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.”