her contempt and her

curse?

In the meanwhile, the sleigh was approaching; it was now ascending the

hill of Stollborg, and Christian could see the pretty head of the young

countess, half hidden in her ermine hood. What was to be done? Would

he be courageous enough to shut the door in her face, or to send her

word by Puffo that the doctor was absent? Pshaw! Ulph would tell her

so of his own accord! He had only to keep quiet, and the sleigh would

return as it had come. Christian remained at the window, so as to watch

it descend the hill, but it did not descend. The door opened, Margaret

entered, and the young man had barely time to close hastily the open

box where the marionettes were indiscreetly exhibiting their great

noses and smiling mouths.

“What, monsieur!” cried the young girl, with an exclamation of

surprise, “are you still here? I did not expect that. I hoped that you

would be gone.”

“Did you meet no one in the court?” said Christian, who was, perhaps,

not sorry to throw the blame of this circumstance upon destiny.

“I saw no one,” said Margaret; “and, as my visit is secret, I came in

very quickly, so that no one should see me. But, once more, Monsieur

Goefle, you ought not to be here. The baron must know, by this time,

who it was who ventured to defy him. I give you my word that you ought

to go away.”

“Go away! You say that very cruelly. But you remind me that I really

have gone away already. Yes, yes, be satisfied; I have gone never to

return. M. Goefle has intimated to me that he might be involved in my

difficulties, and I have promised him to disappear. You find me in the

very act of packing up.”

“Oh! Go on, then; do not let me detain you.”

“Are you in such great haste never to hear me spoken of again? Very

well, imagine that your wish is accomplished; that I have already

embarked for America at least, and am fleeing under full sail from my

terrible enemy, while shedding a few tears at the memory of that first

quadrille--the last, too, that I shall ever dance--”

“With me, not with others?”

“Who knows? The I who is speaking to you is a shade, a phantom, a mere

reminiscence of what happened yesterday. The other I, about taking his

departure, is the sport of the waves and of destiny. I care about him

as much as I do for an inhabitant of the moon.”

“Good heavens! how gay you are, Monsieur Goefle! Do you know I am not

so at all?”

“True,” said Christian, struck with Margaret’s sad expression; “I am

ashamed to have spoken of myself, when I ought to have been expressing

my anxiety about the consequences of the events of last evening.

Will you be good enough to answer me, if I venture even now to make

inquiries of you?”

“Oh, you are well entitled to do so, since chance has so fully informed

you about my affairs already. My aunt reproved me severely last

evening, and Mademoiselle Potin had orders to pack my trunks and take

me back to Dalby to-day; but this morning everything is changed, and,

after a private interview with the baron, who, she says, has quite

recovered his health and good spirits, it was decided that I should

remain, and should have nothing to do to-day, but to think about my

toilet for this evening. By the way, have you heard that Christian

Waldo is actually here? They say, indeed, that he is stopping at

Stollborg. You must have met him, in that case. How is it--have you

seen him?”

“Certainly.”

“Without his mask? Oh, how does he look? Has he really a death’s head?”

“Worse than that. He has a wooden head!”

“Oh no! You are joking.”

“Not in the least! To see him you would swear that his face had been

whittled out of a block, with a dull knife. He looks like the ugliest

of all his marionettes. Like this one, for instance!”

And Christian pointed to the grotesque physiognomy of a police officer

that stuck out of the box, and which Margaret would probably have seen

herself if she had not been so preoccupied.

“What, really!” said she, a little apprehensively. “And is that his

conjuring-box? Does he occupy this room with you?”

“No; don’t be afraid, you will not see him. He has gone out, and he

asked as a favor, of M. Goefle, to be allowed to leave his baggage

here.”

“Poor fellow!” said Margaret, pensively; “and so he is as ugly as that!

What stories people tell! Some persons who have seen him insist that he

is handsome. And is he old?”

“Somewhere about forty-five. But what are you thinking about, and why

are you so sad?”

“I don’t know--only I feel sad.”

“What--although you are to remain at the chateau, and see the

marionettes this evening?”

“Ah! please, Monsieur Goefle, do not treat me quite so much like a

child. Last night, at the ball, it is true that I was gay; I enjoyed

myself and felt happy, because I thought I had once for all escaped

from the baron. But to-day I see very well that my aunt has renewed

her hopes, and I must meet again a man whom I shall always sincerely

hate from this time forward. Did he not insult me in a cowardly manner

yesterday? It is useless for my aunt to say that he was joking. One

does not joke with a girl of my age as with a child. I have been

trying to cure my wounded pride by persuading myself that he was

delirious--that his nervous attack had already begun when he spoke

so coarsely to me, and that is what my friends think also. But how

do I know what will happen to-day, when I meet him? Whether he is

ill-tempered or crazy, who will defend me if he insults me again? You

will not be there, and nobody else will dare--”

“What! Nobody dare? But what sort of men have you around you then? And

all those brave young fellows whom I saw last evening--”

“Yes, I believe they are brave. But they know nothing of me, and they

may imagine I deserve such outrageous treatment from the baron. It

is a poor recommendation for me to have been introduced into society

by my aunt, since she has the reputation--although most surely it is

undeserved--of sacrificing everything to political interests.”

“Poor Margaret!” exclaimed Christian, struck by the painful position of

this lovely girl.

He was so evidently sincere, and without the least thought of offensive

familiarity, that Margaret did not resent his taking her hand; and

besides, he dropped it again immediately, as he thought of their

relative positions.

“Well,” he said, “you must take some resolution or other, at any rate.”

“It is taken already. It is only the first step that costs. From

this time I will affront the terrible Olaus whenever we meet; I will

tell him what I think of him before all the world; I prefer to pass

for a perfect demon of malice, rather than for the favorite of this

Dalecarlian pasha. And, after all, I shall defend myself better alone;

for, if you were present, I should be afraid of having you take my part

at your own peril, and that would make me more acquiescent. But I will

not forget any more for that, the good counsel you gave me, and the

chivalrous way in which you repulsed that frightful baron. I do not

know whether we shall ever see each other again, but wherever you are,

you will always have my good wishes, and I will pray to God to make you

happier than I am.”

Christian was extremely touched by the sincere and affectionate manner

of this charming girl. He made no display of affected gallantry, but

his expressions, and the very sound of his voice, revealed the deepest

emotion.

“Kind Margaret!” he said, lifting her pretty hand to his lips. “I swear

to you truly that I also will remember you. Ah! why am I not rich and

noble? Perhaps then I should have power to help you, and most certainly

I would do everything in the world to obtain the happiness of being

able to do so. But I am nothing, so I can do nothing.”

“But I thank you just as much,” replied Margaret. “You seem to me like

a brother that I have never known, whom God has sent to me for a moment

in the hour of my distress. Let this short meeting be so considered,

and we will say good-by, without despairing of the future.”

Margaret’s candor caused Christian to feel a sense of remorse. M.

Goefle might return at any moment, and it would be impossible for the

young countess, after having been so much struck with the similarity

between the voices of the false uncle and false nephew, not to detect

the entire absence of any such resemblance when she should see them

together. Besides, it was certain that M. Goefle would not lend himself

to any such deceit; and it pained Christian to think that Margaret

would retain an unfavorable recollection of him. So he confessed the

truth of his own accord, acknowledging that he had allowed himself,

as he did not know her, to play a joke at her expense, by disguising

himself in the doctor’s pelisse and cap, and pretending to be he.

He added that he had deeply repented, upon discovering how angelic

a nature it was that he had thus been trifling with. Margaret was a

little displeased. She had had an instant’s revelation of the truth,

when Christian’s voice first fell upon her ear at the ball; but his

manner was so perfectly natural when he told her that he had heard

everything from the next room, that she had dismissed all doubts from

her mind.

“Ah!” she said, “how skilful you are in deceiving, and how easy it is

to be duped by your explanations! I cannot be offended at your joke

in itself, for I was guilty of an imprudence in coming here, and I

was properly punished by a mystification. But what I am sorry for is

that you should have carried on the deceit for so long, with so much

assurance and such an appearance of candor.”

“Say with remorse, and a consciousness of guilt. One fault always

occasions others, and--”

“And what? What more have you to confess?”

Christian had been on the very point of telling the whole truth. But he

paused; for he remembered at that instant that at the name of Christian

Waldo Margaret would fly, annoyed and indignant. He therefore resigned

himself to a half sincerity: to the young countess he continued to

be Christian Goefle. But this dissimulation, which would have merely

amused him with any one else, became extremely irksome when he saw her

limpid eyes fixed on him with an expression of fear and reproach.

