An hour later Rex was supporting Greif as he returned from the state
bedchamber to his own room. Strong and determined to be calm as the
young man was, the sight had been too much for him, and it was clear
that unless he could obtain sleep his nerves must break down under the
strain they suffered. He reeled in his walk like a man half asleep, his
bright eyes were glassy and fixed, his relaxed fingers were incapable
of grasping Rex’s arm, and the latter held him upright upon his feet and
almost carried him along the dim corridors.
Rex also had seen, but when he had once been face to face with that
which had irresistibly drawn him to the room, he had felt no desire to
look again. The drawn, white features of the dead lady recalled
nothing to his mind out of the sweetness of the past, while their fixed
expression of pain intensified the horror of the present until it grew
unbearable. He had stayed long in the other chamber, where his father
lay, and as he gazed upon the stern dark face his wrath rose, swelling
tumultuously in his breast, as the tide of the sea, ebbing away as he
thought of what was beyond and as he realised that all vengeance had
been accomplished, and all justice done, so that no one remained alive
against whom he could feel anger, no one upon whom his hand could fall.
They had taken the law into their own hands and had executed its extreme
sentence upon her who had wronged them, and they had expiated their deed
in their own bodies. Never was tragedy so swift, so desperate and so
complete.
And now the morning sun was high in the heavens, mocking the solemn
darkness of men’s hearts with his fierce brightness, shining upon the
ancient walls of Greifenstein as coldly and clearly through the keen
winter air as he had shone yesterday and as he would shine to-morrow.
From eave and stringcourse and dripstone of the old castle the melting
patches of dazzling snow sent down mimic showers of diamond drops, and
the moisture thawed from them made dark stains upon the grey masonry.
A redbreast skipped about the furrows made in the white carpet by the
carriage wheels, paused, turned his tiny impertinent head, and glanced
up at the ramparts with a squint, as though to tell the time of day by
the sun and the shadows of the projecting eaves. From the paved court
of the stables, where all had been hurry and confusion on the previous
night, came the occasional noise of an impatient hoof stamping upon the
stones, the even sound of brushes on smooth coats as the men leisurely
groomed the horses, the tinkling of curb-chains polished and rubbed
together by idle lads who were in no hurry, and occasionally the echo
of a voice, instantly subdued to an undertone as the speaker remembered
that this day was not to be like other days. At the door of the
servants’ hall the two comfortable policemen in their dark uniforms and
shining buttons sunned their fair beards as they smoked their morning
pipes, exchanging a remark in a low voice about once in five minutes,
and never without previously looking round to see whether any one was
listening to them, but chiefly occupied in watching an underkeeper who
was feeding the big hounds in a sunny corner of the inner court.
Nature, in her pitiless irony, seemed more than usually mirthful on that
clear morning. It was such a day as old Greifenstein who lay upstairs,
dead beside his dead wife, would have chosen to tramp far into the
forest, with his gun on his shoulder and his dogs at his heels. It was
such a day as would have made poor Clara’s lot seem easier, softening
her tortured conscience in a thaw of passing satisfaction, pleasant
while it lasted, transitory as the gleam of light and warmth in
the dismal winter of the Black Forest. The forest itself alone was
unchanged. The trees looked blacker than ever against the blue sky and
under the violent light. Around the vast amphitheatre of the hills they
stood motionless in their even rows, like a great assembly of dark-robed
judges, judging the dead who lay in their midst, inquisitors whom no
brightness could brighten, and in whose sombre countenances no smile
was reflected from the glorious sky and dazzling light. Silent, grand,
funereal, they stood in their places as they had stood a hundred years
ago, before those lives began which had now suddenly gone out, as they
would stand when those other lives were extinguished which now were
young.
Neither Greif nor Rex were seen again that day. In the course of time
the representatives of the law arrived, did their office, and were
regaled with a collation by the butler, during which they sat upon the
chairs which last night had been occupied by those whose end they had
come to ascertain. The case was very plain and their duties were
simple. They went away and took the two policemen with them. Frau von
Sigmundskron moved noiselessly about the house, giving the necessary
directions when there were any to be given, occasionally sitting down in
a quiet corner to read a few pages of a devotional book she had found.
More than once she went to the different rooms where Greif and Rex had
withdrawn, to see whether she could be of any use. Greif was always in
the same place, leaning back in a great easy-chair, pale and exhausted
with grief, but evidently master of himself. At last she found him
asleep, and she drew a long breath of relief, for she knew that the
chief danger was past. When she went to Rex she found him reading, and
he did not relinquish his occupation during the whole day, so far as she
could ascertain. Whether he understood what he read, or not, was more
than she could determine. The volume contained a part of Goethe’s works,
and when she glanced at the page she saw that the student had selected
the second part of Wilhelm Meister for his reading. He always looked up
quietly when she entered, thanked her, and said that he needed nothing.
