Hilda’s quick eyes had discerned the carriage when it was still far down
upon the road, a mere moving speck in the distance. She had thought it
probable that her mother would return on that day, and she knew that
she would be driven over from Greifenstein. Moreover, it was very likely
that Greif would accompany her, and from the moment when she first saw
the vehicle, she watched it and followed it along the winding road until
she could clearly see that a man was seated beside her mother. Then
the look of anxiety disappeared all at once from her fair face, and was
followed by an expression of satisfied happiness which would have been
good to see if any one had been there to watch her.
She was standing upon a high part of the half-ruined building, on the
northern side, and a person looking up from the road below could have
seen her tall figure in strong relief against the pale winter sky.
She had dressed herself all in black, but a wide mantle of coarse grey
woollen stuff, gathered into a hood at the top and drawn tightly round
her against the biting wind, concealed all her figure, leaving only her
face visible. Rough and poor as the material was, it became her well,
better perhaps than the richest furs could have done. Its folds fell
gracefully to her feet as she held the cloak closely about her, and the
unbroken neutral tint showed her height more plainly, and set off the
marvellous beauty of her skin with a better contrast than any brighter
colour.
Sigmundskron had been very desolate and lonely during the last two days,
since Hilda’s mother had ridden away through the bitter night to do her
duty in the house of death. Of course both Hilda and the faithful Berbel
had their occupations as usual, and talked over them when they were
together, but the time had passed slowly and heavily. Hilda could form
no clear conception of what had taken place, from the confused
account of the groom who had brought the news. The idea that her uncle
Greifenstein and her aunt Clara were both dead, as well as another
unknown gentleman who had been with them, was very dreadful; but Hilda
knew so little of death, that the story seemed melancholy and weird to
her imagination rather than ghastly and vivid with realised horror. By
no effort of her mind could she fancy how the three looked, for she had
never seen any one dead in her whole life. She had read of violent deeds
in history, but they seemed more like ugly fairy stories than realities,
and the tragedy of Greifenstein struck her in a very similar light. It
was as though some strange evil genius had passed through the forest,
scarce twenty miles from her home, destroying all that he found in his
way. They were gone, suddenly, like the light of a candle extinguished,
and she should never see them again. They had crossed the boundary into
the wonderful land beyond, and perhaps from where they were now they
could see her dreaming about them, and asking herself what that great
change meant which only takes place once for each man and each woman in
the world. Perhaps--Hilda trembled at the heresy, but let her thoughts
run on nevertheless, because after all it was only her imagination that
was talking--perhaps that was the end, and there was nothing beyond it.
It would be infinitely horrible to be put out of existence altogether,
without hope of any life at all afterwards. That might be what was meant
by hell, and outer darkness, but upon this point Hilda was not decided.
She made up her mind, however, after a little more reflexion, that the
Greifensteins could not possibly have been bad enough to deserve to be
put out entirely, though she frankly owned to herself that she had never
liked her aunt Clara. She was sorry for her now, at all events, and she
wished that she had at least made an effort to be more fond of her.
Hilda tried to decide what she should say to Greif when she met him. She
never doubted that he would come to Sigmundskron, and in her ignorance
of formalities she almost dared to hope that he would stay with her
mother for a time. He would certainly not care to remain in Greifenstein
for the present. If indeed he should wish to spend a few days with
his relations, Hilda foresaw many and great difficulties, but she was
surprised that such important household questions as those of bed and
board for a possible guest should seem so insignificant when that guest
was to be Greif himself.
The real trouble lay in deciding what she should say. It was clear that
she could not help looking pleased when he arrived, though it would be
her duty to look somewhat sad and sorrowful. Of course she felt for him
and he knew it, but he would perhaps expect her to show it very clearly
in the first minute and would be hurt if she even smiled. It was not
easy not to smile when she saw Greif after a long separation. Perhaps
the best way to look very mournful would be to think that he could not
marry her for a long time, now, on account of the mourning. But then,
Greif had finished his studies and would henceforth be always at
home, which in Hilda’s opinion would be almost the same thing as being
married, provided she could see him all the time.
Then she thought of that strange warning she had given him when they
last parted. She had not understood why she spoke, and yet, she had
not been able to keep silence. Surely this could not be what was meant.
Besides, it was superstitious to believe in such things, and she had
been thoughtless in yielding to the impulse. Greif was safe, at all
events, and she supposed that everybody’s parents must die some day,
though not necessarily in such a strange way. Her own father had been
killed, too, before she could know him--if she had known him, she would
have loved him, as Greif had loved the old gentleman who was now dead.
