The effect of what Rex had said was to hasten Greif’s action. After
listening to his cousin’s arguments, he felt that what was to be done
must be done quickly, lest his courage should fail him. If he had been
left to himself he would never have doubted his own strength, and would
very possibly have waited a day or two before going to Sigmundskron
to bid Hilda farewell. Now, however, he felt that to hesitate or delay
would be fatal, and he resolved to lose no time in carrying out his
intentions. In order to isolate himself more completely from all outward
influences he would have sent Frau von Sigmundskron back alone and would
have followed her a few hours later; but his sense of common decency, as
well as his profound gratitude, forbade such a course. He could not by
any means avoid the long drive in her company, and he tried to harden
his heart as he submitted to his destiny. It was certain that, unless
she had changed her mind, she would talk of the matter of his visit, and
would repeat in his unwilling ear all those arguments which appealed
to his heart so strongly, and which so grievously shook his chivalrous
resolution.
During the long night that succeeded the day of the funeral ceremony,
the sorrow of the parting which was before him assumed such proportions
as made the past seem less horrible, and the change from one kind of
suffering to another afforded his exhausted nature a relief of which
he was not conscious, but which was nevertheless very real. He himself
could not understand how it had been possible for him to discuss with
Rex matters so closely connected with his future happiness, scarcely an
hour after the heavy gates of the mausoleum had closed upon the father
he had so deeply loved, and upon the mother he so tenderly regretted.
For he did mourn for her sincerely, in spite of his earlier
indifference. He was yet too near the catastrophe to attempt to explain
it, but in the confusion of his grief her words came vividly to his
mind. He recalled the expression of her face when she had implored him
not to forsake her, whatever happened, and he knew that in some way she
must, even then, have had a forewarning of her end. He remembered
many strange incongruities in her manner, which he had once disliked
intensely, but which now pointed to the existence of a secret in her
quiet life, and which, having seemed contemptible when she had been
alive, took a tragic importance now that she was gone. He recalled very
clearly that morning when he had felt a thrill of pitying tenderness
for the lonely woman, and when she had responded so suddenly and
passionately to his simple words. He had never loved her, and had
perhaps had little cause for any affection, but the suddenness and
the horror of her death strengthened in him every kind memory, and
overshadowed by its dark presence whatever in her life had lacked
dignity and worth.
As for his father, he had felt for him a passionate devotion of which he
dared not think now. And yet he had been able to talk with Rex, if not
freely, at least with a complete command of his faculties. He would have
reproached himself with heartlessness, but when his thoughts dwelt upon
those he had lost, he knew that the self-accusation was unmerited. Not
comprehending what passed in his own mind, and finding himself face to
face with a problem that seemed to involve his own life or death, it is
not altogether surprising that he should have persisted in undergoing a
self-imposed suffering which he almost unconsciously regarded as a test
of heroism.
But as he did his best to fortify himself in his intention another power
stood before him, not a gloomy presence of evil, not a sorrowful but
relentless fate, not a thing in itself terrible, grand or heroic,
and yet stronger and more real than any of those other shadows which
surrounded his life. He had not known that it was with him in such
a shape, he had not realised what it would be to face that which has
conquered all men sooner or later. The love of Hilda, which had softened
all his youth, but which in its unopposed calm had seemed so gentle and
tender that by an effort of his strong will he might put it off if
he would, the quiet spirit of calm which had been with him so
long, purifying his thoughts, simplifying his hopes for the future,
encouraging him ever in each present day, the love of untarnished youth
for spotless maidenhood rose up like the dawn upon a traveller in a
strange land, shedding its universal light upon the secret places of his
soul. It was a wonderful revelation of beauty appearing in the midst
of his sorrow, contrasting the magnificence of its splendour with the
darkness in which he would have hidden himself. He groaned as he lay
alone in his solitary chamber, and the passionate tears burst from his
eyes. He had met at last that which must vanquish all his resolutions,
and turn all his desperate efforts into vanity. That sudden flash of
radiance in the midst of his grief was but a dark shadow compared
with the light of Hilda’s face. If the mere thought of her made all
resistance seem impossible, would he be able to go to her to-morrow
and tell her that they must part? But it was not a mere thought, as he
called it. He had thought of her for years, but never in this way; she
had dwelt in his heart a long time but he had never felt anything like
this. It was true that he had never resisted her presence before.