Frau von Sigmundskron could not rest. The sense of responsibility which
she felt might alone have sufficed to sustain her energy, but her mind
was disturbed by a matter even weightier in her eyes. The tremendous
difficulties of the future presented themselves very clearly to her
mental view, and she knew that before long they would not be mere
shadows of things to come, but actual problems with which she must
grapple, and upon the solution of which she must concentrate all her
strength. Tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, the earth would close
for ever over what remained of those poor beings whose departure from
life had saddened her own and made it seem so hard to understand. But
when the three were buried, she could no longer remain at Greifenstein.
There would be no reason for prolonging her stay, even had she wished
to do so, and indeed her wishes would lead her homewards as soon as her
duties were all fulfilled. She had never before been separated even for
a day from her child, and though she was strong and sensible in mind and
knew that Hilda was safe with old Berbel, she was conscious that it was
painful to be away from her. She would therefore return to Sigmundskron.
From that moment her trouble would begin. It was not conceivable that
Greif should go away without seeing Hilda, and yet there were many
reasons why it would be better that the two should not meet.
She had foreseen the struggle during the hours of the night, but it had
not then appeared so formidable as now. She had then thought more of
Greif, and it had not seemed impossible to tell him frankly what she
felt. As she reflected upon what must be done, she saw that Hilda was
the principal figure in the situation, and she realised that Hilda’s
happiness was infinitely more dear to her than anything else in the
world. She hesitated, and for some time she told herself that the
marriage must take place, come what might.
To her, all that had happened since the previous evening was shrouded in
an impenetrable mystery. Her imagination failed utterly to account for
the desperate doings of which the horrible result was before her. She
could have understood that the two brothers might have quarrelled on
meeting after so many years, and that in a moment of reckless anger they
should have shot each other. Clara might have perished in the struggle,
while endeavouring to part them. But there was a dreadful appearance of
deliberate intention in the whole tragedy which made such a hypothesis
untenable. That Clara had been intentionally murdered, she could not
doubt. Greifenstein might have slain her in a fit of passion and might
have taken his own life afterwards, but this could not account for
Rieseneck’s suicide. She could have believed that for some unknown
reason Rieseneck had killed his brother and Clara, and after disposing
their bodies as they were found, had shot himself. But the examination
proved the contrary. It was plainly evident that both men had died in
their chairs by the weapons found in their own hands. Rieseneck had
written to his son, but Greifenstein had not, or, at least, if he had
written anything it had not been discovered. Rex alone could know the
secret, therefore, if it had been revealed at all. She was ignorant that
in Germany, when a suicide has been committed, the law has a right to
see whatever letters were last written by the deceased. The stamped
letter, addressed to Rex, had attracted her attention, and she had taken
it from the table with the intention of posting it the next day, not
meaning to conceal it, but, on the contrary, to send it without delay
to its destination. The legal gentlemen, courteous to the good lady, had
not pressed her with any questions, taking it for granted that if she
had found any letter or any clue to an explanation she would naturally
offer it at once. And so it chanced that Rex alone could know the truth
if any one knew it. That he had been terribly moved by what he had read,
she had seen for herself, but whether the letter had contained a full
explanation of the circumstances, it was not possible to judge. If so,
it was more than probable, she thought, that Rex would show it to Greif
in due time, and that when the first shock was over the contents would
be communicated to herself. The question was whether this would happen
before Greif saw Hilda. In spite of her natural repugnance to such
a plan, she almost resolved to ask Rex directly whether what he had
received threw any light upon the situation. If she could know why those
three persons were dead she could better guide her course in the future.
If Greifenstein had been a murderer, as well as a suicide, his son could
not have Hilda for his wife. It was Greif’s misfortune, and the baroness
gave him all the pity she could spare from her own child, but the point
could not be yielded. She closed her eyes and tried to think it over.