“I only meant to play with her,” he said to himself, “as one child

might with another; but now, in spite of all we could do, sentiment has

intervened, and the more honorable and delicate it is, the more guilty

I feel--”

He became sad in his turn, and Margaret perceived it.

“Come,” she said, with a smile all radiant with goodness, “let us not

allow any regrets to spoil our romantic meeting. We are about to part,

but we do so with our kind feelings towards each other unchanged. You

have not abused my confidence by turning me into ridicule; on the

contrary, you have helped me to rely upon myself, and to struggle

against an unfortunate destiny. Instead of feeling hurt and ridiculous,

I feel that I am standing more firmly on my poor feet than I was

yesterday at this hour.”

“That is true, is it not?” said Christian, warmly; “and I call heaven

to witness--”

“Go on,” said Margaret.

“I call heaven to witness,” he repeated, with enthusiasm, “that I have

been influenced by no selfish motive in anything I have done; that my

only thought has been to promote your happiness.”

“I know it is so, Christian,” exclaimed Margaret, rising, and holding

out her hand to him; “I know well that in me you have only beheld your

poor sister in the sight of God. I thank you for it; and now I must say

farewell, for your uncle will be coming back. He does not know me, and

it will be quite useless to tell him that I have been here. But you

may tell him whatever else you think proper. I am very sure that he

will not work against me, and that he is as honorable and generous as

yourself.”

“But still,” said Christian, who saw with regret the end of his

romantic adventure rapidly approaching, “you came to say something to

him. Perhaps he ought to know it.”

“I came to ask him,” said Margaret, with a little hesitation, “to tell

me plainly what my aunt’s intentions were in case of an open revolt

upon my part. But that again was an act of cowardice, I do not require

to know. Let her banish me, isolate me, imprison me, strike me--what

does it matter? I will not yield, I promise you. I swear to you, I will

never marry any man whom I cannot--esteem.”

Margaret dared not say love, and Christian was just as powerless to

utter that word, but their eyes said it, and their cheeks glowed with a

sympathetic blush. After conversing confidentially for an hour, their

souls, in that brief glance, spoke to each other, and acknowledged

their inward emotion, and yet neither of them was conscious of the

fact; Margaret, because she did not know that she loved, and Christian,

because he felt certain that he did not. And yet, when Margaret had

stepped into her sleigh again, and when Christian could see her no

longer, they were both conscious of a sudden pain, as if their hearts

had been rent asunder. Tears, that she did not feel, coursed slowly

down the young girl’s cheeks; while Christian, buried in confused

reveries, sighed as deeply as if he had awakened from a dream of

sunshine to find himself once more in the frigid winter. In order to

watch the sleigh the longer, he went back to the bear-room, and stepped

between the two sashes of the window, when a rustling behind him made

him turn round, and he beheld a sight that filled him with amazement.

An old man, thin and pale, but with noble features, and carefully

dressed in a gray suit of ancient fashion, was standing erect in the

midst of the chamber, with a green branch in his hand. Christian had

not heard him enter, and the figure, illumined by the declining sun,

which, as it neared the west, was sending a red and dusty beam of light

through the one long window of the sombre room, seemed a fantastic

vision. His expression, moreover, was as singular as his unexpected

presence. He seemed undecided; astonished, as it were, to find himself

in that place; and his small, glassy eyes inspected with amazement

the changes which the new guests had made in the previous melancholy

arrangements of the room. A moment’s reflection satisfied Christian

that this strange apparition, instead of being a spectre, was probably

old Stenson, come to wait upon M. Goefle and surprised at not finding

him. But what was the meaning of that green branch, and why that timid

and disappointed look?

It was, in fact, old Stenson; and his sight being as good as his

hearing was poor, he had quickly noticed that the fire was burning, the

table set, and the clock going. He did not move quickly, however, and

Christian had time to draw back behind the folds of an old curtain,

nibbled almost to a fringe by the mice, before the old man’s eye had

reached the open window. From this hiding-place he could watch him

without being seen. Stenson’s idea was that his nephew, of whose

drunken habits he was aware, had, without notifying him, invited some

of his boon companions to a Christmas revel in the bear-room. The

height of his indignation no one but himself could have expressed.

His first care was to put out of sight the traces of such scandalous

disorder. He began by scattering all the live coals in the stove, so

that the fire should go out of itself; and then, before either clearing

off the table, or going to send the delinquent to do it, he stopped the

pendulum of the clock, and put the hands back to four o’clock, where it

had stood before the profane hand of Christian had set it going. Next,

he turned and looked up, as if to count the candles in the chandelier,

but the sun shone in his eyes, and he stepped forward to the window,

probably to shut it.

At this moment, Christian, seeing that he was about to be discovered,

came forward. But at this apparition, standing in a nimbus of the

rays of the setting sun, Stenson, who was probably not the least

superstitious member of his family, recoiled to the middle of the

floor under the chandelier, with a countenance of such anguish, that

Christian, forgetting the old man’s deafness, spoke to him kindly and

respectfully, with the intention of reassuring him. But his voice was

lost without awakening an echo, in the large and fast chilling room.

Stenson fell on his knees before him, stretching out his arms as if

to implore his protection or to bless him, and holding out, with a

tremulousness that was almost convulsive, the cypress-bough, as one

offers a votive palm-bough to some divinity.

“Why, my good man,” said Christian, raising his voice, and coming

nearer, “I am not God, nor even the Christmas angel that comes in at

the window or down the chimney. Get up! I am--”

But he stopped short, for a livid pallor overspread the old man’s face,

which was already so wan. He perceived that his appearance had thrown

Stenson into mortal terror, and drew back to allow him to recover

himself. This the old man did in a measure, but only sufficiently to

think of escaping. He dragged himself along for a few instants, and

then rising up with difficulty, fled through the sleeping chamber,

murmuring, as he went, disconnected words, without any distinguishable

meaning. Christian, who supposed that he was suffering from some attack

of mental disorder, brought on by old age or excessive religious

devotion, refrained from following him, for fear of making him worse.

There was a small slip of parchment fastened to the branch which the

old man had let fall at his feet, and picking it up, he read the

following three verses of the Bible, written upon it in a reasonably

firm hand:

“Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our

ears.”

“Did I not weep for him who was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved for

the poor?”

“A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children’s children, and the

wealth of the sinner is laid up for the just.”

Christian had no time to employ his imagination in hunting for answers

to this riddle. The day was rapidly drawing to a close. It was only

half-past one in the afternoon, and already the transparent shadows

of the snowy peaks around were lengthening upon the blue surface of

the lake. It was a beautiful sight, and, had his affairs permitted,

Christian would have loved to gaze upon it. These short northern days

have aspects infinitely picturesque; and even at noon they are full

of striking effects, as painters say, resulting from the obliquity

of the sun’s rays, which cover the landscape with strong lights and

shades, such as in other countries are only visible at morning and

evening. This is probably the reason of the beautiful sunlight which

northern travellers are so enthusiastic about. It is not alone the

extraordinary landscapes, impetuous waterfalls, immense lakes and

splendid auroras of Sweden and Norway, of which they retain such

intoxicating recollections; quite as remarkable, they affirm, is the

delicious purity of the atmosphere, in which even the most trifling

objects assume a brightness and a charm of which nothing anywhere else

can give an idea.

But our hero, while he observed the beauty of the heavens, observed

also the swift decline of the day, and discerned, afar off, the actual

preparations for the very entertainment for which, in fulfilment of

his engagement, he was to be in part responsible. The chimneys of the

new chateau were sending out thick columns of black smoke, that showed

strongly against the evening sky, flecked with rosy and pearl-hued

clouds. Gun-shots, repeated by the muffled echoes of the snowy hills,

announced that the huntsmen were at work to supply the spits of those

Pantagruelian fireplaces. Busy messengers on skates were speeding in

all directions, crossing each other’s tracks, and occasionally falling

headlong upon the ice of the lake. All the country round was being

ransacked for everything it could furnish, from the monstrous back-logs

that were to adorn the fires in every room of the house, down to the

poor little white partridge, which had trusted to his winter’s garb to

protect it from the sagacious eye of man, and the pitiless scent of the

hunting-dog.

The fifth night of the Christmas festivities--for this was December

28th--promised to be a splendid one. Christian alone was not enjoying

the prospect; he was becoming impatient for the return of Puffo.

Having resumed his poor devil’s suit, pulled his abundant hair over his

handsome forehead, and his steeple-crowned hat down over his eyes, he

went to hunt up his subordinate in the court, in the _gaard_, and

even in the kitchen, where he had so frightened Ulphilas the evening

before. It never occurred to him to go down into the cellar. If he had,

he would have discovered Puffo, established in the very paradise of his

dreams.