Hilda became aware that her reflexions were growing more and more
heartless and that they did not help her at all, especially as she could
not communicate them to Berbel. She resolved not to reflect any more for
the present, and applied herself diligently to her household occupations
until the morning on which she expected her mother to return. And now
she was not to be alone any longer, for the carriage was advancing up
the hill and she could plainly see Greif sitting beside the baroness in
the big carriage. She knew his fur cap, for it was the same he had worn
last year. She gazed a few moments longer at the pair, regretting that
she must be thought heartless if she waved her handkerchief as a signal
of welcome, and then she swiftly descended the broken steps that led
down into the house, closing as well as she could the crazy door of the
turret, to keep out at least a little of the strong north wind.
‘Berbel! Berbel! Mamma is coming with Herr Greif!’ she cried, before she
was really within hearing of the room where Berbel was at work.
Her clear voice rang through the stone passages before her as she ran
on, repeating the news until Berbel answered her at last.
‘Is there anything for dinner?’ asked Hilda breathlessly, as she stood
in the doorway.
The grey-haired woman looked up from her sewing, over her horn-rimmed
glasses. She had a hard, good face, with rough brows, sharp eyes and a
large mole upon her chin. She was spotlessly clean, and everything about
her was supernaturally neat.
She was broad-shouldered, rather bony than otherwise, and she moved as
though nothing were any trouble which merely required exertion.
‘There are potatoes,’ she answered laconically, but a strangely genial,
half comical little smile was twitching at the corners of her solid
mouth.
‘Nothing else? Oh, Berbel, there must be something else!’ Hilda’s voice
was full of a sudden distress, and her face exhibited considerable
dismay.
‘I shall find something,’ replied the other. ‘Better see first whether
they are hungry. Poor Herr Greif will not eat much--’
‘No--but only potatoes, Berbel!’
‘Potato dumplings are good things,’ observed the woman.
‘And fried potatoes with a stewed hare are better,’ she added after a
pause.
‘Is there a hare, then? Oh, Berbel, you dear old thing, how could you
frighten me in that way! Where did you get it? We have not had one for
ever so long!’
‘Wastei,’ answered Berbel. Being interpreted, the name signifies
Sebastian.
‘And Wastei must have got it by poaching--?’ Hilda’s face fell.
‘No--the forester has given him a licence this year, and I mended his
breeches. There you have the whole history.’
Hilda’s spirits revived immediately and she broke into a merry laugh,
just as the sound of the horses’ bells was heard jingling in the
castle-yard below the window. She ran down the stairs to meet her mother
and Greif. The story of the hare and Wastei’s breeches had almost chased
away her good intentions to look appropriately sad. The hideous tragedy
of the Greifensteins was very far from her simple young life.
The great carriage swung round and drew up before the door of the hall,
and Hilda was already standing upon the low steps. She had thrown
back her hood when she had descended from the battlements, and had
not replaced it. Her glorious hair looked like bright gold against the
darkness of the hall behind her, and as the cloak fell from her on
each side, the black of her dress suddenly threw out by contrast the
brilliancy of her face. In another moment her mother and she were
clasped in each other’s arms, while Greif stood beside them on the
steps.
He closed his eyes for an instant, just as hers were turning toward him.
This was the woman he had come to renounce, this was she whose love he
could put away at a moment’s notice for the sake of an idea--his heart
beat violently and then stood still, so that he turned very pale. Her
hand was already in his, and he scarcely dared to look at her.
‘Greif--are you ill?’ she asked anxiously.
He had not seen her smile. He had escaped that, he thought. But as he
looked up he saw what was harder to bear than any look of joy at his
coming. She, who never used to change colour, was pale to the lips, and
in her eyes was a look of terror for him which betrayed all her love,
and devotion and power of suffering for him, in the flash of an instant.
She had indeed been terrified, for he had turned ashy white as he closed
his eyes, and his figure had swayed a little unsteadily as though he had
been about to fall.
‘Are you ill, Greif?’ she repeated, unconsciously drawing him nearer to
her.
‘It is nothing. My head turned for a moment,’ he said.
Hilda was not satisfied, but she saw that whatever had been the matter,
he had recovered himself for the present, at least, and she supposed
that he was exhausted with the fatigue and grief which had filled the
last days. She became silent and preoccupied, as they all entered the
hall together and ascended the steps to the sunny sitting-room over the
court. Then Frau von Sigmundskron left her alone with Greif, on pretence
of taking off her mantle and smoothing her hair, but as she went away
she gave him a look which signified that she would not disturb them for
some time.