She thought of Hilda, married and leaving Sigmundskron to live under the
very roof where such deeds had been done, and the mere idea was painful
and repugnant. Greif was wholly innocent of all that had happened, but
the stain was upon his name, and the blood of his father was in his
veins. Hilda’s children would be the grandchildren of a murderer. Old
Greifenstein had not ended his days in a shameful prison, merely because
he had found courage to take his own life quickly. But if he had done
the deed he was a common murderer, and the moral result was the same,
whether he were alive or dead; the indelible disgrace rested upon his
son, and would brand the lives of his son’s sons after him. Hilda loved
Greif, and Greif loved Hilda, but that was no argument. Better that
Hilda should drag out a solitary and childless existence than be happy
under such a name; far better that Greif should submit to half a century
of lonely and loveless years, than get children whose names should
perpetuate the remembrance of a monstrous crime. Hilda would suffer, but
suffering was the lot of mankind. The baroness wondered sadly whether
her daughter’s disappointment could possibly equal what she herself had
borne on that day when her gallant soldier-husband had been shot down
in battle. Could Hilda’s sorrow be like her own? Even if it were,
Hilda must bear it rather than take such a name--unless, indeed, old
Greifenstein had been innocent of his wife’s death. No one could know
that except Rex, and would he answer her question? In her horror of the
whole situation she wished that she might go back to Sigmundskron and
end her life in barely decent poverty with Hilda, and never again think
of the marriage. But her rigid sense of duty reproached her for such a
thought, which made her feel as though she were trying to lay down the
responsibility that had fallen to her lot. Her untiring conscience took
up the burden again, to bear it as it might.
Rex must answer her, and upon his answer would depend everything. It was
not an easy matter to question him, however, and for the present it
was wholly impossible. She must meet Hilda while she herself was yet
undecided, so that it seemed simplest to be roughly frank with the girl,
to tell her plainly what had happened, what was known and the extent of
what no one knew, showing her clearly that if old Greifenstein should
turn out to have been guilty, she must give up all thought of Greif and
submit to her poor lot with the best grace she could. Greif would go
away and travel, perhaps for several years. He would find interests at
last, which might help him to forget his darkened youth. Hilda and her
mother would live as they could, and when the mother died Sigmundskron
must go to the hammer. At all events it was not encumbered with
debts, and its sale would leave the child a pittance to save her from
starvation; possibly she would have more than before, but Frau von
Sigmundskron could not judge of that. Possibly, too, Hilda’s sixty-four
quarterings would help her to gain admittance as a lady-canoness in one
of those semi-religious foundations, reserved exclusively for the old
nobility, of which several exist in Germany.
The short winter’s day was over when Frau von Sigmundskron reached this
stage in her meditations. Lights were brought to the room where she was,
and a servant came to ask her what she would eat. She scarcely knew what
she answered, but she remembered that some hours had passed since she
had been to see Greif or Rex and she roused herself to go upon the
errand of inquiry. In the corridor she was met by another person who
came to ask about the dispositions for the morrow, an ominous creature
in black, the sight of whom recalled at once the hideous realities of
the day, from which her mind had wandered in her anxiety for Hilda’s
welfare. She gave the necessary directions and continued upon her way.
‘Come in,’ said Greif’s voice as she knocked cautiously at the door.
As soon as she entered she saw that his state had been improved by the
rest he had taken. His eyes were quiet, his colour pale but natural, his
manner mournfully calm. In the morning she had feared he might fall into
a delirious fever.
Frau von Sigmundskron came and stood beside him. He was comforted by
her presence, though he had not always been sure that he liked her. At
present, he knew what good cause he had to be grateful to her for what
she had done, and he felt that she was his only relation in the world,
the only woman alive who could in any way take the place of what he had
lost. If he had not been very fond of her before, it was because he had
not understood her, and because in his eyes her personality was entirely
eclipsed by Hilda’s. He put out his hand and took hers, and pressed it
gently.
‘You are very good,’ he said. ‘I am glad you have come.’
She sat down beside his easy-chair and gazed into the fire. There was
no light in the room save that of the pine logs, blazing in the great
chimney. Her reflexions of ten minutes earlier seemed very far away, for
the sight of him and the sound of his voice had suddenly recalled those
hopes for Hilda from which she had got so much happiness.
‘You have slept,’ she said. ‘I am glad, for you needed rest.’
She did not know what to say, and there was a pause before she spoke
again, during which Greif did not move. Unconsciously he had taken the
manner of one ill, and lay back in his seat, his eyes half closed, his
hands resting upon the arms of the chair, making no effort and only
hoping that none would be required of him.
‘Dear Greif,’ said the baroness at last, ‘you will go away, will you
not?’
He started a little and his expression changed, as though the question
pained him.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I will go away--when it is over.’
‘Shall it be to-morrow, then?’ asked Frau von Sigmundskron very softly.
‘Yes. To-morrow morning. I would it were to-night. And then--’ he
stopped and passed his hand wearily across his forehead, letting it drop
nerveless by his side almost immediately.
‘And then?’
‘Then I must see Hilda before I go.’ His eyelids quivered, and his lips
shut themselves closely.
