Greif recovered quickly. In due time the celebrated physician departed
in great peace, hoping that chance might soon send such another case
into his way. Greif and Rex lived together in Greifenstein, and Hilda
and her mother were at Sigmundskron. But the distance between the two
places had grown very short of late, and scarcely a day passed on which
Hilda and Greif did not meet.
He was not quite as strong yet as he had been before his illness, but
the time was not far distant when he would be able again to get into the
saddle and make short work of the twenty miles that separated him from
Hilda. There had never been so many horses in the Greifenstein stables
as now, for the work was hard and continuous and the roads bad. To make
matters easier, Greif had sent a strong pair to Sigmundskron, so that
the two ladies might drive over whenever they were inclined to do so.
On a sunny day in April the two men were walking together in the garden,
backwards and forwards from the parapet that followed the edge of the
precipice to the porch of the house. Greif rested his hand on Rex’s arm,
more out of habit now than because he needed support, and as they paced
the smooth path the two talked in a desultory way upon whatever was
uppermost in their thoughts.
‘It seems as though my illness had lasted a year,’ Greif said. ‘I have
even got so far that I do not care to leave this place, after all.’
‘Why should you?’ Rex asked.
‘It would be natural,’ answered Greif rather gravely. ‘I should have
expected to prefer any spot of the world to this.’
‘Man is the world, and all that therein is, and the earth he stands on,
is no more to him than the clothes he wears. If a thought is in your
heart, can you get rid of it by changing your coat? And besides, in the
long run a man prefers his own coat and his own patch of earth--both are
sure to fit him better than those of other people.’
‘I think you are right. Rex, did I act like a madman before I was taken
ill?’ He asked the question rather suddenly. Hitherto Rex had avoided
mentioning what was past as well as he could.
‘Yes--you were quite mad,’ he answered. ‘You fought windmills. That is
always a bad sign.’
‘It is fortunate that I broke down just then. Suppose that I had held
out long enough to go away and that I had fallen ill in some distant
place, and that Hilda had not come--I should not have had much chance.’
‘No. I was very jealous of her, I remember.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she saved you, and I could not,’ answered Rex. ‘Because it is
disagreeable for a selfish man to feel that a woman’s eyes are better
than his skill or strength.’
Greif looked at his companion as though he did not quite understand, but
the smile upon the latter’s face made matters somewhat clearer. He would
not have liked to think that Rex was quite in earnest.
‘But for you,’ he answered, ‘I should have died long before Hilda came.’
‘Not at all. If you had shown signs of giving up the ghost earlier, I
would have sent sooner. But it was a narrow escape. Another minute would
have done it, as I have often told you.’
‘Do you know that I have not yet spoken to them about the marriage?’
‘Then there is no need of saying anything. They understand as well as
you. You need only fix the wedding-day.’
‘Not yet,’ answered Greif. ‘It is too soon.’
‘Is it ever too soon to be happy?’
‘Sometimes--but I will go to Sigmundskron to-morrow and talk about it.’
‘In that case you will be married in three months,’ observed Rex with a
laugh.
‘Not so soon--we must let the year pass first. It would not be decent.’
‘Decency is that mode of demeanour in ourselves which satisfies the
traditional likes or dislikes of others. There is nothing else in it.’
‘If you are going to begin a discussion about comparative right, I will
say nothing more. I have lost my taste for argument, and I never had
much skill in it.’
‘We will not discuss the matter,’ replied Rex. ‘You will be married in
August.’
‘I think not.’
‘We shall see.’
‘Will you go with me to-morrow?’ asked Greif, relinquishing the contest.
‘You had better go alone, and I shall be best here, with my books. You
will not need me to help you to settle matters.’
‘Why do you so rarely go with me?’
‘Why should I?’
‘To keep me company. It is a long drive.’
‘The entertainment, so far as I am concerned, is not of a wildly
exciting character, when you are talking to Fraulein von Sigmundskron,
and her mother is doing needlework, and I am thrown upon my own
resources. Whereas if I stay at home and read, I have the pleasure
of hearing your very good description of all that I should have been
entitled to see and hear had I been present myself. The description
occupies five minutes; the expedition takes a whole day. I will stay at
home, thank you.’
‘But it gives them pleasure to see you,’ objected Greif.
‘Does your cousin regret my absence from the sitting-room when she is
walking with you upon the sunny side of the ramparts?’
‘How did you know that we walked there?’ asked Greif with a laugh.
‘On the same principle which teaches me that a dog will walk on the
sunny side of the street--because you would not be likely to walk in the
shade at this time of year. Did you say that Fraulein von Sigmundskron
regretted my absence on such occasions?’
‘She always asks after you when you do not come. Why do you call her by
such long names? “Cousin Hilda” is quite enough.’
‘It is not a cousinship she could be very proud of. I prefer not to
force it upon her. She could not call me “Cousin Horst.”’
‘She will have as much cause to be proud of your cousinship as of having
me for a husband,’ said Greif, stopping in his walk and looking at
Rex. ‘Whatever you say of yourself applies equally well to me in this
matter.’
Rex said nothing, but he thought of all the truth there was in the words
which Greif did not know, and never must know. He had not told all his
reasons for not going to Sigmundskron, either, and if he had told them,
they might not have been altogether pleasing to Greif. He was ashamed
of them, even before himself, and thought of them as little as possible.