There was the great stone chimney-piece, just as Greif had seen it
in his vision of the meeting, and Hilda sat down beside it, as he
had fancied that she would. But the room was not cold, as he had
anticipated, for the fire was clear and big, and the sun streamed
brightly in through the southern window. He had imagined the place chill
and dreary, for he knew that he should need the impression of dreariness
to help him. Instead, it was warm and sunny, and though Hilda was still
a little pale, her pallor did not produce the effect he had expected. He
tried to begin, for in spite of all, his resolution was still unbroken,
but the words stuck in his throat.
‘Greif,’ said Hilda, looking up suddenly into his face. ‘I do not know
how to tell you--I am so sorry, so sorry for you, dear. I have not the
words, but it is all in my heart. You understand, do you not?’
She had risen, seeing that he was still standing, and she came to him,
and clasped both her hands upon his shoulder and looked up into his
eyes. It would have been easier if she had begun in any other way than
that. With her touch upon him, her eyes on his, her breath and soft
voice so near, he could not play coldness. But he was strong still.
His arms went round her swiftly and pressed her to him, and he kissed
her as he had never kissed her before, three times in quick succession.
Then he gently led her back to her chair and returned to his own place,
standing as he had meant to do, to give himself more courage. She
submitted wonderingly, without understanding why he made her sit down,
and for a few seconds neither spoke. At last he turned away from her and
began to talk, looking at the window to avoid her eyes.
‘Hilda, a very terrible thing has happened, and I must explain it to
you, in order that you may comprehend what I must do. Will you promise
me to listen patiently and to forgive me beforehand for all I am going
to say?’
‘Yes,’ answered the young girl rather faintly. The strong presentiment
of evil had come upon her again, as it had come that day when he was
leaving Greifenstein. She bent her head and covered her eyes with her
hand, as though not to see the blow that was to descend, though she must
feel its weight. It was all instinctive, for not the faintest thought of
what he was going to say could ever have suggested itself to her mind.
‘Yes,’ said Greif, ‘it is very terrible. But I have come here to say
it and I must say it all. You know what has happened. My poor mother is
dead, and those who murdered her, have killed themselves--my father and
his half-brother. You did not know that I had an uncle?’
Hilda shook her head, looking up for a moment.
‘He was a bad man, too,’ continued Greif. ‘He had been an officer and
had betrayed his trust in the times of revolution, was sentenced and
imprisoned; he escaped from the fortress, made his way to South
America, and lived there for forty years in exile, until the amnesty was
proclaimed. He was not Greifenstein, he was Rieseneck, half-brother to
my father by the mother’s side and younger than he. That was bad enough,
however. It was the reason why my father lived here in the forest so
quietly. He was afraid that people would remember he was Rieseneck’s
brother. You see, the affair made a great noise at the time. Your mother
knows all about it. Well, it was hard enough, as I say, to have such
a disgrace in the family. We did not know that Rieseneck had a son--I
found that my best friend--his name is Rex--is he.’
‘How strange!’ exclaimed Hilda. ‘Why is his name Rex?’
‘It is not, exactly. He and his father called themselves so in order not
to be identified. It was almost necessary for them--as it may be for me
now.’
‘For you?’ asked Hilda in the utmost astonishment. ‘You would change
your name--why?’
Greif stared at her. She seemed not to understand at all, and yet he had
gone into Rieseneck’s story merely to make his own seem more terrible by
comparison.
‘You must know that, in the world, such calamities as have befallen me
leave a mark, a stain even upon the innocent,’ said Greif. ‘The world
looks askance at the sons of murderers.’
‘And are you afraid of the world, Greif?’ asked Hilda. ‘That is not
like you. For the Riesenecks, well, I understand--he was disgraced,
condemned, imprisoned. But you! It is like a dreadful story of the
dark ages, but there is no shame in it, nothing to be ashamed of. It is
terrible, awful, appalling, but you can hold your head as high as any
one. Do you suppose it is the first tragedy that ever occurred in your
family or in mine? Did not old Sigmund strangle his own brother with his
hands, here in this house, seven hundred years ago, and am I ashamed to
call him my forefather?’
‘That is very different from what has happened to me,’ answered Greif.