‘Yes,’ answered the baroness in a tone of hesitation.
‘Yes, I must see Hilda,’ Greif repeated. ‘And when I am
gone--then--then--’
This time Frau von Sigmundskron said nothing, for she saw that he was
suffering, though she dared not guess what was passing in his mind. He
seemed to be trying to speak.
‘When I am gone--’ he began, but the words died on his lips. ‘Do not
talk of this now, dear Greif.’
He roused himself and sat straight in his chair. There was something
of his father’s look in his face, and his companion noticed that his
fingers were strained as he grasped the carved wood in the effort to
steady himself.
‘I must say it now,’ he answered firmly. ‘To-morrow I shall not be
able to talk much, and it may happen that we shall never have another
opportunity.’
‘Never?’
‘Perhaps never. It is to be good-bye. You must find another husband for
Hilda, for I may not come back. That is what I wanted to say.’
The baroness turned a startled look upon him and leant forwards toward
him from her seat. She had not expected such a turn in the drama.
‘You do not suppose that I, an honourable man, would expect you to give
your daughter to the son of a murderer?’
The question was put so sharply and concisely that Frau von Sigmundskron
was taken unawares. The thought had been painful enough when it had
passed unspoken through the confusion of her reflexions, but Greif’s
statement gave it a new and horrible vividness. With a single sharp sob,
she hid her face in her hands, and Greif saw that they trembled. His
own heart was beating violently, for he had nerved himself to make the
effort, but he had not anticipated the reaction that followed closely
upon it. He felt as though, in pronouncing the detested word, he had
struck his father’s dead face with his hand.
‘God knows how I loved him,’ he said, under his breath. ‘But he did the
deed.’
Frau von Sigmundskron did not distinguish the words he spoke, but she
felt that she must say something. Her hands dropped from her strained
and tearless eyes and fell upon her knees.
‘Oh, Greif! Greif!’ she almost moaned, as she stared at the blazing
logs.
‘That is what it comes to in the end,’ he answered, summoning all his
courage. ‘I cannot marry Hilda. It was bad enough to be half disgraced
by my father’s brother--you were kind enough to set that aside. It is
worse now, for the stain is on the name itself. I cannot give it to
Hilda. Would you have her called Greifenstein?’
The baroness could not speak. Half an hour earlier she would not have
dared to hope that Greif would himself renounce her daughter, but it was
different now. She could not look upon his agonised face, and listen to
the tones that came from his tortured heart, as he gave up all he held
dear for the sake of acting honourably, she could not see his suffering
and hear his words, and yet brutally admit that he was right, and that
his sacrifice was a necessity. And yet her own conscience told her that
her first thought must be for her own child, and not for him. She stared
at the fire and answered nothing.
‘Would you have her write her name “Hilda von Greifenstein”?’ he asked,
forcing the words sternly from his lips. ‘Would you have her angel
purity darkened with the blood that is on my house?’
‘But you, Greif--what will become of you?’
‘It matters little enough, so that I do no harm to those I love,’ he
answered.
‘It does matter,’ said the baroness gently. ‘It is not right or just
that an innocent man should suffer for the deeds of others.’
‘It is right that he should suffer anything, rather than injure those
who are not only innocent but free from inherited reproach.’
There was a sudden energy in his manner which surprised his companion.
His white face was illuminated by a sort of radiance from within, his
voice was full and firm, the glance of his eyes piercing and determined.
‘It is right,’ he continued, ‘and I will do it, come what may. Indeed I
must, for in spite of your kind heart and words you would not give her
to me. But even if you would, I would not take her, I would not make
her the mother of more Greifensteins. Ay--you look at me--I love her too
much. That is the reason. If I loved her less--oh, then, I would take
her. I would take my beautiful Hilda for my own sake, and in her love
I would try and forget the horrors of my younger years. I would forget,
for my own sake, that my father was a murderer and a suicide, my
father’s brother a shameful traitor, myself a man clothed in the infamy
of others, until the world can hardly distinguish between my innocence
and their guilt. I could live with Hilda, somewhere in this lonely
forest, and with her I might bury memory and talk lightly of love beside
its very grave. And Hilda would be willing, too, and if I did not love
her as I do, I would take her--whether you would let her go or not--no,
forgive me--I should not speak so to you, who are the best of women--but
you would consent, for you are so kind. But the thing is impossible. She
would remember, and I should remember also, when our sons grew up and
had to meet the world with the brand of our name upon their faces. Look
at Rex. He is my best friend. Yesterday I learnt that he is my cousin.
Even he has hidden his father’s deeds under a common, meaningless name.