He was about returning, when it occurred to him to explore Stenson’s

little fruit-garden. With a preliminary glance, to be sure that the

old overseer whom he had alarmed so much was not there, he descended

the steep walk that led down to the edge of the lake. From this point

he could see the whole length of the _gaard_, built along the

slope that plunged down to the little bay. The old masonry was so well

united to the rock, that one could hardly distinguish the natural from

the artificial fortification, especially under their clothing of long

wall-plants, crystallized by the frost, and hanging down below into the

lake, where they were deeply imbedded in the ice. As he stood there,

he tried to trace the route he had followed the day before, on his

expedition into the secret passage of the bear-room. We promised the

reader an account of this expedition, and this is the proper time for

it.

It will be remembered that in setting out to hunt up something for

supper, he had ventured into a passage hidden by a door very neatly

fitted into the wood-work, and leading from under the stairs, which he

supposed might conduct to the lodging of M. Stenson. Such was, however,

by no means the case. After a few steps along a confined passage,

Christian had come to a narrow staircase, steep, and obstructed

with rubbish, as if no human foot had ascended it for a long time.

At the foot of the staircase, which was very long, he had found an

open door. Surprised at this free entrance to a passage apparently

itself so mysterious, he was stepping through it, when a gust of wind

extinguished his candle, and he was left in darkness. He still advanced

cautiously a few steps, when the moon appeared from behind some

clouds, and he saw that he was in a sort of cavern, or gallery, opening

at intervals upon the lake. The water of the lake penetrated into this

gallery, which seemed to be a natural excavation. He followed it for

some distance, walking upon the ice the latter part of the way, until

he reached, at last, a small wicket, over which he climbed without

difficulty, and thus gained admittance first to the fruit-garden, and

thence to M. Stenson’s gaard.

Christian at once recognized this little gate, flanked on either side

by two young yew-trees, cut into a sugar-loaf shape; and, with this for

a guide, he was able to recognize the principal points of his nocturnal

expedition. Although he had no particular expectation of finding Puffo

in that quarter, he passed through the fruit-garden, and walked along

the lake around the outer cliffs, in the direction of the donjon. He

was curious to see by daylight the path along which he had made his way

the night before, partly by feeling, and partly by the light of the

moon.

He soon came to the entrance of what he had taken for a grotto. It was,

in fact, only a deposit of enormous blocks of granite, of that sort

termed erratic boulders--that is, blocks isolated from their primitive

location, and now lodged where they could not have been originally

formed. The position of such boulders is due, it is supposed, to some

primeval or modern cataclysm--a vast rush of waters, or the slow

transportation of glaciers or icebergs--which has brought them from

distant regions to their final resting-place. Those now in question

were rounded, like so many enormous pebbles, and their capricious

superposition, one above another, seemed to indicate that while whirled

along by a tremendous force, they had been suddenly arrested and piled

against the mica-schist mass of Stollborg, of which they thus became,

as it were, buttresses or outworks. It was difficult to walk among

them, on account of the snow, which, during the storm of the night

before, had been swept, or rather rolled by the wind into great drifts

or ridges, stretching, like a vast winding-sheet, along the range of

boulders.

Christian found his progress so impeded, that he was about to retrace

his steps, when he was struck by the picturesque aspect of the

donjon towering above him, and withdrew a little to see it to better

advantage. He tried, mechanically, to make out the position of the

bear-room, and easily recognized it by its one window, about a hundred

feet above the level of the lake, and fifty above the summits of the

boulders. The cold was not very extreme, and Christian, who always

carried a little drawing-book in his pocket, began an outline sketch of

the tower, with its lofty escarpment in the rock below, and its chaos

of gigantic boulders, which were flung together in such a way as to

form--like the sandstone rocks at Fontainebleau--covered passages and

galleries, whose effect was extremely fantastic.

While studying this characteristic scene, Christian heard some one

singing, at first without paying much attention to the fact. It was a

woman’s voice, and that of a rustic, true enough in intonation, but

veiled, and sometimes tremulous, as of an infirm or aged person. She

seemed to be chanting a kind of psalm, and, although monotonous, there

was something agreeable in the melancholy air. This sad and quavering

melody soothed the mind of the artist as it continued, and brought him

into the very mood for understanding and representing the features of

a locality with which the voice seemed to be in perfect harmony. The

words of the chant were at first indistinct: but as Christian listened

mechanically, he gradually recognized them as Swedish, pronounced with

the Dalecarlian accent. Their meaning now seemed so strange, that he

began to listen more attentively:

“I saw a tower, a square tower by the setting sun. Its gates look to

the north. Drops of poison sweat from its openings. It is paved with

serpents.

“The tree of the world embraces it; the strong ash-tree shakes. The

great serpent bites the waves. The eagle screams; with its pale beak it

tears the corpses; the ship of the dead is launched.

“Where are the Ases and the Alfes? They sigh by the entrance of the

caves. The sun begins to be darkened; all things perish.

“But earth, green and beautiful, begins to brighten again from the

east; the waters awake, the cascades flow.

“I saw a palace fairer than the sun upon the top of Gimli--I see it no

more. The Vala falls again into the night.”

In these sombre poetical fragments Christian gradually recognized

verses, arranged or repeated at random, from the antique poem called

the _Voluspa_. This, considering the rustic pronunciation of the

singer, he thought very extraordinary. Could it be that the peasants

in that country had preserved a tradition of the sacred chants of the

Scandinavian mythology? This seemed hardly probable, and yet who could

have taught them to this woman? Christian, who, as a traveller, was

curious on all subjects, resolved to find and cross-examine the singer,

as soon as he had finished his sketch; but when he returned his album

to his pocket a few moments afterwards, the voice had ceased. He looked

all about, but could see no one. Supposing that she must be concealed

behind the boulders, he proceeded to explore them, and found this not

much easier than walking in the deep margin of the snow-drift outside.

Within the expanse of the principal cavern, which followed the turns of

the rock for some fifty steps, there was no footing except on a floor

of ice, very slippery and wavy on the surface, as if the rippling water

had been instantaneously frozen on some cold autumn night.

However, our adventurer succeeded in discovering the traces of his

own steps, made the night before, when he imagined he was walking

over fragments of bricks and tiles; and soon he found, also, the

mysterious door, by which he had issued from the donjon. It was now

fastened with two strong iron staples and a padlock, the key of which

had been carried off. This must have been just done; the singer was

undoubtedly some dependent, like Stenson and Ulphilas, who was employed

about the old manor. She could not be far off, for he had heard her

singing scarcely five minutes before, and she must have been behind

the boulders, for Christian could see over the lake in all directions,

and from top to bottom of the cliffs at the base of the tower, and no

one was visible. He now retraced his steps to leave the grotto, which,

as it was only lighted by a natural opening in about the middle of its

whole extent, was rather dark. Pausing for a moment under this natural

opening, to look at the sky, he saw, between himself and the heavens,

an object projecting over the rock from the smooth and naked flank of

the donjon. This he quickly recognized as the under-side of the stone

balcony that supported the double window of the bear-room, and which

was so situated that any one, with a cord or ladder, might easily

descend through the space between the rocks below, when he would at

once find himself under cover in the vault which they formed just at

this place.

Christian, always inclined to be romantic, immediately thought out

a plan of escape to be adopted in case of siege or captivity in

Stollborg. He scaled the irregular rocks that formed the sides of the

grotto, and, with a good deal of exertion, climbed out through the

opening which, he was satisfied, had not been made by the hand of

man. This examination led him to reflect, as we have all had occasion

to do at least once in our lives, that even in the most desperate

situations chances occasionally occur so improbable that they seem to

belong, not to real life, but to the world of the imagination. However,

still bent upon pursuing the singer, he continued his examination

amongst the boulders, between almost any two of which there was room

for penetrating. Finding no one, he was just giving up the chase,

when he heard the voice again, coming this time from much lower down

than he had supposed it to be when he heard it in the first place. He

went towards it, but as he approached the spot where he thought the

mysterious rhapsodist must be stationed, the chant, which had suddenly

ceased, like that of the cicada on the approach of man, was heard once

more in another direction, and from much higher up, as if floating in

the air above him. Raising his head, Christian now perceived, in the

side of the donjon, a long fissure, half hidden by ivy, and extending

almost vertically, from a window in the upper story, a good deal to the

right of the window in the bear-room, down to a ruinous part of the

wall, below which were some other masses of rock.

He even thought that he could see pieces of stone falling along this

fissure, as if some person had just made their way into it; but, on

approaching as near as he could, it seemed to him quite inaccessible,

and he went further on.

