From that day the life at Greifenstein became even more drearily
monotonous than it had been before, for all the party excepting Greif
and Hilda. To any one not accustomed to the atmosphere the existence
would have been unbearable, but humanity can grow used to anything by
degrees. A stranger finding himself unexpectedly at the castle would
have felt that the sweet air of the forest was poisoned at that one
point by some subtle and undefinable element, that appealed to none of
the senses in particular, but oppressed them all alike. The sensation
was not like that caused by a vague anxiety, or by the shadow of a
coming event creeping mysteriously onward, a mere uneasiness as to the
result which must soon be apparent, but of which it is not possible to
say whether it will be good or bad. It was worse than that, for if there
were to be any result at all, it must be very bad indeed. Greifenstein
himself felt as he supposed a criminal might feel who was hourly
expecting discovery. If his half-brother returned, the suffering caused
by his presence in the country would be almost as great as the shame of
having committed his crime could have been. Frau von Sigmundskron was
more indifferent, for she had never known the man, and her knowledge
of what he had done was less accurate than Greifenstein’s. But she was
nevertheless very uncomfortable when she thought of his appearance.
It had been judged best to acquaint Greif with the proclamation of the
amnesty, in order that he might be prepared for any contingency, but
the news made very little impression upon him, for he had learned the
existence of his disgraced relative so recently that he had from the
first feared his return, and had thought of what he should do ever
since. Moreover he had Hilda with him, and he was very young, two
circumstances which greatly diminished his anxiety about the future. He
was very glad, however, that his academical career was so near its end,
for he reflected that it would be tiresome to be constantly fighting
duels about his uncle. For the present, he had abandoned the idea of
taking active service in the army.
Greifenstein was more silent, and stiff, and severely conscientious than
ever, and his daily habits grew if possible more unbendingly regular, as
though he were protesting already against any unpleasant disturbance in
his course of life which might be in store for him. When he was alone
with his cousin, he never recurred to the subject of Rieseneck or
his return, though the baroness constantly expected him to do so, and
watched his inscrutable face to detect some signs of a wish to discuss
the matter. For two reasons, she would not take the initiative in
bringing up the topic. In the first place, as he was the person most
nearly concerned, her tact told her that it was for him to decide
whether he would talk of his brother or not. Secondly she was silent,
because she had noticed something, and knew that he had noticed it also.
Frau von Greifenstein’s behaviour was slowly changing, and the change
had begun from the hour in which her husband had read from the paper the
paragraph relating to the amnesty.
From the first moment, Frau von Sigmundskron had suspected that Clara
was affected by the news, and her first impression had very naturally
been that she knew the story and had learned it from her husband. There
was nothing improbable in the idea, and but for Greifenstein’s words,
she would have taken it for granted that this was the true state of the
case. He, however, had emphatically denied that Clara was in the secret,
and had evidently looked forward with pain to the moment when he should
be obliged to communicate it to her. He was the most scrupulously
truthful of men, and could not have had any object in concealing the
point from his cousin. And yet there was no doubt that his wife’s manner
had changed, and the baroness could see that Greifenstein was aware
of it. Clara’s vague absence of mind, which had formerly been only
occasional, was increasing, while her fits of spasmodic laughter became
fewer, till at last whole days passed during which her features were not
disturbed by a single smile. There was indeed little to laugh at in her
home, at the best, but she had laughed frequently nevertheless, because
people had told her long ago that it was becoming to her style of
beauty. But she was growing daily more silent and abstracted, scarcely
speaking at all, and not even pretending to be amused at anything.
Greifenstein watched her for a week, and then inquired whether she were
ill. She thanked him and said there was nothing the matter, but during
some hours after he had asked the question she made an evident effort to
return to her former manner. The effect was painful in the extreme.
Her affected mirth seemed more hollow than ever, and her words more
incoherent. Frau von Sigmundskron began to fear that Clara was going
mad, but the latter was not equal to sustaining the effort long, and
soon relapsed into her former silence. Her face grew suddenly very old.