Could that be the reason? Could it be that love was a companion for the
weakest of mankind, if kindly entertained, and yet, if resisted, the
master of the very strongest? Greif in his pride of youth believed
himself as strong as any, and the sensation of being thus utterly
overpowered was crushing and humiliating. He would not yield, but he
well knew that he was conquered beforehand, and must be led away captive
in the end.
He sat up and tried to reason with himself. It was but an illusion after
all, and it was just such an illusion as should strengthen his purpose.
If Hilda were indeed, as she doubtless was, this exquisitely lovely
creature, could anything be more contemptible than to give her a name
which must be a reproach, a position in which her beautiful life must be
made half shameful by the memory of hideous crimes?
Momentarily satisfied with himself, he once more laid his head upon the
pillow, but he had hardly closed his eyes when Rex’s suggestion flashed
through his brain, and Hilda’s clear voice seemed to cry ‘Sigmundskron!’
in his ears. The thought of bearing another name, of being no longer
Greifenstein, of being the father of a new race in a new home, presented
itself to him in all its attractions. After all, said Rex to his
conscience, you are wholly innocent, and it is only the sound of the
name to which you object or which you fear for her. Take hers and be
happy under it, since you would be miserable under your own. After all,
one is as good as another, and it would be better to be plain Herr Rex
than to throw over the joy of a lifetime for the sake of three syllables
that have a disagreeable ring. Names are nonsense and a man’s reputation
is his own, not to be made or marred by his father’s evil deeds. The
Sigmundskrons know all, and it is for them to judge, not for you. If
they will make you one of them, what right have you to make them unhappy
for the sake of your own prejudices?
Greif was very young to cope with such difficulties, when even love
itself was against him. Though Rex said little, that little was eloquent
and full of practical sense, like many of Rex’s sayings. Greif shed
bitter tears and ground his teeth and wrung his hands.
‘Hilda! Hilda!’ he cried aloud in his solitude, ‘what would you have me
do, if you knew all, if you knew me, if you knew my heart!’
When a man appeals against his love to the woman who loves him, his
resolutions are at their last gasp for existence. Hilda answered his
heart before the spoken words were out of his mouth.
‘Love me, dear--that is all I ask!’ It was as though her voice mingling
with his own sounded aloud in the lonely room, and Greif started up, his
eyes wide open, his breath caught upon his lips.
It was the merest illusion, but its vividness showed him the power of
what produced it. He was struggling bravely for an idea, trying to do
what seemed knightly, and noble, and high, and vanquished though he was,
he would fight to the very end.
The cold, bright morning rose over the sombre trees and suddenly entered
his chamber like the broad reflexion of polished steel, a chilly glare
of snow and cloudless sky seen through a window high above the earth in
midwinter. Greif awoke from the broken slumber that had come to him at
last, and looked anxiously about him. Somehow the sweet vision that had
so much disturbed him, when he could see nothing real but the glow
of the dying embers on the hearth, was dissipated and gone under the
cruelty of the icy daylight. With a heavy heart he rose and looked out
upon the forest. From the place where he stood he could see the tall
trees that surrounded the burial-ground of his race, and his eyes grew
dark and gloomy as he thought of those who lay there. He was sadder
and stronger than he had been a few hours ago. He would sit beside the
baroness during the long drive to Sigmundskron, and what she might
say would make no impression upon him, no more than the ringing of the
horses’ bells made upon the frozen snow. He would meet Hilda in the
well-remembered sitting-room, and Hilda’s mother would leave them alone.