And now the voice once more began its plaintive chant, and

Christian--amused at first, but finally with a feeling of

irritation--followed the singer from one place to another in the little

chaos of granite rocks. He was constantly disappointed, until he really

began to be somewhat startled. These savage verses, fragments of a

gloomy apocalypse, disconnected and wild, as if inspired by delirium,

had something frightful in them, when heard in that gloomy place, at

that melancholy evening hour. Christian thought involuntarily of the

water-witches who are the centre of all the legends of Sweden, and

indeed of all popular beliefs throughout the north of Europe.

At last he persuaded himself that the voice must come from the tower

itself. Perhaps some captive was hidden there in a secret dungeon. He

called aloud three times, using at a venture the mythological name of

Vala, that is Sibyl, which the singer, in her chant, had seemed to

wish to appropriate. At this the voice became silent again, as if in

confirmation of the superstitious belief of the country, that whenever

you succeed in calling one of the malevolent or melancholy spirits

who dwell among the mountains by its name, it is either frightened or

consoled, and in either case is reduced to silence.

But still another thought haunted Christian, as he finally turned to go

back to the tower by an outside path. He could not help asking himself

whether one of the victims of the mysterious Baron Olaus, crazed with

suffering, was not lamenting in a dungeon under his feet. However, he

forgot all about this fantastic idea, when he found M. Goefle seated at

table in the bear-room.

“Well,” said the lawyer, without troubling himself to rise, “you came

near bringing me into a pretty scrape with your prank last evening.

The baron, strange to say, did not mention a word about it; but the

Countess Elveda absolutely would not believe me when I protested and

swore that I had neither a nephew nor a natural child.”

“What, M. Goefle! did you disown a son who has done you so much honor?”

“I did indeed; it would have been quite impracticable for me to keep

up the joke, or to assume the responsibility of such a mystification!

Do you know that you did not escape observation by any means? Quite

independently of the scene with your host, everybody seems to have

been struck by your style and graces, the ladies especially. In the

countess’s room I met five or six of the more fashionable ladies of the

province, who were quite infatuated about you; and when I swore upon my

honor that I had nothing whatever to do with this unknown, you should

have heard their suppositions and commentaries! Some of them were

inclined to suggest that it might have been Christian Waldo, of whom

so many adventurous stories are told; but the prevailing opinion was

that you were the prince royal, travelling incognito about his future

kingdom.”

“Prince Henry, who is now at Paris?”

“Yes; and this served capitally to account for the baron’s nervous

attack, for he detests the prince, and would naturally have been

agitated on meeting him, by the conflict between his hate and

resentment on the one hand, and the respect due to the future heir of

the throne on the other.”

“But the Countess Elveda cannot have been deceived by such a silly idea

as that?”

“Oh no, certainly not, she knows the prince too well; but she is

extremely fond of quizzing, and she amused herself by pretending to

these ladies that you were so much like our future monarch, that she

did not know what to think. Only, as I was going out, she took me aside

and said: ‘You are severe, my friend, in disowning this imprudent

young man. For my own part, I thought him very agreeable, and if he

does not resemble you in features, he takes after you at least in his

wit and distinguished manners.’”

“Why, Monsieur Goefle, that is very flattering to me. But then she

persists in believing me your son?”

“Without doubt; and the more I protested to the contrary, the more

she laughed, and insisted that it was impossible for me to disown

you, since you had so publicly presented yourself in society under my

name. ‘The wine is drawn,’ she said, ‘and you must drink it.’ He is a

roguish fellow, and is trying to plague you. It is a just punishment

of the follies of our youth, to become the parents of ‘such terrible

children!’ Please to observe the stain which you have brought upon my

reputation! At last, to rid myself of you, I said that whether son or

nephew, you had gone away; that I had packed you off in disgrace for

having been disrespectful to his lordship the baron.”

“Very right, Monsieur Goefle: you did quite right; for, as to the

baron, I don’t know whether I am dreaming, but I am really beginning

to consider him almost as much of a Blue-Beard as the reports about

him represent. I should have found out all about it, if I had had more

time.”

“Ah! ah! really? Well, you must tell me all about it; but, in the

meanwhile, have something to eat. It is after two o’clock, and you must

be almost dead with hunger.”

“I? No, not at all. It seems to me as if I had just got up from table.

Were we not eating until almost noon?”

“Well, but don’t you know that in such a cold climate as this you need

to eat every two hours? I have just had coffee at the new chateau; this

is dinner, now; at four, we will have coffee together; at six we will

have the aftonward; that is, we will take some bread and butter and

cheese, while waiting for supper.”

“Good heavens! how you keep at it! I knew perfectly well that that was

the regimen of the fat burghers at Stockholm; but you, M. Goefle, who

are so slender still!”

“Well, do you want me to become a skeleton? I should very quickly, if

I should vary from our customs. Believe me, you had better conform to

them, or you will very soon be ill.”

“To enable me to obey you, M. Goefle, I need two things: time, and my

assistant Puffo. Now, time is flying; and Puffo only appeared to me a

moment, and then disappeared, perhaps not to return until to-morrow

morning.”

“But could I not help you myself? What is to be done?”

“A good many things; but most of all, to decide upon our piece and run

it over together, so that that animal, Puffo, may be ready to represent

with me. He has a sufficiently good memory, if he can have one

rehearsal before the performance; but now, as we have been travelling

some days without doing anything, and as he is probably drunk to-night

already--”

“Come, come! You have five hours before you--an immense quantity of

time! More than I have needed, sometimes, to prepare a cause a great

deal more complicated than your comedies of marionettes! I promise

to help you, I tell you, but on condition that you will sit down and

eat with me, for I don’t know anything more uncomfortable than to eat

alone.”

“You will permit me to be pretty quick, then, won’t you?” said

Christian, taking a seat opposite the lawyer, “and not to talk too

much, for I shall need all my lungs this evening.”

“Very well, very well,” replied M. Goefle, cutting off for Christian

an enormous piece of cold veal--a dish greatly esteemed by the middle

classes in Sweden, when properly cooked; “but what were you saying to

me just after you came in? What was it you would have discovered, if

you had had a little more time?”

Christian related his adventure, and at the close of his story asked

M. Goefle if he supposed the lower part of Stollborg contained any old

prison.

“Upon my word I don’t know anything about it,” replied the advocate.

“It is very possible that there may be some kind of cell in the great

mass of masonry here under our feet, and if so, I have no doubt that

it has been used as a prison. Our ancestors were not persons of very

refined manners, and even yet our nobility have justiciary rights on

their own domains.”

“And do you think it equally probable that this sub structure of the

donjon may be serving as a prison now?”

“Who knows? What are you thinking of?”

“That possibly some person may be wickedly buried there, a still living

victim of one of the thousand dark and secret crimes attributed to the

vengeful baron.”

“Really, it would be strange enough to discover that!” said the lawyer,

who had suddenly become thoughtful. “Are you sure you were not dreaming

when you thought you heard the voice and strange songs?”

“Sure! how can you ask?”

“There is no knowing; you said yourself a little while ago that people

are sometimes subject to hallucinations. Now the ear, as well as

the eye, may become the medium of the illusion; and you ought to be

aware--to be properly on your guard--to what an extent hallucinations

prevail in Sweden, especially towards the north, where really, with

two-thirds of the population, they are a sort of chronic condition.”

“Yes, I know that such visions become contagious when reinforced by

superstition; but I beg you to believe that I have no faith in the

witches or evil spirits of either lakes, torrents, or old castles, and

that I could not be influenced, therefore, in any such way.”

“Nor I, assuredly. And yet--Well, Christian, there must be,

independently of superstition, something inexplicable in the effects

produced by the natural scenery and conditions of the north upon

vivid imaginations. It is in the air; in the singular sounds that

go ringing along the ice; in the mists, full of mysterious forms;

in the marvellous mirage of our lakes, called the _hagring_,

an extraordinary phenomenon which you must have heard of, and which

you may see at any moment. Possibly something of it may result

from physical disorders in the circulation of the blood, induced by

constantly passing out of the icy atmosphere into the over-heated air

of our rooms, and the contrary. Anyhow, it is a fact that we find the

most reasonable people, those in the most perfect health, the least

credulous, even such as have passed the greater portion of their lives

free from illusions, all at once becoming subject to them. Even I

myself----”

“Go on, I beg you, M. Goefle--at least unless the subject is too

painful; you are as white as your napkin.”