She moved more slowly. The wrinkles deepened almost visibly, and she
became daily thinner. It was evident that something was preying upon
her, and that the mental suffering was reacting upon her body.
Greifenstein said nothing more, and he told no one what he thought. If
his cousin had not suggested to him that Clara must know the story,
he would have supposed that she was ill, and would have sent for a
physician. It would never have entered his mind that she could have
understood all that the proclamation of the amnesty meant to him. He
would have supposed it a coincidence that she should have been first
affected by the malady on that particular day. But the baroness’s remark
had had the effect of fixing in his mind what had immediately preceded
it. He remembered how his wife had suddenly taken advantage of a most
trivial excuse, to show an amount of exaggerated emotion unusual even
for her. He remembered her long absence and her changed expression when
she returned, her silence that evening and her increasing taciturnity
ever since. The connexion between the paragraph and her conduct seemed
certain, and Greifenstein set himself systematically to think out some
explanation for the facts. In five and twenty years Rieseneck’s name had
never been mentioned in her presence. If she had ever heard of him it
must have been before she had married Greifenstein. It was possible that
she might feel the disgrace involved in the man’s return so keenly as to
suffer physically at the thought of it; but Greifenstein’s common sense
told him that this was very improbable. In such a case it would have
been far more natural for her to come to her husband and ask to be told
the whole truth. It was easier to believe that her conduct was due
to some other cause, that she had really never heard of Rieseneck’s
existence, and that there was some other person whose possible return,
in consequence of the amnesty, she dreaded as much as Greifenstein
feared the reappearance of his half-brother. Many persons had been
involved in the revolutionary movements of 1848 and had been obliged
to leave the country in consequence. Clara’s first husband had died of
heart disease in Dresden in the year 1860, and consequently could not
have been connected with the events of those times in any way to his
discredit. She had shown Greifenstein the official notice of his death
in an old gazette of the period. But it was not unlikely that in those
unsettled times one of her relations might have got into trouble and
been exiled or imprisoned. At the time of her marriage however she had
acknowledged no relative excepting an elderly aunt who had been present
at the wedding, but who had died since, without ever paying a visit to
the castle, and no other connexion of hers had ever appeared upon the
scene. Greifenstein was well aware that he had hurried the marriage by
every means in his power. He had been fascinated by Clara, and had
been madly in love. They had met in the Bavarian highlands and had been
married two months later in Munich, with very little formality. Since
that time Greifenstein had always avoided going to Dresden, on account
of the painful associations the city must have for his wife, and had
preferred not to visit Berlin, which had been the scene of his brother’s
crime and trial. The consequence was that neither of the two had ever
been among people who had known them previously.
The idea that two disgraced persons might come back from exile, instead
of one, was extremely disquieting to Greifenstein’s peace of mind. He
knew well enough what to do with Rieseneck if he appeared. He would shut
the gates and let him shift for himself. But the other man would be in
search of Clara. He wondered who he might be, and what their relations
could have been, whether he would turn out to be a brother, an uncle,
or merely some man who had loved her in former days, a mere rejected
suitor. Even should he prove to be her brother, he could not reproach
her for her silence, since he found himself in exactly the same
situation. That contingency, however, was remote. It was extremely
unlikely that each should have a brother who had been convicted of evil
deeds in the revolution, considering how short a time the disturbance
had lasted. The theory that the man was a disappointed pretender to her
hand was infinitely more probable. In any case, Greifenstein made up his
mind that a person existed whose return Clara feared, and the prospect
of whose appearance was so painful as to affect her health.
