In castle and colony

Chapter I

She was a very tiny maiden to take part in so great a ceremony, and the white linen robes that covered her from head to foot swept the ground and impeded the childish movements. Startled blue eyes looked out from amidst the whiteness, and up into the face of the gentleman who led her, guiding her footsteps carefully. The little Swedish maiden was so small, and her five years of experience so short, that as she followed in the long funeral procession there was a needs be for the care her companion bestowed upon her. The care was ever present. The face above her was grave, but the dark brown eyes shone down into hers encouragingly, and the hand that guided her was warm and soft.

"Courage, little Agneta! 'Twill soon be over." The lips did not appear to move, the whole figure was decorously still, yet the child's companion contrived that the words should reach her ears, and the little girl walked on obediently, never once turning her head to the long line of mourners that followed.

She did want to glance round once, to assure herself of the presence of the tall lady who walked immediately behind her. It would have comforted her to look into that face, though at the moment it was very white and stately. Not even for the little Agneta would there have been a relaxing of the muscles about the mouth, or a movement of the eyelids that drooped over the sad eyes. But it was the face of the mother, and to look back at it would have been reassuring to the childish heart.

The procession was imposing, as befitted the position of him whom they were bearing to the grave. When it started from the door of the lonely dwelling on the hill above the lake, the old Swedish house, half castle, half mansion, was left without a master. Slowly the funeral cortege wound its way down, through the pine wood, and out to the road to the village. The dead whom they were to bury out of sight that day was a young man, but many had gathered from far to show him respect.

"It is for his father's sake," the tall lady who walked behind the child said when the funeral procession was set in order.

It was not two years since the father himself was carried along the same road.

The eyes of the little Agneta wandered from the long winding road to the figures that moved before, and back to her in unmelodious and doleful strains was borne the sound of solemn requiem, sung by the singing boys and men belonging to the church ii? the village. No breath of wind from among me pine trees above came to soften the sound, but mingled with it could be heard now and then the footfalls of the horse that had place behind the singers. The animal was richly covered with caparisons embroidered with gold, and on it rode a horseman armed as a cuirassier, his armor gilt, his sword naked, with its point turned towards his own breast. The little Agneta shuddered at that naked sword. She wondered why the man did not put it in its scabbard, and then she tripped over the long linen robe of mourning, and would have fallen if her companion had not held her up.

When she looked again another horse, that had place behind the grand horseman, was being led by two men in mourning around the bend in the road, full in view of her wondering eyes. She knew it well. It belonged to brother Adolf, and he would never ride it again. It was covered to the ground with a black cloth with a white cross in the middle, and closely following it came a gentleman bearing a standard having upon it the arms of her brother.

"They are all walking before Adolf," mused the little girl, and fixed her eyes on the bier covered with black cloth and borne by six men in mourning. She gave little heed to the banners that were carried on either side of it. To her they were only strange accessories. She was too young to know them as so many tokens of family honor and position, and to recognize on each the arms of some ancestor stately and proud.

They had all passed beyond the bend in the road now, and another horse, covered to the ground, and following the bier, was being led out of sight. There was nothing more for Agneta to look upon except the figures of those who followed on foot, men of noble bearing many of them, friends of the child's father — gray-bearded and solemn. They had come to do honor to the son for the sake of the father. And there were younger men there who had called the dead man their friend. These were of another type, of lighter vein, and less noble bearing.

There were no women for the little Agneta to watch, for these all walked behind. The tiny, child mourner, led by the tall, dark-eyed cavalier, appeared at the head of this division of the procession, and close behind her came the stately lady who wore her linen robes in queenly style, and needed no care from the gentleman appointed as her escort. Other women followed, also clad in the spotless linen robes of mourning, and behind these more immediate relatives came a goodly line of women friends, testifying their sympathy and respect by their presence at the funeral rites. The procession was further augmented by many coaches, some grand and gay, as befitted the wealthy, some old and dilapidated like the fortunes of their owners.

And thus the body of Adolf Botorpa was laid to rest, and the Swedish mansion on the hill finally lost its master, and stood desolate on that autumn day of the year 1641, none being left to return to it as rightful inmates save the little Agneta and the queenly woman, who, when the ceremony was over, folded the child in her arms as she whispered: "What next, little one?"