It would be cold there, for there was never much fire. She would perhaps
be pale--a little pale, and her eyes would be cast down. She would sit
upon one side of the stone chimney-piece, and he would stand upon the
other. There would be a moment’s pause, and then he would tell her
everything. It could not last long, and when it was over he would have
conquered in the struggle.
He would drive back alone in the late afternoon through the dismal
forest. To-morrow he would leave Greifenstein and go to his lawyer in
the city. Half of his fortune should be Hilda’s, and she should restore
Sigmundskron and marry whomsoever she would. Then he would be free, and
he would go away with Rex to some distant country, not to return for
half a lifetime, if he ever returned at all.
The plan was simple, comprehensive and satisfactory. Nothing remained
but to put it into immediate execution. He had given the necessary
orders on the previous night and, as soon as Frau von Sigmundskron was
ready, they would start upon their drive. He finished dressing and went
in search of Rex. The latter looked even more pale and disturbed
than Greif himself, though with characteristic determination he was
attempting to eat his breakfast.
‘I am going to Sigmundskron,’ said Greif entering the room. ‘Will you
wait for me here? To-morrow we will go away, or tonight, if you like.’
‘I will wait willingly. Where should I go?’ Rex rose, pushing the silver
salver away from him.
‘Very good. I shall be back at dusk. Good-bye.’ Greif held out his hand
in evident anxiety to get away, for he did not want to hear any more of
his cousin’s plausible reasoning, and dreaded lest Rex should broach the
subject of his errand. But the latter detained him in spite of himself.
‘Do nothing rash or hasty, Greif,’ he said earnestly. ‘A life’s
happiness is easily thrown away, and hardly found again when you have
parted with it--and more than half of life’s happiness is the love of
woman. Good-bye.’
Greif made his escape as quickly as he could, but Rex had found time
and words to touch the strongest cord in his heart. As he descended the
stairs he felt again something of the influence that had visited him
in the night, and he wished that he had not gone to Rex’s room before
leaving the house.
The sight of Frau von Sigmundskron, wrapped in her dark mantle for the
journey, recalled him to himself. Her kind eyes looked at him almost
lovingly from beneath the hood that covered her white hair, as he bent
and kissed her hand. Neither spoke as they gained the court and got into
the carriage, but while Greif was wrapping her in the heavy furs and
arranging a cushion behind her, he felt that she meant to do all she
could to dissuade him from his intention on the way, and he knew that
the real struggle was yet to come. Then Rex appeared again, bareheaded,
to bid farewell to the baroness and to say a few words of heartfelt
thanks. He alone knew how much both he and Greif owed to her discretion;
far more than she dreamed of, as she answered him and gave him her hand.
The horses plunged forward, their hoofs clashing noisily upon the
pavement of the court; out of the bright light the carriage disappeared
into the darkness of the gateway and as quickly rolled out again upon
the dazzling snow beyond. After that there would be snow and trees
and rocks, and rocks and trees and snow, until the grey towers of
Sigmundskron loomed up above the tops of the firs.
Greif leaned back in silence, as they spun over the white road. Every
moment now was a moment gained, provided that nothing were said to
weaken his purpose. He braced himself in his seat, with his feet and his
back, as though he expected the carriage to upset, and closed his lips
tightly as if to meet a physical accident.
Frau von Sigmundskron glanced at him once or twice and noticed his
expression, and his resolution to look straight before him. Had she
possessed Rex’s penetration, she would have guessed what was passing in
his mind. As it was, she vaguely suspected that he had not altogether
given up his plan, and the thought made her uneasy. She could see the
clearly cut outline of his handsome face without turning her head. He
had put on a fur coat, and she thought that fur was singularly
becoming to fair men who had good complexions--a frivolous observation,
apparently, but in reality not so worthless as it appeared. She was
thinking of the impression Greif would make upon Hilda, and wondering
whether the girl would find him greatly changed or not. She was woman
enough to suppose that much would depend upon the first moments of the
meeting which was about to take place, and upon the look Greif should
first see in Hilda’s eyes. If he found her sad, pale, ready to pity him,
his nature would be hardened, partly because he hated to be pitied by
any one, partly because that same irritation would help him to
execute his purpose. But if, on the contrary, Hilda met him with an
ill-concealed joy, if there were light in her bright eyes and colour in
her cheeks, if her voice spoke sympathy in his sorrows while her face
told him of her gladness in the meeting, then things might turn out very
differently. After all, thought Frau von Sigmundskron, Greif was only a
man, and could not be expected to act altogether wisely unless a woman
helped him.