‘You cannot understand, but the world judges according to its light. If
I, the son of a man who murdered his wife and killed himself, were to
present myself to any man of my own rank and ask him for his daughter in
marriage I should receive a refusal, and perhaps an indignant one. I am
not considered a fit person to marry an innocent girl of my class, I am
stamped with a stained name, branded with the sign of others’ crimes,
ruined before my life is begun, cut off from happiness, from ambition,
from you--O Hilda! that is what I came to tell you--I have spoken very
badly--it is best to say it clearly. My beloved, this has taken you from
me, and me from you, and has cast me adrift from all that remained, from
the greatest and best of all. If I could dare to marry you now, to give
you my miserable name, to take you to the home that is darkened by so
many deaths--I should be the last and lowest of men! It is of no use,
for I feel it--the only honourable thing left for me to do, in so much
dishonour, is to leave you for ever and at once. If I were willing still
to make you my wife you ought to despise me, and trample the memory of
my love under foot as a vile thing. O Hilda, Hilda! it is death to me,
but it is best for you.’
The blow had fallen, and Hilda sat quite still in her place, covering
her eyes with one hand, as she had done at first. All through his long
preamble, she had felt that there was something dreadful to come, and
now it had come indeed, in the shape she least expected, in the shape
which of all others she would most have feared. She did not move, but
the soft, fresh colour faded from her face, till it was whiter than the
white hand she held before it. Greif looked at her, and his head swam.
He thought neither of her suffering nor of his own, as the words
came fast and incoherent from his pale lips. He went on, insisting,
repeating, lamenting with the vehemence of a passionate man who has
overcome all that is gentlest in himself and takes a savage delight in
rending his own wounds.
‘It is done, and you know, now,’ he cried bitterly. ‘I have fought
against myself, against every one, to do this thing--do you think it is
easy to give up such a love as you have been to me? And yet, I would not
take you, no, not if you pursued me across the world--what right have I
to you? The right of loving better than anything God has made was ever
loved before? It is gone, that right, gone with my name, gone with all
I once was, buried with my father and my mother in the old place beyond
Greifenstein. Right? I have no rights any longer--neither to love, nor
to hate, nor to be happy in the thought of love, nor of Hilda. And yet,
in all the years to come, you will be with me. I cannot give up the
right to remember you, and to think of your dear eyes. Ah, if it were
but my own fault, how easy it would be to bear! I wish I had wronged
you--you would thrust me from you--it would help me--at least, if I had
done you harm, I could die for it, and that would be so easy and simple,
and would end all so well. I wish I had done some hideous, nameless
deed with my own hands, that I might be driven out by men, and forced
to leave you by others stronger than I! Anything, anything, anything but
this!’
He bent his head against the cold stones of the high chimney-piece, and
beat his brow against the hewn carvings of it, closing his eyelids over
his dry and smarting eyes, wishing that every moment might be the last
of his wretched existence, and at the same time miserably conscious that
his strength would outlast all his sufferings. He had meant to be so
calm and gentle, he had planned how he would gradually explain all to
Hilda and break the shock for her, he had thought that when it was over,
he could firmly say one solemn good-bye, and go back to his home alone.
He had not known what love could do, nor how he should be tortured
and wounded and bruised in the conflict. But yet he was strong and
victorious. His dignity and self-respect had been sorely shaken in the
fight, and he had not found the calm and tactful speeches he had planned
before; but in spite of every one, and chiefly in spite of his own
heart, he had bravely done what he had come to do. The victory was
more agonising than any defeat could have been, but it was victory,
notwithstanding.
Manlike, in his utmost distress, he had forgotten Hilda’s self in the
overwhelming thoughts of her that rushed through his confused brain. Her
hands had fallen upon her knee and she sat like a statue in the deep old
chair, whiter than any marble, her colourless lips parted, her wonderful
eyes fixed upon him in a glassy stare. Even her hair seemed to have lost
its golden sheen, as though it were suddenly dead or turning into stone.
And yet she was not unconscious. A very strong and perfect organisation
rarely breaks down under the first shock it receives, no matter how
violent. Hilda was not only conscious, she was even able to speak.
‘Greif!’ She spoke his name clearly, in a low voice.
He started, for he had almost forgotten her presence. He lifted his
haggard face and turned towards her, supporting himself with one hand on
the chimney-piece.
‘Do you mean all you have said?’ she asked very slowly, as though each
word cost her an effort.
‘I mean it all, Hilda,’ he answered, his tones still trembling with the
violence of the storm that had passed through him.
‘You mean that because your father did this deed, you are ashamed to
marry me?’
‘More than ashamed--’
‘And you will go away and leave me for ever, for the sake of this idea
alone?’