But that was later, after the return to the house, and when the mistress was for the moment free from her duties as hostess. For the moment, but only that. The long banqueting was yet to come, and not one detail of it all would the stately lady omit. That night the old house showed lights in every story, and in the banqueting hall upon the third floor, where supper was laid, the feast was protracted and ceremonious. The dignity of the dead must be maintained, and she into whose hands the duty fell was little likely to shirk the task, even when it stretched out to a week beyond the actual funeral. Her husband's son should be buried as became his position, and then — . At that point the thoughts of the mother always turned to the dark-eyed cavalier who led the little Agneta in the procession, and her own eyes gathered a more troubled gloom.

To the little girl herself the week was long and lonely. The household was given over to solemn feasting. From old Brita in the kitchen to the stately mother, all were engrossed in the special duties of the hour. The sweet red lips many a time quivered, and the empty arms reached out pitifully, and then were drawn back with a brave determination to wait. The little maid was lonely, and oppressed with the solemnity of all this pomp and ceremony, but the banquets in memory of brother

Adolf must be given, and the friends who had come to show their respect for him must be suitably entertained, and even the little Agneta could understand that her own claim must wait. The blood of the Botorpas ran in her veins, and she not only waited, but waited without complaint. And there came at last a night when the mother arms folded again about her, and the proud head, crowned with hair as fair and soft as that of the child herself, was lowered till it rested on the golden curls.

"Is brother Adolf buried as befits his rank?" asked the small maiden, unconsciously quoting words heard often in the days that were past.

"Yes, child; we have done our duty by him." The answer came with a long sigh. In her heart the mother added bitterly: "Would that he had done as much by us!"

Just how far he had fallen short of it she had yet to learn, and again her thoughts went to the tall, handsome man who had led little Agneta. When she thought of her husband's only son, the halfbrother of Agneta, she must necessarily think also of the friend who had enjoyed all his confidence. They had been always together of late. And it was of late that the character of Adolf had changed so much for the worse ; of late — since the death of his father. And yet her husband had trusted Monsieur Pors fully, as fully as he had trusted Adolf. And he was not usually deceived.

Madam Botorpa rose, and put the child from her. Aye, surely her husband had trusted him, and she had trusted him also, else would he never have been given the right to stand by the tiny maiden and print upon her lips the more than brotherly kiss, else would -he never have presumed to claim the privilege of walking by her side and caring for her on the day of the funeral. He had claimed, rather than asked it.

"He was my friend, and she — belongs to me," he said, with an appealing gesture but a confident mien.

She would have given all she possessed to be able to tell him that he overestimated that right, but she could not. Memory reminded her grimly of a day when, with much ceremony, the hand of the little maiden was placed in that of the young man, and the father laid his hand upon both, and the pastor blessed the betrothal. A shiver ran through her as she remembered the kiss he pressed on the baby lips, and the satisfied smile that rested on his face as he said: "Mine now, little one! Betrothed to-day— bride at some future time!"

The father had believed in him so implicitly. For herself — she had believed in him too, but that winning smile and musical voice had even then sometimes wrought on her an opposite effect from that produced on others. More than once a doubt had come, though it never stayed. Now — she doubted no more, but she trembled, and that for the future of hei child.

Chapter II

The old stone house was very still. The funeral ceremonies were ended, and the living were at liberty to go their way and leave the dead in peace. Below the hill the lake shimmered in the autumn sunlight, and between the house and the water the winds played soft melodies among the pines. The melodies were all outside of the house. There was no suggestion of them in the face of the lady who sat in an upper room of the mansion, with eyes fixed on the lake, and thoughts as far as possible removed from it.

It was a large room, impressive with the dignity of age. The figures on the tapestry that covered its walls had lost their prominence by reason of the dulling of the colors. Time had softened all things, extending its ministrations even to the bare floor, dark with years. The table carpet had once been brilliant with crimson and gold, but now its hues flaunted no longer. The harmony of age prevailed there also, and the ancient stools and long, high seats reflected the firelight with a grave decorum that was in full keeping with their years. Even the fire displayed no rollicking tendencies, but was content to burn soberly and moderately, as became it in such surroundings. No shining brass andirons held up the short cleft sticks. They stood stiffly against the back of the chimney, scant in quantity, since their mission was rather to combat the chill of the damp than to provide actual warmth.

On one object in that room time had not yet tried its skill. There was no toning down of the colors in the childish face that gravely fronted the fire. The lips were red with warm blood, and the gold and blue of hair and eyes were brilliant enough to make a dash of brightness among the prevailing neutral tints.