She had certainly not always held such beliefs, but in latter years
they had grown upon her. Sigmundskron was a women’s establishment and
naturally independent. The baroness had grown to think that, after all,
women, when thrown entirely upon their own resources, can manage better
than men. She was sure that no three men could have lived so decently
and fairly well upon as little as sufficed for herself, Hilda and
Berbel. It is true that the distance from such daily forethought and
hourly prudence as she needed in her life, to such wisdom as Rex, for
instance, possessed so abundantly, was considerable; but the baroness
looked upon that as an insignificant argument, if indeed it presented
itself to her mind at all. She thought little of Greif’s determination
to persist, if only Hilda could seem more glad to see him, than
sympathising in his misfortunes. With a woman’s wholesale faith in
woman, she believed utterly in the power of one of Hilda’s glances to
keep Greif at Sigmundskron for ever. Especially good women believe
in all other women, more than those who are neither notably good nor
notably bad. A man’s faith in his fellows bears little or no relation to
his own moral character, the best men being often the most distrustful,
and not always the most agreeable companions. But the better a woman
is, the more she believes all other women to be both good and wise, a
phenomenon not hitherto explained, though very frequently observed. The
baroness held views of this sort concerning Hilda and old Berbel. It was
characteristic of her that, as soon as her generosity had got the better
of her hesitation in regard to the marriage, she began to consider Greif
in the light of a well-beloved adversary, whom the feminine powers of
Sigmundskron must vanquish for his own good. It was characteristic, too,
that in all her uncertainty she had never considered for a moment the
great worldly advantages to be gained or lost.
‘We might have sent word that we were coming,’ she said, when they had
driven more than a mile without speaking. ‘Hilda would have come to meet
us on the road.’
‘It is better so,’ answered Greif mournfully.
‘I do not see why--it would have given the child such pleasure,’
remarked his companion, glancing at his face to see whether his
expression would change or not.
‘Would it, do you think?’ asked Greif in an indifferent tone, though a
very slight colour rose in his pale face.
‘Indeed it would. It is wrong in you to doubt it. Poor Hilda! She
has not too many pleasures of any sort, and meeting you is one of the
greatest.’
The blush in Greif’s cheek deepened. Again he set his feet firmly before
him and braced himself in his seat as though to resist a shock. He hated
himself for betraying his feeling in his face, and wished it were night.
The baroness continued to speak in gentle tones, determined to obtain an
answer from him, and if possible to make him engage in argument, for she
believed that if he argued he was lost.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is a lonely life she leads up there. I am too old
to be a real companion, and there is only old Berbel besides. It is
pathetic to see her begin to count the days as soon as you are gone, and
to watch her face as it gradually turns less grave when more than half
the score is marked away.’
‘Does she do that?’ asked Greif, conscious that he was growing crimson.
‘Always. She used to do it, when she was a mere child, and you were
only an overgrown boy. It seems to me that she always loved you, long
before--long ago, I mean.’
Greif sighed, and looked away. The half-boyish blush faded slowly from
his cheeks and left his face paler than before. The good lady saw the
change with regret, and wondered whether the slip of the tongue she had
made in her last sentence could have anything to do with it. But she did
not despair, though she allowed a few moments to pass in silence. To her
surprise it was Greif who renewed the conversation, and in a manner she
had not in the least expected.