“I do really feel quite unwell. I have felt so two or three times

to-day. What a poor machine is man! Anything that his reason cannot

explain either frightens him or annoys him. Pour me out a good glass

of port, Christian. Your health! I am glad, on the whole, that I

declined the invitation to dine over yonder; I like better to be here

with you in this gloomy room, that I can laugh at, after all--Well, as

you are eating without being hungry to please me, and are listening

to me in spite of your own business matters, I will tell you about my

hallucination; it is at least as singular as yours:

“It was no longer ago than last evening, and in this very place where

we now are. I was in the other room, quite absorbed in investigating

a very interesting legal matter, while my little valet, after making

me a good deal of trouble, at last condescended to go to sleep. I had

intended to stay with him, by a great effort of patience, for a quarter

of an hour or so; not more, for I was hungry, though I did not know

that food had been brought. However, the demon of study, who has the

art of making every pursuit interesting, even that of the law, took

possession of me so completely, that I forgot everything, until my poor

stomach was obliged fairly to shout into my ears that it was eleven

o’clock at night.

“Well, I looked at my watch, and sure enough it was eleven o’clock. The

truth is, that my housekeeper is in the habit of looking after me, and

calling me to my meals, and I had quite forgotten that in this den of

a place, left to the care of that lunatic of an Ulphilas, I should not

be notified of anything whatever. Nils, as I told you, is a servant

whom Gertrude selected for me, so as to teach me the duties of the

valet-de-chambre. Well, as I had fasted for full seven long hours, I

got up at once, took the light and came into this room, where I found

the dishes that you had brought on the table; I gave Ulphilas the

credit of this rather late hospitality, and set about satisfying my

appetite probably rather voraciously.

“You know already, my dear Christian, that this old ruin has the

reputation of being haunted by the devil. At least, this is the

opinion of the orthodox portion of the community, who account for the

circumstance by affirming that it was used, not long ago, as a chapel

by a Catholic lady, the Baroness Hilda, widow of Adelstan, the elder

brother--”

“Of Baron Olaus de Waldemora,” said Christian, “but have the

Dalecarlians such a horror of Catholicism as that?”

“They abominate it,” said M. Goefle, “as much as they did the reformed

religion before the time of Gustavus Vasa. They are a race who neither

love nor hate by halves. As to this demon who haunts Stollborg, old

Stenson does not believe in it, but he does thoroughly believe in the

_Gray Lady_; who, he says, is nothing else than the spirit of the

late baroness, who died in this room more than twenty years ago.

“An hour before, I had been laughing at apparitions, to reassure my

little serving-lad; but you know how it is with dreams. Very often some

careless word heard or spoken in the course of the day, and forgotten

the next moment, proves to be the seed from which they blossom

mysteriously, and without our own consciousness; and so we bear them

in our minds until night, when, as soon as our eyes are shut and our

reason is asleep, they rise up before our deluded vision in fantastic

forms, endowed now with tenfold their real significance, and, perhaps,

horror.

“It must be, it seems to me, that hallucinations--that is, waking

dreams--obey exactly the same law. I had ended my supper, and was about

lighting my pipe, when suddenly there swept through the room a shrill,

melancholy sound, like that of the wind when it rushes through a door

suddenly opened; the air was at the same time stirred and chilled, and

the flames of the candles that stood upon the table flickered. At the

moment, I happened to be looking towards the door of the vestibule,

and seeing that this was firmly fastened and motionless, I supposed

that Nils had awaked, and had opened the opposite door, that of the

guard-room.

“‘Ah!’ I cried, as I got up, ‘there you are again! Do go to sleep, will

you, you cursed little coward!’

“I stepped to the door, thinking that the little rascal had not

ventured to open it wide, but had only set it ajar, to be sure I had

not gone away. But this door was shut as tight as the other.

“Had the child closed it again when he saw that I was there, and had

the slight sound he must have made escaped me, while I was looking

for my pipe and refilling the stove? It was possible. I went into the

guard-room, but Nils was fast asleep, with his little fists clenched.

Evidently he had not stirred. I covered up the fire in the chimney, for

fear of some accident, and came back into this room, where everything

was still. The melancholy whistling was not repeated. I concluded that

a gust of wind had come in through some open joint somewhere in the

wood-work, and resumed my pipe, and the papers which I was examining

for the baron.

“This business was a rather intricate and subtle law question, and was

quite interesting to me, but I need not trouble you with it. All I need

say is, that it involved a certain contract for the sale of property

executed some time ago by Baron Adelstan; and that his name, as well

as that of his wife Hilda de Blixen, were repeated in almost every

sentence of the instrument. The names of this married couple, both of

whom died in the flower of their age, one in a tragical and mysterious

manner, and the other in this very room, and probably in that same

unfurnished and dilapidated old bed in the opposite corner, may have

made some impression upon my mind, of which I was not conscious. I was

quite absorbed in my examination, and the fire in the stove was roaring

well, when I thought I heard a creaking on the staircase, several times

repeated. I was quite startled, and at the same time was so ashamed of

my own emotion, that I would not even turn my head round to see what it

was. It was not surprising that the damp old wood-work was beginning

to feel the effects of the hot fire in the stove, and that it should

occasionally emit these unaccustomed sounds.

“I went on with my reading again; but now, the creaking of the steps

and the balustrade was followed by a different sound, not unlike the

rasping of an iron tool on the wall, guided by a hand so feeble and

uncertain, that it might easily have been mistaken, at moments, for

the scratching of a rat among those old maps. I looked up, but seeing

nothing, kept on with my work, for I would not permit myself to be

disturbed by these unaccountable noises, peculiar to all such old

rooms, and which are always occasioned in the simplest manner. It is

silly to be searching for the causes of such things, when one has more

important business to attend to.

“However, a third and still a different sound compelled me to turn

round again, and look once more at the staircase. I could hear the

large parchment map, that covers the built-up door, shaking and

crackling in a singular manner. I saw it rise up repeatedly; it shook

upon the rings by which it hangs, and stood out, as if some body,

not unlike a human form, was moving behind it. For the moment, I was

startled in good earnest. It was possible that some thief had managed

to secrete himself there, and was waiting for an opportunity to spring

out upon me. I jumped up hastily to take my sword from the chair, where

I had laid it when I came in, but it was not there.”

“For a sufficient reason, I regret to say,” observed Christian. “It was

at my side.”

“I do not know,” resumed M. Goefle, “whether I concluded that Ulphilas,

with unusual neatness and solicitude, had put away the weapon. The

truth is that I had not looked in my portmanteau, and had not been at

all uneasy at not finding my clothes, which I had hung upon the back

of the arm-chair. I am not in the habit of attending to such matters

myself, and most probably had entirely forgotten having placed them

there. Not seeing the sword, I had time to collect myself a little, and

to make up my mind that I was unnecessarily alarmed. Nobody could want

to kill me, and if a robber had taken a fancy to my purse, the wisest

course would be to let him have the small amount it contained without

resistance.

“So I returned, and advanced towards the stairs, quite coolly and

resolutely, I give you my word. And exactly at this moment it was that

the hallucination took place. There, stay a moment, Christian! Look at

that portrait; to the right of the window.”

“I have already tried to see it,” said Christian, “but the light is so

bad where it hangs, and the flies or the damp have defaced it so much,

that I could hardly make it out at all.”

“Well, then, take a light and look at it. It is getting dark, at any

rate, and will soon be time to light up.”

Christian lit the three-branched candlestick that had been left on the

table, stood up on a chair, and with the help of his album, which he

held between his eyes and the flickering lights, proceeded to examine

the picture carefully.

“I see it very indistinctly still,” he said. “It is a portrait of a

rather tall woman, elegantly formed; she is seated, and wears a black

veil, as is the custom with Swedish ladies in winter, to protect their

eyes from the glare of the snow. I can see her hands, which are very

well painted, and very beautiful. Ah! ah! the dress is pearl-gray

satin, with bows of black velvet. Is it the portrait of the Gray Lady?”

“Exactly. It is the Baroness Hilda.”

“Let me see the face, then. There, I catch it now; it is handsome--an

agreeable and sweet countenance. Stay, wait a moment, M. Goefle! That

face inspires me with a feeling of sympathy; it moves me.”

“So you don’t care to listen to my story any longer?”

“That’s all;--yes, indeed I do. I am pressed for time, and yet your

adventure interests me so much that I must hear the end of it. I’m

ready.”