The mother eyes were not the only ones that rested on that bit of brightness. From the half-open door another looked approvingly on the child. The intruder was tall and well formed, singularly graceful in movement and distinguished in bearing. Time had done little in the way of toning down there, though he had had twenty -five years in which to try his skill. The man who stood in the opening of the door was strong of body and of will, more particularly of will. Evidently he was not in haste, for he stood motionless, watching the two within. That his scrutiny pleased him was manifested by the slight relaxing of the lips that neared but did not reach a smile. It was at the moment when he saw another pair of eyes turned toward his that he advanced.

"Do I come at an unwelcome hour?" he asked, gravely approaching the lady.

"Nay, I would have all business matters settled as soon as may be. "

Madam Botorpa let her fingers rest for a moment in his, and then quietly drew away the hand he would have retained.

"Are you wise?" he asked gently. "Your sorrow is yet new, and business is a burden that the fair should carry only when the shoulders are strong."

She motioned him to be seated, and he drew a stool close to hers, and with grave courtesy waited for her to speak. He had not to wait long.

"My son Adolf was taken away too suddenly to explain to me the position in which he left his little sister," she said slowly. "He tried to tell me, but was able only to intimate that you could give me all the information I needed. "

"He spoke truly, madam."

The voice was low, the eyes inscrutable.

"I know that he was extravagant, that he got into difficulties, ' ' she continued. ' ' I think that he came to you for relief. ' '

"He did."

Nothing could be more gentle than tone and words.

"Did he involve the estate? To what length did his follies go?"

There was a ring in her voice that did not escape the ear of the listener.

"Madam, we speak of the dead," he said softly.

"And of the living," she replied, looking towards the child.

"Verily," he responded, with a smile brilliant as it was transitory. "You ask me — what?"

"Did Adolf remember his sister's rights?" asked

Madam Botorpa plainly. "When my husband died the estate was impoverished. There was little actual money. He gave all that remained to his son, with the understanding that he would seek to improve the fortunes of the place, and hold his sister's interests sacred. Has he done so?"

"The interests of the little Agneta have not suffered — shall not suffer," said her listener fervently.

'"''Shall not? In whose hands then do they lie?"

"In mine."

"In yours?"

"I have that honor, madam."

"What do you mean? What am I to understand?"

She rose, and stood before him. With quick courtesy he also abandoned his seat.

"Madam," he said gently, "I would rather you should understand nothing. It were better so, believe me. But if you must eat of the tree of knowledge, I am fain to explain that my dead friend was somewhat reckless — that finding his difficulties increase, he, to save himself from disgrace, made over to me his paternal estate, which, after a descent, and when he himself had no issue, was, as you know, alienable."

"He gave you all?"

"Nay, he gave me naught. For all that I hold he had ample return. The estate was alread)'' deeply involved. The loss, I assure you, was not on his side."

"And his sister has nothing?"

"I pray you, kind lady, do you count me nothing?"

The tone was light, the gesture deprecating.

She took note of neither.

"You have legal proof of this?" she said, but while she asked the question she knew that answer was unnecessary. Adolf's uneasiness during his short illness, his manifest remorse, his reckless career before that time — all were proofs that Monsieur Pors did not lie. Madam found no room for doubt that the old mansion, which for so long had owned the Botorpas as master, had passed into other hands.

"Certainly. They are at your service. Nay, madam, let not this distress you," continued the young man. "I swear it shall make no difference either to my little betrothed or to her mother. I beg of you to forget that you have thus rashly courted sorrow by a too curious scrutiny of existing circumstances. Think you that I would have exerted myself to aid Adolf in the way I did had not the interests of my little lady been very near my heart? Along with my friend's estate, I gladly accept his responsibilities. Now, as ever, this is the home of my betrothed, and her welfare shall be the first consideration."

She turned from him with a motion of impatience. He answered the movement.

"You doubt my will to serve her?" he asked.

"Methinks that we deal in conflicting terms," she said. "Service and robbery were not wont to be interchangeable words. ' '

Her eyes flashed straight into his as she spoke. There was no corresponding gleam there. The lips that answered even smiled.

"Gentle lady, you have me at a disadvantage," he said. "The tongue of man would utter such words at its peril. But you — say on, yet stand not thus, I pray."

She seated herself mechanically. He stood before her, tall, patient, courteous, waiting for her to speak. No ripple of annoyance passed over his face. It expressed nothing but deferential attention.

"Madam, wherein lies my sin?" he asked, when her words were long delayed. "Was it in aiding my friend that I erred? Would you have exonerated me had I allowed another to meet Adolf's need? Then would you have had a stranger to deal with to-day."