‘I have always loved Hilda,’ he said, avoiding her eyes resolutely.
‘Ever since I first remember your bringing her to Greifenstein. We
were very small, and it must have been in the spring, for we picked
mayflowers and found strawberries in the woods.’
‘She was not more than six years old then,’ observed Frau von
Sigmundskron.
‘And I was eleven, I think,’ replied Greif, forgetting his effort to be
silent in the childish reminiscence. ‘Was that the first time you came?’
‘I believe so. It was four years after we came to live in Sigmundskron.’
‘Why did you not come sooner?’ Greif asked. It seemed to him that it
would be wise to keep the conversation upon the doings of twelve years
ago. Another mile of the road was passed, and he was still unshaken.
‘There were many reasons,’ answered the baroness. ‘We had not always
been on the best of terms, perhaps because we had scarcely ever met, and
I did not care to seem to be forcing my acquaintance upon my relations,
so I stayed away for a while. After all, what really brought us together
more than anything else, was the fondness of you two children for each
other, which showed itself from the first. They brought you to see
Hilda, and then we went to your house again--and so--gradually--’
‘I remember that Hilda wore a blue frock the first time she came,’
remarked Greif quickly, with an attempt to check the baroness’s advance
towards present times. The intention was so evident that she could
not help smiling a little under her hood, and reflecting with some
satisfaction that upon this subject, at least, she was more than a match
for him.
‘Perhaps she did,’ she answered. ‘I remember that she once had a blue
frock.’
The triviality of what they were saying to each other struck Greif all
at once, as compared with the horror of what they had left behind them
at Greifenstein. It was but the third day since that fearful catastrophe
had darkened his life, and he was exchanging remarks about the clothes
Hilda had worn when she was a child. He thought he must be shamefully
heartless, unless he were going mad, which, considering his words,
seemed probable to himself. He leaned back again, and stared absently
at the moving landscape. It seemed to him that his father’s spirit was
gliding along, high in the black trees beside the road, like mighty
Wodin in the northern forests, watching the son he had left behind and
listening to the foolish words that fell from his lips. The baroness
attributed the sudden chill of his manner, and the gloomy look on his
face to another cause.
‘That was very long ago,’ she said, taking advantage of his silence.
‘Since then, Hilda has grown up, and you have become a man, and the love
that began when you were children has--’
‘I cannot marry her!’ exclaimed Greif, so sharply and suddenly that his
companion started and looked anxiously into his face.
‘Then you will kill her,’ answered Frau von Sigmundskron, after a short
and painful pause. She, too, was roused to abandon the harmless attempt
at diplomacy which had failed, and to speak out what was in her heart.
She was indignant with Greif, and she forgot altogether that she had at
first felt precisely as he did himself in regard to the marriage. As the
trees flew past and every effort of the strong horses brought her nearer
to her home, she knew Hilda was first, and the instinct to defend her
child from pain and sorrow gradually began to dominate her. Mild and
gentle as she was, she was ready to attack Greif and to force him to
marry her daughter whether he would or not. She grew nervous, for the
coming meeting between the two might decide their fate, and every moment
lost might be the most important. Greif did not reply at once to what
she had said, but a shiver passed through his limbs and he drew the furs
more closely about him.
‘You are wrong,’ he said at last. ‘Hilda will forget me in time and will
marry a better man and a happier one. I did not mean to tell you--I may
as well--I shall make arrangements to give her half of what I have in
the world. She will be an heiress then, and can marry well.’
Frau von Sigmundskron did not understand him. To her, the speech seemed
cynical and brutal, an insult to Hilda’s love, a slight upon her own
poverty. The gentle lady’s pale and delicate face flushed suddenly with
righteous anger and her small hands were clenched tightly beneath the
furs. There was a bright light in her soft blue eyes as she answered
him.
‘Hilda will neither accept your fortune, nor forget you--though it would
be better, perhaps, if you could pass out of her memory.’