For some time he hesitated as to the course he should pursue. He was
certainly free to tell her his suspicions, on condition that he told
her of his own apprehensions at the same time. To get her secret without
giving his in return would be unfair, according to his notions of
honour, even apart from the consideration that if Rieseneck came back he
would ultimately be obliged to confide in her. But, on the other hand,
there was a possibility that Rieseneck might not come back, after all,
and in that case, if he had told her everything, he would have submitted
himself to a painful humiliation without necessity. He resolved to keep
his own counsel and at the same time to ask his wife no questions.
Rieseneck was in South America, but Greifenstein had no reason for
supposing that the person whose possible return so greatly disturbed
Clara had betaken himself to so distant a country. He might be in Italy,
in France, in England, anywhere within eight and forty hours’ journey.
He might therefore arrive at any moment after the proclamation.
But no stranger came, though the days became weeks, and the weeks
months, until it was almost time for Greif to go back to Schwarzburg.
Greifenstein began to think that the problematical personage was dead,
though Clara evidently did not share his opinion, for she never regained
her former manner. Under any other circumstances Greifenstein would have
enjoyed the change, the absence of irrelevant interruption, the rest
from her unnatural laughter, the gravity of her tired face. He was far
from being satisfied, however, and his earnest mind brooded constantly
over the possibilities of the unknown future. His situation was the
harder to bear because he could not explain it to his son, the only
human being for whom he felt a strong natural sympathy. It would have
seemed like teaching the boy to suspect his mother of some evil.
Greif secretly wondered what was happening in his home. The atmosphere
was unbearably oppressive, and if he had not been able to spend most of
his time with Hilda he would have asked his father’s permission to take
his knapsack and go for a walking expedition in Switzerland, on the
chance of falling in with a fellow-student. He had noticed the change in
his mother from the first, and asked her daily if she were not better.
Clara would not admit that she was ill, but she looked at Greif with an
expression to which he was not accustomed and which made him nervous.
Hitherto he had never quite known whether she loved him or not. She
had spoiled him as much as she dared when he was a child, but there had
always been something in her way of indulging him which, even to the
little boy, had not seemed genuine. Children rarely love those who spoil
them, and never trust them. Their keen young sense detects the false
note in the character, and draws its own conclusions, which are
generally very just. Greif had found out when he was very young that his
mother gave him everything he asked for, not because she loved him, but
because she was too weak to refuse, and too indolent to care for the
result. He had found her inaccurate in what she told him, and negligent
in fulfilling the little promises upon which a child builds such great
hopes, though she was always ready to pay damages for her forgetfulness
by excessive indulgence in something else, when it was agreeable to her.
Greif had discovered that his father rarely promised him anything,
but that if he did, it was something worth having, and that he was
scrupulously exact in keeping his word about such matters, even at the
expense of his own convenience. He consequently admired his father and
was proud to imitate him; whereas he very soon learned to consider his
mother as a person of inferior intelligence, who did not know enough
to be accurate, and who did not respect herself enough to fulfil her
promises. But for his father’s influence he would probably have ended
by showing what he felt. Greifenstein, however, exacted from him an
unvarying reverence and courtesy towards his mother, and never, even in
moments of the greatest confidence, permitted the boy to criticise the
least of her actions.
To tell Greif of the suspicions which agitated his own mind was
therefore contrary to Greifenstein’s fixed principles, and consequently
utterly impossible. In reply to his questions about his mother’s health
the only answer which was at once plausible and in accordance with
truth was the plain statement that Clara denied being ill, but that she
nevertheless appeared to be suffering from some unknown complaint. Greif
was not satisfied, but his own ingenuity could discover no explanation
of the facts, and he was obliged to hold his peace. His mother’s manner
and her look when he spoke to her disturbed him. It was as though her
uncertain and careless affection had suddenly developed into something
more true and sincere. There was something wistful in the fixed gaze of
her eyes, as though she feared to know what was in his heart, and yet
longed for some more frank expression of his love for her than that mere
reverential courtesy which he had been taught to show his mother since
he was a child. Being very young and of a very kind heart, Greif began
to wonder whether he had not misunderstood her throughout many years. He
possessed that kind of nature which cannot long refrain from returning
any sort of affection it receives, provided that affection appears to
be genuine. He gradually began to feel a responsive thrill in his
heart when he saw that his mother’s sad eyes watched his movements and
lingered upon his face. The tone of his voice began to change when he
addressed her, though he was scarcely conscious of it. His words became
gentler and more sympathetic, as his thoughts of her assumed a kindlier
disposition. He began to reproach himself with his former coldness, and
he frankly owned to himself that he had misunderstood her.