"Wherein have you erred?" she repeated, in a voice that was calm only by force of a strong will. "Sir, were it not wiser to ask that question of your own heart? Did it never speak to yon words that 'man may utter at his peril'? Does it seem to you a light thing to lead a weaker than yourself to ruin? 'Tis a gift, surely, that of being able to throw a glamour over evil, till even he who is not a fool may well mistake darkness for light. A coarser nature would have made sin repulsive where you gave it attraction. Such a one Adolf would never have followed. Then would there have been no necessity for this interview, with you or any other. ' '

"Nay, you do me too great an honor," he said, and his bow was grave, though in his tone was a half hidden ring of mockery. "In the eyes of such fair mentors as yourself a man's deeds may well gather blackness. Would that masculine nature were as near sainthood as that of man's gentle reprovers. I claim not innocence, madam, yet can I not flatter myself that my friend's career was ever materially changed through act of mine. He is dead. It becomes me not even to hint at his faults. Yet methinks there was less weakness than your gentle heart finds as excuse. A man's will is his own, and none intermeddleth therewith except with his consent. My friend was unwise, I admit, yet must I humbly claim that he alone was responsible for his mistakes."

He turned slightly, and noticed that the little Agneta had approached, and with parted lips and eyes that expressed the strongest disapproval, was regarding him closely. He bent towards her with a smile suggestive of relief.

"Come hither, little maiden, and plead my cause," he said. "Nay, sweet one, set not your face against me, even as does the mother, ' ' he added, playfully. "Those pretty lips were meant to smile — yes, and to kiss also. Is it not so?"

He put out his hand and drew her to him, looking down laughingly into the soft blue eyes. Something in his own caused them to change, hesitatingly and reluctantly, though surely, from grave disapproval, through the stages of doubt, unwilling surrender, and growing attraction, to open friendliness. The tiny maiden could not resist the laughing glamour of his eyes, and the caressing smile on his lips. The hand that clasped her was delicate as a woman's, though bronzed by out-door sports beyond all charge of effeminacy, but the muscles of the arm were closely knit. Hand and arm held her in an embrace strong enough to mean possession. To the child the close clasp was altogether a caress, to the mother it had a double character. The arm that held could keep, aye, and would keep, did it so desire.

"You must not vex my mother," said the little maiden seriously, though her eyes smiled back into his. ''You must do what she says. You must be good. ' '

"Why, sweet one, it is that she will not allow. When I would be good to her she says me nay. ' '

His glance went from child to mother, resting with the same easy grace on each. The eyes of the little Agneta followed his questioningly till they reached her mother's face. It was grave and sad, but it held itself well under control. The child was too young to note the slight quiver of the lips, or the flash in the steady blue eyes. She did not know that the hand which lay motionless on her mother's lap was with difficulty restrained from plucking her fiercely out of the arm that held her. The hand lay rigidly still, apparently as well under command as the voice that answered the spoken words.

"Good, say you?" replied the lady, and the touch of scorn was well regulated. " 'Tis a strange perversion of terms, surely, to call that good which is the seal of the wrong done to this child and to me."

He smiled upon her still.

"Nay, you are determined to do me injustice," he said softly. "What could my 'gentle friend ask further? I have begged of her to let the past be as if it were not. Madam, your hand alone shall administer the affairs of this household, as of yore. What matters it whom the servants call master?"

"Aye, what matters it," she replied, "that this child remain as a beggar where she should rule as mistress? It is all one whether I hold the home of her ancestors for her as her right, or accept residence in it as a dole from the hand that — "

She hesitated, and left the sentence unfinished.

"Madam, say on," her companion urged. "The hand that — ?"

"That was not ashamed to possess itself of the spoil and now proffers a portion of it to the despoiled, and dubs itself virtuous in the act, ' ' she said scornfully.

"You deal in ugly names, fair lady," he replied, and except that his words came more slowly, there was no change in his manner. "To me it savors not of wisdom to meet a just — I had well nigh said a generous — offer with such lack of grace."

"Generous!" she said, and sat looking at him. He returned the gaze steadily. As she looked into the depths of those brown eyes her own slowly lost their fire and their last gleam of hope. Those others darkened and strengthened with the passing moments. The words on her tongue were silenced. She felt the impotence of speech. Whatever else those eyes said to her, they told her plainly of the strength of her opponent and the weakness of her own cause. They made protest look like foolishness. Why babble like a child railing in helpless wrath? The strength in those eyes was conclusive. She accepted it with all that it entailed. She had feared the worst. It had but come.

Her eyes abandoned their scrutiny. There was no more to find out. She rose, with a dignity of movement from which all trace of passion had vanished.

"You have no more to tell me, I think," she said. "We understand each other."