Greif could not see her face which was hidden by the hood she wore,
without leaning forward, but her words and her tone surprised him. He
had been very far from supposing that he should offend her by making
such a proposal or by hinting that Hilda might marry happily at some
future time. The emotion he had felt had probably made his voice sound
harshly, and after all, he had perhaps shown little delicacy in speaking
of the money, but he was quite unprepared for his companion’s freezing
answer. With Greif, however, it was impossible that any misunderstanding
should last long, for he was too honest and frank to submit to being
misunderstood himself.
‘I do not know what you thought that I meant,’ he said, turning towards
her. ‘But you would not be angry if I had explained myself better.’
Frau von Sigmundskron gave him no assistance, but sat quite still in
her seat. In her view he had spoken lightly of her child’s love and had
proposed to set matters right by giving her some of his money. She was
angry, and she believed that she had a right to be.
‘I love Hilda,’ continued Greif, and his voice trembled a little. If
there were a phrase which he had not meant to pronounce, or to think
of during the day, it was that. He found himself in a position which
obliged him to affirm the strength of his love, and the mere sound
of the words disturbed him so that he stopped short, to collect his
thoughts.
‘You do not act as though you loved her,’ said Frau von Sigmundskron
coldly. Two days earlier it had seemed to her that in renouncing Hilda
he was giving proof of a heroic devotion, and yet she was not really an
inconsistent woman.
‘I mean to,’ answered Greif rather hotly. ‘If I refuse to marry her, it
is because I love her too much to do her such an irreparable injury. I
do not see how I could love her more. As for the rest, it has nothing to
do with my love or hers. You are the only heir to Greifenstein after me,
and when I die it will in any case be all yours, or Hilda’s. I can do
nothing with so much, and you may as well have the benefit of what will
be yours some day--perhaps very soon. Is that unreasonable? Does that
offend you? If it does, let us say no more about it, and forgive me for
having said as much.’
‘It would be better not to speak of the fortune,’ said the baroness,
beginning to relent.
‘And you understand me--about Hilda?’
‘I cannot say that I do,’ replied Frau von Sigmundskron with all the
obstinacy of a good woman thoroughly roused in what she believes to be a
good cause. ‘You love her, and yet you are willing to make her miserably
unhappy. The two facts do not agree.’
Greif suppressed a groan and looked at the trees before he answered. If
she would only have left him alone, it would have been so much easier to
do what he knew was right.
‘It is perhaps better that she should be unhappy for a time, now, while
she is young, than regret her name when she has taken mine.’ His own
words had a sententious sound in his ear and he felt that they were
utterly inadequate, but he was fighting against heavy odds and did not
know what to say.
‘I tell you that the child would die of a broken heart!’ exclaimed the
baroness with the greatest conviction. ‘You say you love her, but you do
not know her as I do. I suppose you will allow that it would be better
that she should have moments of regret in a lifetime of happiness, than
that she should die.’
She was certainly using strong language, but the time was passing
rapidly and in the distance she could distinguish already the grey
towers of Sigmundskron crowning the beetling crag. She was to be
pardoned if she seemed to exaggerate Hilda’s danger, but she believed
every word she spoke, and she was growing more and more nervous at every
turn of the road.
‘If I believed that, if I even thought that were better for Hilda’s
happiness--’
Greif left the sentence unfinished, for he felt that he was on the edge
of the precipice, though he was still inwardly convinced that he was
right and that she was wrong. The baroness thought the day was almost
won. All her anger melted away in the prospect of success and she talked
much and earnestly, dilating upon the situation and using every argument
of persuasion which she could devise. But Greif said little, and though
he was careful not to offend her afresh, he did not again come so near
to committing himself, as he had done once.
‘And for that matter,’ said the baroness, as the carriage swung round
the curve and began the last ascent that ended at the castle gate,
‘for that matter, you can call yourself Sigmundskron instead of
Greifenstein.’
Greif moved uneasily in his furs. It seemed as though everything were
conspiring against him.