‘Ah, Hilda--you have not understood--’
‘I have understood all, because I love you, and now I know that you love
me with all your heart--’
‘Oh, thank you, my beloved! God bless you for seeing the truth--’
‘Do not thank me--’
She caught her breath, then with a swift movement she was on her feet,
standing beside him. The glassy stare was gone from her eyes, and they
shone with a blue light like fire. Her strong white hands suddenly laid
hold of his wrists and held him firmly.
‘Do not thank me, Greif--or thank me, if you will--as you please. I will
not let you go.’
There was a power in her tone which struck him with amazement, a
concentrated, unrelenting, almost furious energy that startled him.
He had expected tears, protestations, laments; he had thought that she
might faint away, that the sight of her sufferings would treble his own.
But he had not expected the short sharp outburst of a passion as strong
as his, or stronger, he had not foreseen or guessed that this simple
girl, brought up so far from the world, would take him by the hands and
hold him, and tell him that she would not let him go, with an accent of
determination that might have staggered the strongest man.
‘You will not?’ he exclaimed, aghast at the prospect of a battle worse
than the first.
‘No,’ she answered, still grasping his wrists and gazing into his face
with her fiery eyes. ‘I will not, and I know that I am strong. I feel
it.’
During nearly a minute neither spoke, but Hilda’s hold did not relax for
a second, and her lids did not once veil the intensity of her look. Even
if Greif had possessed a wider experience of women than he had, it would
not have helped him much. He was utterly at a loss. His manly nature
would have provided him with weapons to rid himself of a woman of
coarser instincts, even if he had loved her to distraction, provided he
had felt that he must part from her. He would have felt that he could
dominate a baser affection and force it down to his will, by sheer
strength of purpose, no matter at what cost; but he was met here by
something he had never understood, and he did not know what to do.
The childlike innocence of Hilda’s maiden love gave an extraordinary
character to her passion. The absence of anything like the common
expressions of love made the transcendent power of what moved her stand
out in magnificent grandeur. Never in his life had he dreamt that her
quiet and undemonstrative affection was capable of anything but a calm
and beautiful development. He had not guessed the existence of such
resistless force as blazed from her eyes, he had believed her only
capable of receiving, he had not imagined that she was strong enough
to take boldly what was refused her. The radiance of a spotless soul,
burning in the white-heat of a passion as pure as itself, dazzled and
awed him. As he looked, he felt as though he were held in the grasp of
a splendid, wrathful angel, who disputed the possession of him, not with
himself, but with the opposing powers of evil.
It is amazing that in such a case he should still have found strength
and courage to resist this last great trial of his sincerity. Most men
would have yielded and would have accepted their fate. But though Greif
was young, and not very wise, he had stern and obstinate blood in his
veins, and he was acting under the strongest conviction that had ever
possessed him. Knowing her only as he had known her before, the fair and
innocent idol of his boyish heart, he had felt that he could never allow
her to take his darkened name. In the beginning his intention had been
very honourable, in his struggle with himself it had grown high and
chivalrous, but in the face of such opposition as he met from her mother
and now from herself, it had assumed proportions that bordered upon the
grotesque. And yet as he looked now upon her noble face, illuminated
and radiant with a beauty almost too pure for him to understand, he felt
even more than before that such a creature could never be allowed to
ally herself with one whose name was a reproach among men. He did not
know how to oppose her, but he knew that she must be opposed, at any
cost, for her own sake.
His eyes fell before her gaze, and his hands trembled nervously in her
grasp, so that she began to think that he was yielding, whereas he was
in reality making a supreme effort to concentrate his courage and to
keep the mastery of himself. While he seemed to be sinking to her will,
he was gathering his strength, saying in his heart that if he lost this
battle he should never hold up his head again.
The sun streamed broadly through the diamond panes of the casement upon
the patched and faded carpet, creeping slowly along his accustomed path
in which the hours were marked, as on a dial, by threadbare seams and
the leaves and flowers of a half-obliterated design. In the huge chimney
the logs burned steadily with a low, roaring sound, and the shabby
furniture of the place seemed to doze lazily in the warmth, as old men
do whose strength is far spent. And in the midst of the commonplace
scene a drama was being enacted, less horrible in outward appearance
than the tragedy of Greifenstein, but scarcely less fearful to the two
young hearts that beat so fiercely and full of life.
The sunlight moved but a very little, as far as would show the passing
of a minute, perhaps, and then Greif looked up once more and again met
the gaze of Hilda’s eyes.