“Well, then,” continued the lawyer, “as my eyes again fell upon that

great map of Sweden which is now so still, a human figure came out

from under it, lifting it aside as one does a tapestry curtain. It was

the figure of a tall and thin woman, not slender and beautiful, as

the original of the portrait must have been, but livid and wasted, as

if she had just risen from the tomb; and the gray dress, too, soiled,

worn, and with the black ribbons unfastened and hanging loose, seemed

to be trailing with it the very earth of the grave. My dear friend, so

horrible, so frightful was this painful vision, that I closed my eyes

to avoid seeing it. When I opened them again--but whether in a moment

or in a second, I cannot say, for I took no account of time--the figure

was standing upon the floor directly before me. She had descended the

stairs--I had heard them creaking again--and was staring at me with

haggard eyes, and with a fixity that I can only call cadaverous; so

totally was it devoid of thought, interest, or even life. It was really

a corpse standing upright there within two steps of me! As for me, I

remained motionless, like one fascinated--a very ugly-looking object

myself, probably--and with my hair standing up on my head, for what I

know--”

“Upon my word,” said Christian, “a disagreeable apparition enough! I

believe if I had been in your place, I should certainly have sworn, or

broken something! Did this last long?”

“I don’t know; it seemed to me that it would never end. I shut my

eyes again to lose sight of it; and when I reopened them, the spectre

was moving towards the side of the bed. I can scarcely describe its

further movements. It seemed as if it were opening the curtains, and

bending down to speak to some being whom it saw there--invisible save

to those ghastly eyes. Then it turned as if to open the window; though

it did not really open it. And finally, it returned towards me. By this

time I had somewhat recovered myself, and tried to make a deliberate

examination of the face; but this was more than I could do. I could see

nothing but those great dead eyes--it seemed as if I were powerless to

remove my own from them. Besides, the phantom now passed me quickly.

If it noticed me at all, it did not seem irritated or disturbed by my

presence. It flitted uncertainly along the room; tried to return to

the stairs, and appeared unable to find them. Then the fleshless hands

began to feel along the walls, and suddenly it disappeared. Again a

rush of wind ran whistling through the room, and rang in my ears;

it ceased, and as, during the whole of this experience, I had been

perfectly conscious of being in my right mind, I perceived at once the

cessation of the unaccustomed sounds, together with the disappearance

of the fantastic image.

“I felt of myself--there was no doubt as to my identity. I pinched

my hand, and felt it perfectly. I looked at the bottle of rum, but

I had hardly made a beginning upon it. Evidently I was neither in a

trance nor intoxicated. Indeed, I no longer felt even an emotion of

terror, and very coolly said to myself that I must have been asleep

standing. I finished my pipe while reflecting upon the affair, and even

indulged my imagination so far as to half wish to undergo another such

hallucination, so that I might try to overcome it; but the phenomenon

was not repeated, and I went very quietly to bed. It was some time

before I fell asleep, but I experienced no other inconvenience.”

“But then,” said Christian, “what should have made you so uncomfortable

just now, when you were only thinking the matter over?”

“Why, because the mind is so constituted, I suppose. There are

emotional reactions. By hearing of delusions, you may become a little

deluded yourself. Twice already, to-day, I have recalled stories of

this kind, that are certainly either fables or dreams, and yet which

embody great and mysterious moral truths.”

“How is that, M. Goefle?”

“Good heavens! it happened to my own father, who, like myself, was

an advocate and professor of law, to see the ghost of a man who had

been unjustly condemned to death more than ten years before, and who

called upon him for justice to his despoiled children, and for the

rehabilitation of his own memory. He saw this spectre at the foot of

a gibbet which he was passing. He looked into the affair, found that

the phantom had told the truth, instituted proceedings, and gained his

cause. Doubtless the ghost was an illusion, but it was an appeal to

my father’s conscience. Now, whence came that appeal? From the grave?

Certainly not. From heaven? Who knows?”

“Well, M. Goefle, what do you conclude as to the apparition of last

night?”

“Nothing at all, my dear friend, but I am none the less troubled,

every little while, with the idea that the Baroness Hilda may perhaps

have been the victim of a calumny, and that God has given permission,

not that her soul should visit me, but that my own mind should be so

strongly impressed with the recollection of her, as to bring her image

before my eyes, and thus influence me to make researches into the truth

of the matter.”

“But what was the charge brought against this famous baroness, then?”

“That she fabricated an audacious falsehood, with the design of

depriving Baron Olaus of his rightful inheritance.”

“Will you please tell me that story, too, M. Goefle? I feel extremely

curious about it, since you have seen this spectre.”

“Certainly, I intended to do so; and, fortunately, it is not long.

“Baron Magnus de Waldemora, who was commonly called ‘the great iarl’

(though ‘iarl’ means properly ‘count,’ the term is very commonly

applied to all nobles of a certain rank and importance), had two sons.

The elder, Adelstan, was quick, impetuous, and ardent in disposition,

while the younger, Olaus, at present surnamed the Snow Man, was

mild, affectionate, and studious. They were both tall, handsome,

and strong, and together were their father’s pride. His fortune was

considerable--an unusual advantage in our country, where the wealth of

the nobility was immensely diminished by the reduction of 1680. The

right of primogeniture does not prevail with us, but all the sons

inherit equally. Still, even half of this inheritance was, it might

seem, enough to satisfy either of the brothers, and if there was ever a

young man who appeared incapable of jealousy it was Olaus--a youth of

calm exterior, inclined to quiet raillery, for whom the father seemed

to feel a sort of preference, and who was generally more liked than his

elder brother.

“The latter was of a noble character, but his frankness was so great

as sometimes to verge upon rudeness. He had early shown an active

disposition, and had a passion for travelling and novelty. At thirty he

had already been all over Europe, and, during his stay in France, had

acquired certain philosophical views, which caused great apprehensions

to the elder members of his family, and even to his father. His friends

wished him to marry, and he agreed to do so, requiring only that his

bride should be the choice of his heart. Accordingly he married a

beautiful young lady whom he had known in France, the Countess Hilda

de Blixen, an orphan of a noble Danish family, who had no other dowry

than her mental attractions, her beauty, and her virtue. This was a

great deal, you would say, and I am entirely of your opinion. It was

also that of the old Baron Magnus, who, although at first disposed to

disapprove of the connection as a mere love-match, soon learned to love

and cherish his daughter-in-law.

“Some assert that Olaus was disappointed at this reconciliation, and

that he had tried to make a quarrel between his father and Adelstan.

It has been hinted, moreover, that Baron Magnus, who was a strong and

healthy man, died in a very sudden manner. Both these charges are of

old date, and absolutely without any proof.

“What is certain, however, is, that from the time of sharing the

inheritance there existed a serious misunderstanding between the two

brothers. My father himself was present during a certain discussion

about the property, when Baron Adelstan spoke in the bitterest

manner to Olaus, who had reproached him mildly for having lived so

much at a distance from his family, neglecting his home duties and

responsibilities, in order to gratify his taste for travelling.

“‘My father,’ he said, ‘never knew the value of your hypocritical

affection. Perhaps he understands it only too well, now that he is in

his grave!’

“The bitterness of this sarcasm, and the moderation with which Olaus

received it, caused my father to express great disapproval of the

frightful suspicion which the elder brother hinted. Adelstan said no

more, but he never intimated that he had changed his opinion. Many

utterances of his to the same effect are remembered, whose implications

have remained without proof, but--at least as far as some persons about

him are concerned--not without weight.

“Baron Magnus had not laid aside any such sums of money as would admit

of the purchase by one brother from the other of either portion of the

real estate, and the question of selling the lands and the chateau

therefore came up. Olaus refused the income which his brother offered

to settle upon him, notwithstanding that the amount was larger than

he himself offered to Adelstan in case the lands should be adjudged

to him. The plan of selling had, however, to be given up, for no

purchasers came forward. This immense chateau, situated in a remote

region on the confines of a wilderness, was no longer adapted to the

requirements of modern society, whose tendency is to draw people to the

capital, or southern provinces. My father, however, succeeded in making

a clear statement of the whole revenues and expenses of the estate, and

on this basis he fixed upon a proper figure for the annuity to be paid

to the one brother, by whichever should continue in possession of the

domain, and it was agreed to cast lots for the choice. The result was

in favor of the elder brother.

“Olaus showed no vexation, but it is asserted that he was, in fact,

extremely chagrined, and that he lamented to those in his confidence

the unjust fate which drove away from the heritage of his fathers a

person like himself, accustomed to a country life, and fond of quiet,

in order to bestow this beautiful residence upon an inconstant and

restless being like Adelstan. By such complaints, by the friendly

familiarity of his manners, and by liberal gifts bestowed upon the

numerous retainers of the house, he formed for himself a party of

adherents who soon threatened to impede the elder brother in managing

his affairs, and even in maintaining his domestic authority.

“My father, who was obliged to remain here some weeks, while concluding

the settlement of the estate, perceived all this, but he had grown

weary of these constant family dissensions, and probably he did less

than justice to the frank and loyal character of the elder brother.