"Madam, I hope not," he replied, and now there was surely some eagerness in his voice. "I would fain believe that all that which you think you understand of me is not my due, and that the denial of my wish, that I read in your face, is a misunderstanding on my part."

"I do not think we either of us misunderstand," she said, and her manner gave him no alternative but to bring the interview to an end. He bent down over the little Agneta, and pressed a kiss on the rosy lips. Did he know just how hard it was for the woman who stood so calmly by him to endure the sight of that kiss?

"Little one," he said lightly, "dost ever look at a certain silver plate, where thy name and mine are joined? Ask the mother to show it thee sometimes, child. 'Twas not meant to be put away and forgotten.. It means a very real union one day, little sweetheart. ' '

She looked at him questioningly.

"Where is it?" she asked.

4 ' In safe keeping, as is the little girl to whose future that to which it refers was meant to give direction, ' ' said her mother calmly. "Bid Monsieur Pors adieu, Agneta. He is waiting to go. "

The child held out her hand. He took it, and held it ; then stooped and kissed it.

"Some day you will give it tome to keep, " he said, and with a low bow to the lady turned and left mother and child alone.

When darkness had fallen over hill and lake, and the wind among the pines had changed its song to a dirge, and was moaning over the gladness of summer departed, with here and there an interlude of half suppressed shrieks in anticipation of winter's wild frolics, the light from the uncurtained windows of the upper room sent out long beams across the blank spaces. The hearth had been replenished with lengths of cleft pine trunks, and was the heart from which a warm glow sallied out and filled the room, causing the candles to pale on their stands. Not so the plate of silver that lay in the hand of the lady kneeling in the fire-shine. It showed no pallor of humility in presence of that full light. The rather, it gave back the glow proudly, as became noble metal, chosen for its purity to commemorate the betrothal of Agneta Botorpa, of ancient lineage, to Gustavus Pors, of no less worthy family. The sheet of engraved silver was the seal of the compact. That was why the lady's face darkened above it.

Gustavus Pors came of a sufficiently honorable race. Had the present representative of the family been of the calibre of his ancestors, that bit of shining metal would not have sent back the glint of the flame into such disquieted eyes. As regarded the exterior man, no better specimen of the race had been found in all the years of the past. The strength and grace of generations had descended upon the young man. In all but one respect he was a Pors to the heart's core. In that particular alone he had missed his heritage. The lives of the men of his people had ever, until now, been without reproach.

Not that Gustavus Pors met with the reproach of men. Surely not. To the majority of those who knew him, and knew him well, he was the worthy descendant of worthy forefathers. His thriving estates bore witness that he was no reckless squanderer. A few only of those who had a closer acquaintance with him smiled, and hinted that the feet of the young man did not tread precisely the path beaten smooth by the footsteps of his ancestors. Madam Botorpa was one of the few — but she did not smile. To marry the little Agneta to a man less pure and loyal and true than her father, was to her to fail in her trust.

The father himself had betrothed her, in gladness of heart and full faith in the man who would one day claim the fulfillment of the promise.

Always provided fancy did not change in the meantime. Thirteen years is a long interval over which to look, and prophesy of a young man's mood. More than once, during the last months, Madam Botorpa had flattered herself that the purpose which had been strong when the compact was made, had already become to Gustavus Pors a thing of questionable good, and that he would yet be not unwilling to be freed from his promise. His attitude to-day had undeceived her. It was in keeping with the testimony of that gleaming silver, rather than with her desire.

The presence of that betrothal gift irritated her. She would have liked to toss it into the fire, and heap fresh sticks about it till it curled and twisted and gave to the flames its record, becoming once more a piece of harmless metal. She rose to her feet, the little silver plate in her hand. The slender arm swung out, but the fingers did not relax their grip. They held the glistening silver full over the fire, and the blaze came up and scorched the delicate fingers. Even then they did not loosen their grasp. They hovered over the flames for a minute before the arm was slowly drawn back. They dropped the obnoxious sheet of metal then, and it went clanging on to the hearth, well out of the reach of danger. After all it was but the record of a fact that would remain though the silver plate ran in a molten stream among the ashes at her feet. There was a more potent element than that of fire, and with it Gustavus Pors had yet to contend. Time was a power on which the fickle fancy of youth did not count. Thirteen years would hardly pass and leave the young man of the same mind as to-day. To set his fancy on a winsome child, and to feel the same attraction toward the maiden grown, were different things. When circumstances had matured the man, and time had led the little maid to the verge of womanhood, the union which Madam Botorpa would fain prevent might seem as undesirable to one as to the other.