It had always been his custom to go to his mother’s boudoir in the
morning, when he had not already left the house before she was visible.
It was rather a formal affair. Greif knocked at the door and waited for
her answer. Being admitted, he went to his mother and kissed her hand.
She kissed his forehead in return. He asked her how she was, and she
inquired what he was going to do during the day. After five minutes of
conversation, he generally took leave of her with the same ceremony,
and departed. He usually avoided being with her at any other time, and
accident rarely brought them together in the course of the day, for
Greif was always with Hilda or with his father. Very gradually, he began
to find this morning visit less irksome. He fancied that his mother
would willingly have detained him a little longer, but that she felt
how little he could care for her society as compared with that of Hilda.
Then, too, she had grown so sad and silent as to excite in him a sort of
pity. At last the feeling that was drawing them closer found expression.
Greif had made his usual visit one morning and was about to leave the
room. Her sorrowful, faded eyes looked up to his, and slowly filled with
tears. He felt an irresistible impulse to speak, and yielded to it.
‘Mother,’ he said, kneeling down beside her, and taking her hand
affectionately in his, ‘what is it? Why are you ill, and sad? Will you
not tell me?’
She looked at him a moment longer, wonderingly, as though hardly
believing what she saw. Then she broke down. The long restrained tears
welled up and rolled over her thin cheeks, making lines and patches in
the pink powder, at once grotesque and pitiful. The carefully curled
ringlets of colourless hair contrasted strangely with the sudden havoc
in her complexion. Perhaps she was conscious of it, for she tried to
turn her face away, so that Greif should not see it. Then all at
once, with a heartrending sob, she let her head fall forward upon
his shoulder, while her nervous, wasted hands grasped his two arms
convulsively.
‘Oh Greif! I am a very miserable old woman!’ she cried.
‘What is it, mother? Oh, tell me what is the matter!’ he exclaimed,
not knowing what to say, but amazed at the outburst he had so little
anticipated.
For some moments she could say nothing. Greif held her, and prevented
her from slipping off her seat. Looking down, though he could not see
her face, he could see well enough how the tears fell fast and thick
upon the rough sleeve of his shooting coat and trickled down the woollen
material till they rolled off at his elbow. He did not know what to do,
for he had never seen her cry before, and was indeed little accustomed
to woman’s weeping.
‘Dearest mother,’ he said at last, ‘I am so sorry for you! If you would
only tell me--’
‘Ah Greif-my son--if I thought you loved me--a little--I should be less
unhappy!’
‘But I do. Oh, forgive me, if I have never shown you that I do!’ He
was in great distress, for he was really moved, and a great wave
of repentance for all his past coldness suddenly overwhelmed his
conscience.
‘If it were only true!’ sobbed the poor lady. ‘But it is all my
fault--oh, Greif, Greif--my boy--promise that you will not forsake me,
whatever happens to me!’
‘Indeed, I promise,’ answered Greif in great surprise. ‘But what can
happen? What is it that you fear, mother?’
‘Oh, I am very foolish,’ she replied with a hysterical attempt at a
laugh. ‘Perhaps it is nothing, after all.’
Her tears burst out afresh. Greif attempted in vain to soothe her,
calling her by endearing names he had never used to her before, and
feeling vaguely surprised at the expressions of affection that fell from
his lips. All at once, with a passionate movement, she threw her arms
round his neck and kissed him. Then, pushing him aside, she rose quickly
and fled to the next room before he could regain his feet.