How much more should I hide my head! How much less right have I, than
he had yesterday, to make an innocent girl, or any woman, the wife of a
Greifenstein! No--go to Hilda, tell her the truth, let me see her once,
and I will rid you of myself when I have said good-bye. You are her
mother, and you alone can tell her all--all except the last word, and
when I have spoken that word, I will go away, Rex and I together, and
you will not hear of me any more.’
Greif ceased speaking. He had risen from his chair to pace the room
while he spoke and he now stood with folded arms before the baroness,
his eyes fixed on hers as though waiting for her answer. He was very
young, and it was perhaps the first time in his life that he had spoken
out before any one. He was too much excited to think whether his speech
would sound theatrical and exaggerated or not. He meant every word of
what he had said, and that was enough for him. He meant to do what was
right and honourable, and that is enough for any man.
Frau von Sigmundskron’s gentle eyes fell before his fixed gaze. Feeling
as she did, and remembering what she had felt when she had come to him,
she was ashamed to meet his earnest glance. There were few better women
in the world, few whose goodness showed itself so clearly both in deeds
and intentions, and yet she was conscious, rightly or wrongly, that
Greif was outdoing her in generosity. To her the words he had spoken had
a ring of heroism in them, and he himself seemed to grow in dignity and
strength as he stood before her. She hesitated, the speech came to her
lips, failed, took courage and came again. Once more she raised her head
and looked into his eyes.
‘Greif--you are a brave man, and you will understand me,’ she said.
‘When I came here, I felt all that you have said. I felt it in the long
night, before you were in the house. I meant to tell you what you have
told me, as kindly as I could, not now, but later. It would have been
hard, for I am more than fond of you.’
‘It would have been your duty, and it would have been right,’ answered
Greif calmly.
The baroness laid her hand upon his folded arms.
‘It would not have been right, Greif,’ she said in a low voice that
trembled a little. ‘It might have seemed so, for I did not know you as
I know you now. You have done all that a man can do, more, perhaps, than
almost any man would have done. I did not wrong you in what I felt, nor
in what I meant to say, but I could never say it now. Take Hilda, and
call yourself as you will, for you are worthy of her and neither you nor
she will ever regret it.’
Greif looked at her for a moment, and then knelt beside her and kissed
her hands.
‘You will,’ she said, and there were tears in her eyes.
‘I cannot,’ he answered, in heartbroken accents. Then, rising, he stood
and leaned against the chimney-piece and bowed his head against the
carved wood.
He could not feel as she did, and his nature was incapable of such a
sudden revulsion as had taken place in her heart. He knew how bravely
generous she had been, but her kindness changed nothing in the
situation, beyond awakening in him a sense of heartfelt gratitude for
which he had expected no such cause as she had given. The fear of doing
an injury to Hilda was still foremost in his mind. He had said that even
if her mother would consent, he would not take her, and what he felt
when that consent was so unexpectedly thrust upon him was a measure of
his earnestness.
‘Nothing is spared me,’ he said, almost under his breath. ‘Not even your
generosity!’
His action was to depend wholly upon his own free will, and he knew that
it would have been far easier to renounce his love if Hilda’s mother had
helped him with her opposition. There she sat, offering him what he must
not take, thrusting upon him that which his whole nature craved, and
which his honour alone bid him refuse. Her sweet voice sounded like the
soft music of temptation.
‘Do not say so, Greif,’ she said. ‘Remember that you are wholly
innocent, and that Hilda loves you with all her heart and soul. Why
must you force yourself to do what will make her and me so unspeakably
wretched? After all--I take the most worldly argument--it is for her and
for me to decide. You have concealed nothing, and I know all, and if I
say that your goodness and your heroism outweigh the rest, should you
not be satisfied? And besides, you are young. You do not know how very
quickly the world forgets. A score of years hence, who will remember the
evil deeds of last night? They were not even done in a city, those
who did them had hardly any acquaintances, and perhaps no friends. You
yourself are not old enough to be known to many, and you can live here
until your children are grown up. It seems to me that I was wrong even
to have thought of separating you two, wholly wrong and mistaken and
that I ought to ask your forgiveness for my intention.’ Thus she pleaded
the cause of his own heart, giving many and good reasons why he should
yield, while he stood struggling with himself and wishing that he could
stop his ears against her persuasion. To him the horror was more vivid
than to her, and she could not understand his dread of associating Hilda
with the curse that had fallen upon his house.
‘I cannot,’ he said firmly, when she had ceased speaking.
She rose and stood beside him.
‘Think of it, Greif,’ she answered. ‘You must not break her heart for a
scruple of honour.’
Then she went out softly, wondering at herself, but sure that she had
done the best.