He seems to have been very much influenced by the plausible manners

and apparent goodness of heart of Olaus, and, except where questions

of equity were concerned, in which case my father was rigorously

impartial, the younger brother was his favorite. My father went away

after having endeavored to arrange for the residence of both brothers

at the chateau. Olaus was anxious to retain at least a foothold at

Stollborg, but Adelstan refused to allow him this privilege, with a

firmness that seemed somewhat harsh.

“As soon as Olaus left for Stockholm, where he proposed to establish

himself, Adelstan sent for his wife, who, during these discussions

about the property, had been residing with a friend at Falun, together

with her young son, then only a few months old, and the young couple

went to housekeeping at Waldemora. And now it was, after many

suspicions and much gossiping talk, that a secret was discovered--or

so it was stated--which the young people had hitherto concealed

from the public. Baroness Hilda was said to be a Catholic. She had

been brought up in France, and there--according to the stories in

circulation--in compliance with the wishes of an aunt and the circle of

her friends, had imprudently devoted herself to theological studies,

and had been led away by the pride of knowledge to abjure the religion

of her fathers, which she was taught to believe was of too recent

date. It was even said that false miracles had been employed, so as

to extort from her imprudent vows. On these points I can give you

no information of any kind. I might have been acquainted with the

baroness, but no opportunity occurred of bringing us together, and we

never met. She is said to have been very intelligent, and thoroughly

educated. It is quite possible that she may have changed her religion

from conscientious motives and intellectual conviction; and, for my

part, I acquit her on this charge with a great deal of philosophy.

Unfortunately, the public could not be brought to do this. In Sweden,

there is a very strong attachment to the established religion, and the

dissenters are so few that they are at once marked out from the rest of

the community. They are frequently rebuked, and even persecuted; not so

cruelly as in less enlightened times, but with sufficient harshness to

render their lives painful and miserable. The law even admits of their

being exiled.

“A terrific scandal therefore arose, when it was discovered, or was

supposed to be so, that the baroness, who had always been rather lax

in her attendance at the parish church, had secretly erected a chapel

to the Virgin Mary in this very old donjon; where, unable to command

the services of a priest of her religion, she was in the habit of

offering up special and private prayers of her own. This secret worship

the peasants regarded as little better than sorcery. However, as the

baroness did not attempt to make proselytes, and never spoke of her

religion, the matter was gradually hushed up. She did a great deal of

good, and her lovely character overcame many prejudices.

“The young couple had now been established at Waldemora for about

three years, with their one son, whom they idolized. The sweet temper

of the baroness had modified the slight harshness of her husband’s

disposition, which arose from his uncompromising independence and

integrity of character. They were beloved and appreciated; and both

the retainers of the family and the neighbors were beginning to forget

all about Olaus, notwithstanding the letters that he frequently

wrote, so as to have the pleasure of signing himself ‘The poor

exile!’ Pastor Mickelson, the minister of the parish, whose church

you probably saw about half a league from here, was Olaus’s most

faithful adherent. Olaus had always made a great display of piety;

while Adelstan’s toleration was excessively vexatious to the pastor,

who was somewhat fanatical in his Lutheranism. The baron, moreover,

had exerted his influence to have a certain ceremony of the divine

service discontinued: namely, the employment of a certain staff which

the beadle used in his official duty of awakening those who fell

asleep during the sermon. The question was brought before the bishop,

who decided upon a compromise; the beadle was to be allowed to tickle

the noses of the sleepers with a switch, but not to rap them over the

head with the stick. The pastor never forgave Baron Adelstan for this

assault upon his authority, and still less the young baroness, who was

said to have laughed at this Dalecarlian method of enforcing devotion

by blows with a staff. He never ceased annoying the young iarl and

his wife, and was always stirring up against them the country people;

themselves very prone to religious intolerance.

“In the meanwhile, the young couple persevered in trying to promote

improvements on their estate. The baron was severe in dealing with

abuses, and drove off without pity all persons of disreputable

character; he also put an end to the shameful practice of inflicting

stripes on servants, and to the humiliating relics of the past serfage

of the country people. The Dalecarlian peasant is usually well

disposed, but he is as far as possible from being a friend of progress.

Many of them were loath to part with the old abuses, and found it

difficult to reconcile themselves to asserting their personal dignity.

“One day--truly a most unhappy day--the baron was obliged to go to

Stockholm on business; and as it was the time of the autumn rains,

which made travelling difficult, and often impracticable, he was

obliged to leave his wife behind at the chateau. As he was returning

to his home in about a fortnight from this time, Baron Adelstan was

assassinated in the gorges of Falun. He had travelled on horseback;

and, in his impatience to see his beloved Hilda, had ridden on in

advance, leaving his people to finish a meal which seemed to him rather

too protracted. He was then thirty-three years old, and his widow

twenty-four.

“This murder made a great excitement, and astounded the whole country.

In many districts the Dalecarlians are fierce and passionate, and among

these mountains the Norwegian duel, with knives, is still in vogue,

but such a thing as a cowardly and secret assassination is almost

unexampled. The people in the vicinity did not venture to accuse any

one, and indeed they had no grounds for doing so. Certain foreign

miners disappeared suddenly from Falun, but they could not be traced.

Baron Adelstan had not been robbed, and there was but one person in

the world for whose interest it was to get rid of him. Some whispered

cautiously the name of Baron Olaus; but the majority rejected such a

suspicion with horror, and my father first of all.

“Baron Olaus appeared overwhelmed with despair at his brother’s

death. He hastened into the country, weeping and lamenting rather too

ostentatiously, perhaps, and testifying the most disinterested devotion

to his sister-in-law. Every one was very much edified by his conduct,

except the baroness herself, who received him with extreme coldness,

and, after several hours, requested him to leave her alone with her

grief; for which she could not be consoled. The baron accordingly

left, to the great regret of the retainers of the family, whom he had

quite overpowered with gifts and kindness. On the very evening of his

departure, little Harold, the son of the baroness, was taken with

convulsions, and died before morning.

“Driven quite to despair by this final blow, the unhappy mother lost

all prudence, and loudly accused Olaus of having first caused the

assassination of her husband, and then of poisoning her child, so as to

get possession of their fortune. But her cries were unanswered--they

did not even reach the outer world. There was no skilful physician

within reach, to verify the nature of the child’s death, and none of

her domestics chose to run the risk of seeking for proofs against Baron

Olaus. Pastor Mickelson, who practised as a physician in his parish,

declared that Harold had died as children often do, from the effects

of teething, and that the poor baroness was unjust and insane; which,

unfortunately, was very possible.

“Baron Olaus had not gone far when word reached him of his nephew’s

death; upon which he at once returned, apparently as full of grief as

the baroness herself. She, however, overwhelmed him with maledictions,

to which he only replied by sad and heart-rending smiles. Every one

lamented her misfortunes; as a widow, a mother, even as an insane

person, she was a worthy object of compassion; but no one thought of

accusing the generous, the patient, the sensible Olaus. Perhaps he was

thought even more to be pitied than she, as being doomed to endure

suspicions so outrageous. He was admired, moreover, for not allowing

himself to be irritated; his very complaints were uttered in a tone

full of tenderness, and he begged Hilda to continue to reside at the

chateau, and to live with him as a sister with a brother. For my part,

I am quite convinced that the baron is a great knave, and that he did

not regret his nephew’s death, and yet I am far from considering him

an actual monster; he has never seemed to me to be a man of sufficient

boldness to commit great crimes. The baroness had suffered too much,

and was in a state of too much mental excitement to be able to judge

coolly. She charged him with having killed father, brother, and nephew;

and all at once she formed a singular resolution, which I think was an

act of vengeance and despair, and altogether an ill-judged measure.

“She called together the magistrates and civic authorities of the

province, and declared to them, in presence of all her own household,

that she was pregnant, and that she intended to maintain all the

hereditary rights of the child whose natural guardian she was. She

made this declaration with great energy, and announced that she

should proceed to Stockholm, in order to have her condition fully

authenticated, and to ascertain her legal rights until the birth of her

child.

“Baron Olaus listened to this declaration with great calmness, and

replied, in substance, thus:

“‘It is perfectly unnecessary to expose yourself to the fatigues and

risks of this journey. The hope that my dear brother’s lineage will be

revived fills me with satisfaction, nor will I consent to a renewal

of any controversies. It is evident that my presence annoys and

irritates you, and never shall it be said that the disturbed state of

your mind was aggravated by any voluntary act of mine. I will myself

withdraw, therefore, and will not return here until after the birth

of your child--always, supposing that you are not deceived as to your

condition.’