For some moments he stood looking at the closed door. Then his instinct
told him that she would not return, and he slowly left the room,
pondering deeply on what he had seen and heard.
The next time they met she made no reference to what had passed, and
Greif’s natural delicacy warned him not to approach the subject. Had
there been such previous intimacy between the two as might be expected
to exist between mother and son, an explanation could scarcely have been
avoided. As it was, however, both felt that it was better to leave the
matter alone. The bond between them was stronger than before, and that
was enough for Clara. She experienced a sense of comfort in Greif’s
mere existence which somewhat lightened the intolerable burthen of
her secret. As for Greif himself, the situation appeared to him more
mysterious than ever, and the air of the house more oppressive. It
seemed to him that every one was watching every one else, and that at
the same time each member of the household was concealing something
from the others. He felt that it would be a relief to return to the
thoughtless life of the University, even at the expense of a separation
from Hilda.
Hilda had not failed to notice what was so apparent to every one else,
and had asked her mother questions concerning the evident depression
that reigned in the household. But the good baroness had only answered
that, whatever might be the matter, it was no concern of Hilda’s nor of
her own; and that when disagreeable things occurred in other people’s
houses it was a duty not to see them. Hilda’s ideas about ill health
were exceedingly vague, and she contented herself with supposing that
Frau von Greifenstein was ill, and that sick persons probably always
behaved as she did. At last the time came for Greif’s departure.
The sense of impending evil was in some measure accountable for the
unusual emotion exhibited at the parting. He had never taken leave of
his mother so affectionately before, nor had he before seen the tears
start into her eyes as she kissed him and said good-bye. Never before
had the grip of his father’s hand seemed to convey so much of sympathy,
nor did he remember that his own voice had ever at other times trembled
as though it were sticking in his throat. Even Frau von Sigmundskron was
a little moved and pressed his hand warmly when he kissed her, though
she said nothing. Hilda was very silent, and never took her eyes from
him. He had bidden her farewell before taking leave of the rest, at
their old haunt by the Hunger-Thurm. There had not been many words,
and there had been no tears, but it had been nevertheless the saddest
parting Greif ever remembered. The day was cloudy and a soft wind was
making melancholy music among the grand old trees. Their own voices
had sounded discordant and out of tune, and the words that might have
expressed what they felt would not be found, and perhaps were not
needed.
But when the last minute was come the whole party went out together
to the gate where the carriage was standing. Greif found himself with
Hilda, separated for a moment from the rest. She laid her hand upon his
arm and spoke in a low voice.
‘Something evil is going to happen to you, Greif,’ she said. There was
something in the accents that chilled him, but he tried to smile.
‘I hope not, sweetheart,’ he answered.
‘I am sure of it,’ said Hilda in a tone of conviction. ‘I cannot tell
why--only, remember, whatever happens--it will be something terrible--I
shall always love you--always, always.’
The others came up, and her voice sank to a whisper as she repeated the
last word. Greif looked anxiously into her face, and saw that she
was pale, and that her flashing blue eyes were veiled and dim. He was
startled, for he had never seen such a change in her before. But there
was no time for words. He whispered a loving answer, but she seemed not
to hear his words as she stood against the huge rough masonry of the
gate, gazing down the drive in the direction of the Hunger-Thurm. As he
was driven rapidly away, he looked back and waved his hat. The others
had stepped forward upon the pavement on one side of the gate, but Hilda
had not moved. Then as the turn of the road was about to hide the castle
from view, he saw her cover her face with both her hands and turn back
into the shadow of the deep gateway.
Greif settled himself in his comfortable seat, wondering what it all
meant. It was very strange that Hilda should have so suddenly and so
forcibly expressed the same idea that had agitated his mother a few days
earlier. It was impossible that they could have talked together, or that
they could be thinking of the same thing. There was no sympathy
between them, and besides, if Hilda had learned anything from Frau von
Greifenstein which Greif did not know, she would certainly have told him
of it, especially as this impending catastrophe threatened him as well
as his mother. He was too firmly opposed to all sorts of superstition
to believe that Hilda had received any supernatural warning of an event
about to occur. But for the conversation that had taken place with
his mother, he would unhesitatingly have told himself that Hilda was
yielding to a foolish presentiment raised by the sorrow of parting.
Persons in love are very apt to fancy each separation the last, and to
imagine some dreadful disaster to be in store for the object of their
affections. He flattered himself that his own common sense was too
strong to be shaken by such absurdities, but he owned that the sensation
was a natural one. Without giving way to presentiments he nevertheless
always felt that something might happen to Hilda before his return, and
it was not strange that she should feel the same anxiety in regard
to him. The impulsive expression she had given to her fear was not in
itself surprising, and if she had turned pale for the first time in her
life, it was perhaps because her heart was really waking to something
stronger than that even, emotionless affection she had hitherto bestowed
upon him.
There was a similarity, however, between his mother’s words and Hilda’s,
which was not so easily explained, and the coincidence was oddly in
harmony with the oppressive constraint that had reigned at Greifenstein
during the vacation. Greif could not help thinking very seriously of it
all, as he drove rapidly through the forest to the railway station;
so seriously indeed, that he at last shook himself with a movement of
impatience, said to himself that he was growing superstitious as a girl,
and lit a cigar with the strong determination not to give way to such
nonsense.
Smoking did not help him, nor the prospect of meeting a fellow-student
or two in the course of the afternoon. He tried to think of the life
that was before him at the University, of the serious work he must do,
of the opening festival of all the united Korps at the beginning of
the term, of his own responsibilities as the head of the association to
which he belonged, of the pleasant hours he would spend in discussing
with youthful shallowness the deepest subjects that can occupy the human
mind, deciding, between a draft of brown ale and a whiff of tobacco,
that Schopenhauer was right in one point, and that Kant was wrong in
another. But, for the present, at least, none of those things could by
mere anticipation distract his thoughts from the matter which occupied
them.
All through the long drive, Hilda’s face was before him and her voice
was in his ear, repeating her strange warning. She had said that she
should always love him. His mother had implored him not to forsake her
in her trouble, whatever it might be. At the same time, his father was
in the greatest anxiety concerning Rieseneck’s movements. Could there
be any connexion between that affair and the conduct of the two women?
Again his common sense rose up with an energetic protest, and displayed
to him all the absurdity of the hypothesis. Could Rieseneck’s possible
return affect his mother more than his father? Could that doubtful event
suffice to rouse Hilda’s fears to such a pitch? If the man came back, he
would come as a suppliant, entreating to be received once, at least, on
tolerance. He would come as a penitent prodigal might, to get a word
of compassion from his brother, perhaps to borrow money. He could do no
harm to any one, beyond the moral shame he brought upon his relatives by
prolonging his wretched existence. He was certainly not a particularly
dangerous person to Greif himself, and Hilda’s warning had been
essentially personal, having no reference to any one else. He could not
understand it, and grew impatient again, realising how deeply he had
been impressed. The forest looked unusually gloomy, and added by its
melancholy solemnity to the depression of his spirits. He was glad
when he saw through the trees the smart wooden railway station with its
coloured signals, its metal roof, and its air of animation. He could not
help thinking that the effect was something like that once produced upon
him when he had come back to the University town from the funeral of an
eminent person whom he had never seen. He had been obliged to attend the
burial with the whole body of the students, and had stood more than
an hour in the churchyard before he could get away. He remembered how
unusually bright and lively the town had appeared to him by contrast
when he returned. Even the thought of Hilda could not now make
the recollection of his home a pleasant one, for Hilda herself was
intimately connected, by her last words, with the whole impression of
funereal gloominess from which the busy railway station furnished him
with the means of escape.