“Olaus did, in fact, depart, saying to everybody that he did not

believe a word of this story of pregnancy, but that he was in no haste

to enter into his inheritance.

“‘For the sake of propriety, and in consideration of my sister-in-law’s

unhappy state of excitement,’ he added, ‘I prefer to wait, and can very

well afford to do so for a year, if necessary, so that the truth may be

established.’

“These were the views he expressed to my father at Stockholm, whither

he now immediately returned, and my father, I remember, blamed him for

being too confiding, and over-delicate. He thought Baroness Hilda had

invented this posthumous child, and intimated that it would not be the

first time that a widow had brought forward a supposititious heir so

as to despoil the rightful inheritor. The baron, however, replied with

infinite mildness:

“‘What would you have me do? I am tired of the hateful suspicions

which this exasperated woman is trying to fasten upon me, and can

best refute them by proving the disinterestedness of my own conduct.

And furthermore, to provide against being pursued by her hatred even

here, I think it will be best for me to travel until my affairs can be

settled.’

“Shortly after this Baron Olaus went to Russia, where he was received

by the czarina with much attention, and where he began to construct

that web of intrigues whose result has been to make him one of the

most tenacious and dangerous of the cap-party of the Diet. It has been

asserted that his character developed very rapidly during his stay

at the Russian court, and that, at his return, he had acquired such

views, manners, and principles, as caused him, from that time, to

appear totally changed. He was still always tranquil and smiling, but

there was something terrible in his tranquillity, something sinister

in his smile. He was still friendly and caressing in his manner to

inferiors, but his friendliness was contemptuous, and his caresses

the soft touch of the covered claw. In short, he was precisely what

he is to-day--except so far as advancing years and ill-health have

intensified his more gloomy traits--a problematic being, who is either

the most consummate of villains or the victim of a most strange

combination of terrible circumstances. He now entered upon a career of

intrigue and crime, which the czarina has shown great skill in turning

to her own advantage, and of which the virtuous baron himself was very

soon heard to speak with complaisant admiration; and it was at this

time that, he began to be called ‘The Snow Man,’ either to signify that

his heart had been frozen during his residence in Russia, or that his

reputation had, as it were, thawed in the clearer and warmer sunshine

of his own country. The surname was made the more appropriate by his

physical characteristics, for, in the course of time, a livid paleness

became the habitual color of his face, his hair turned prematurely

gray, his carriage was stiff, and his bloated hands were invariably as

cold as death.

“But I must not anticipate. This change in the baron, which was,

perhaps, only the effect of an exhausting struggle against unjust

suspicions, did not become thus striking until after the death or

disappearance of all the persons whose existence might have been

disadvantageous to him. While still in Russia he caused it to be

reported in Sweden that he was mortally ill, and it was believed by

many that this was one of the first proofs of his accomplishments

as an intriguer. This report was said to be totally unfounded; and

when it was afterwards asked what reason he could have had for the

strange whim of declaring that he was dying at St. Petersburg, his

enemies alleged that it was to relieve Baroness Hilda from her fear

of him, and thus prevent her from coming to have her child born at

Stockholm. Unfortunately--I am stating the views of the enemies of

Olaus--the baroness fell into this snare. She remained at Waldemora

during the summer, and, when her pregnancy was so far advanced that

it was impossible for her to travel (she had become quite feeble in

consequence of her many afflictions), Baron Olaus suddenly reappeared,

as well and active as ever, in the neighborhood of the chateau.

“There, Christian, that is all I can tell you of the story as it is

generally current. The sequel is a secret history. What the facts

are, can only be conjectured or imagined, until the proofs shall be

discovered, if any such exist, and shall ever come to light.

“The baroness was so frightened at learning that the baron was staying

at Pastor Mickelson’s, that she resolved to shut herself up in the old

chateau, which was so very limited in extent--for the new _gaard_

had not then been built--that it could easily be defended by a small

number of faithful servants. At the head of these were Adam Stenson,

already grown old in the service at the chateau, and a confidential

female attendant, whose name I have forgotten.

“Now, what took place after that? It has been said that the baron

succeeded in corrupting all the guardians of Stollborg, even the

confidential waiting-woman and the incorruptible Stenson. But I would

risk my right hand on the faith of Stenson; and, indeed, the continued

good understanding between this excellent man and the baron, is to

me almost conclusive proof of the innocence of the latter. There are

two versions of the conclusion of this tragedy: one is that the baron

imprisoned his sister-in-law so closely, and made her so unhappy in

Stollborg, that she actually died of sorrow and chagrin; the other is,

that she was already insane when she took up her abode there, that

she soon became liable to dreadful fits of mania, and died amidst

transports of impious fury, cursing the evangelical religion, and

proclaiming the kingdom of Satan.

“Amid all these varying rumors there is, however, one fact certain,

and that is that her pregnancy was a simulated one. Ten months after

her husband’s death, in the last days of the year 1746, the baroness

died at Stollborg, where she had been living for three months in a

state of bodily languor and mental disorder. On her death-bed, she

formally acknowledged to Pastor Mickelson and the baron, that she had

not been pregnant, but had intended to bring forward a counterfeit

child, who was to have been a boy, in order to retain the control of

her husband’s property, and to gratify her hatred of Baron Olaus. There

is still a third version, which I really only mention with reluctance.

It is that the baroness actually died of starvation in this donjon,

but this Stenson has always emphatically denied. Whatever the facts

are, the last moments of Hilda are enveloped in mystery. None of her

own relatives were living, and her husband’s family, frightened at the

reports that prevailed about her religious opinions, shut their eyes

to the whole business, and did not move in her behalf. They had, in

fact, always liked the compliant Olaus, who flattered their prejudices,

better than the high-spirited Adelstan, who was constantly offending

them. It is said that this story came to the ears of the king, and

that he had meant to investigate it, but that the senate, in which

Olaus had powerful friends, requested his majesty to attend to his own

business--that is, to attend to nothing at all.

“My father was in very ill-health when Baron Olaus came to tell him his

own version of his sister-in-law’s death. For the first time my father

manifested some surprise, and even a disposition to blame the baron. He

told him he had done wrong to expose himself to such grave suspicions,

and that if proceedings should be commenced against him his defence

would be difficult. The baron, on this, showed him the declaration of

Pastor Mickelson, in his double capacity of clergyman and physician,

in which he testified to the feigned pregnancy of the baroness, and

to her death, in consequence of an illness of which he had made a

careful diagnosis, and had treated in a skilful and judicious manner,

as all the physicians who had since been consulted on the subject had

agreed. Moreover, he produced the declaration of the baroness, signed

by her own hand, affirming that she had made a false representation

of her condition. This paper my father examined rigorously, and even

caused it to be scrutinized by experts in handwriting, but he found it

impregnable. Still, I remember that he blamed the baron for not having

called in ten physicians, instead of one only, for authenticating

the facts for his own defence in so weighty a matter. But he never

suspected him of any crime or imposture, and in this belief he died, a

short time afterwards.

“After a time, murmurs were heard against the baron, whose conduct

began to make him hated, but he very soon made himself feared also;

there was no one whose direct interest it was to avenge his supposed

victims, and no one came forward generous and bold enough to defy him.

I myself would have done this, although then young at the bar, as I

should be ready to do this moment if my suspicions were sufficiently

aroused. But I was naturally influenced by my father’s opinion, and

he had never gone further than to find fault with Olaus for not being

prudent enough in his own behalf. Besides, my father’s death took place

just about that time, and you can readily imagine that my sorrow, which

was very keen, diverted my mind from other objects.

“I inherited the management of the baron’s law business, and, as I have

said, notwithstanding the increasing dislike with which his political

conduct and his personal manners have inspired me, I have never from

that day to this been able to find the least proof of the crimes with

which he is charged, or even to get hold of any probable or reliable

evidence on the subject. Among his tenantry and retainers there has

been a reaction in opinion about him, as might well have been expected;

for as soon as he no longer needed their sympathy, he took no further

pains to make himself popular. His domestics are all strangers, persons

whom he substituted for the old servants immediately upon taking

possession of the estate, and he pays them in a manner to secure from

them blind obedience and absolute discretion. Stenson is the only one

of the old household whom he has retained; he employed him for a long

time as steward, but at last allowed him to retire, on account of

his great age. He provides him with a suitable retreat, an honorable

pension, and has always treated him with great respect, and even with

marked friendliness. This has been supposed to indicate that Stenson

was his accomplice; but, Christian, it is this very fact that satisfies

me as to the truth of the matter, and which makes my own conscience

easy; for Stenson is actually a holy man, a model of all the Christian

virtues.”