Hilda’s presence affected him unpleasantly. What he felt, when he was
with her, strongly resembled an unconquerable dislike, which was at the
same time wholly inexplicable to himself. He could appreciate her beauty
only when he was at a distance from her, and then the memory of
it attracted rather than repelled him. When she spoke, he had an
instinctive longing to give her a sharp answer, which was smothered in
a phrase of meaningless politeness; but he afterwards took delight in
fancying what her expression would have been if he had really said what
had suggested itself to him. He could not explain the intense antagonism
he sometimes felt against her by any theory or experience of psychology
with which he was acquainted. Her look annoyed him, her slightest
gesture irritated him, the sound of her voice distressed his ear. Even
her grace of motion jarred upon him, and he wished she could be clumsy
and slow instead of swift and sure. He had disliked women before, but
never in the peculiar way he disliked Hilda. Everything she did looked
wrong, though he knew it was right; every word she uttered sounded false
to him, though he was well aware that she was one of the most truthful
and true-hearted persons he had ever known.
He supposed that what he felt had taken its origin in a ridiculous
jealousy, on that day when her appearance had revived Greif at the last
moment, and he recurred to the scene constantly and tried to magnify
his first impression in order to make his present state of mind seem a
little more reasonable. He only half succeeded, however, though he kept
what he thought to be his own folly clearly before him at their next
meeting and forced his manner and his voice to obey his common sense.
The result of all this was that Rex was once more growing dissatisfied
with his life. Had he felt sure of Greif’s future he would have gone
away and would not have returned until a long lapse of time, and a
constant change of scene, had obliterated what was so disagreeable to
himself. His prudence warned him, however, that he should stay until
all was settled, and Greif was married to Hilda. After that, it mattered
little what became of him. He reflected with satisfaction that he was
over forty years of age, and that, even if he chose to live out his
life, he was not likely to survive his brother. Whether he should not
one day find himself so weary of it all as to anticipate his end by a
score of years, was a point about which he thought much. Such tragedies
as had darkened Greifenstein rarely take place where there is not a
fatal tendency to suicide in the blood. Death had never seemed horrible
to Rex in any shape; on the contrary, he took pleasure in speculating
upon its possibilities and in dreaming of the sensations which the
supreme moment would evoke. To a mind altogether destitute of any
transcendental belief whatsoever, death appears to be merely the end of
life, to be made as little disagreeable as possible and encountered with
such equanimity as a philosopher can command. To such men as Rex, the
idea that there is any obligation to live if one prefers to die,
does not present itself, and when they inherit from their fathers an
indifference to life, the danger that they may part with it too readily
is seldom far distant. The thought of Greif had prevented Rex from
stepping over the limit, and his affection for him would probably have
kept off such gloomy thoughts altogether for a long time, if Greif
had depended upon his companionship. But as Greif recovered and this
dependence grew less and less a matter of necessity Rex grew weary
again. If he had not felt as he did in regard to Hilda, the two would
have been more together than they actually were, and Greif would not
so often have driven twice in a day alone over the twenty miles that
separated his house from Sigmundskron. Rex saw this, and saw that Hilda
was taking his place, and he became disgusted with himself and the
existence he was leading. Nevertheless, his naturally firm character
made his outward demeanour even and unchangeable. He was determined that
if he must be ridiculous in his own eyes, he would not appear to be so
in the eyes of others. For the present he could not leave Greifenstein,
for he could be of use to Greif, who would sooner or later be obliged to
put his affairs in order, and examine the papers left by his father. Rex
feared indeed, lest among these should be discovered some letter from
the dead man, explaining to his son what had been so clearly told to Rex
himself. A superficial search had discovered nothing, but he reflected
that at such a moment a man might well put what he had written in
a place where he was in the habit of concealing precious documents,
instead of laying it upon the table. Rex was determined to have the
chief hand in the examination of what was found, and to abstract and
destroy unopened anything which looked like a letter to Greif. He cared
little for any justification in pursuing such a course; from what he had
learned of old Greifenstein he believed that he would have been capable
of telling the plain truth to his son and of enjoining upon him to give
up his name, and to hand over his whole fortune to the Sigmundskrons.
He had been a stern man with fearfully rigid traditions of honour,
incapable, Rex thought, of allowing Greif to practise an unconscious
deception, willing that he should come to a miserable end rather
than seem, even for a moment, to be what he was not. It was almost
inconceivable to Rex that he should have died without writing a few
words to his son, and if he had done so, Rex had little doubt as to
what the letter would contain. Should it be found, he intended to do his
utmost to destroy it, unknown to Greif, and in the meanwhile, he did all
in his power to hasten the marriage and to put off the evil day when the
papers must be examined.
The lives of the two were made somewhat irregular by Greif’s constant
visits to Sigmundskron, and occasionally by the coming of the baroness
and Hilda. The good lady thought that there was little dignity in
bringing her daughter to Greifenstein, but she was quite unable to
oppose Hilda’s determination. So long as Greif had been only in the
convalescent stage it had seemed proper enough that the baroness should
occasionally come in person to make inquiries, the more so as Greif had
placed a pair of horses at her disposal for this very purpose as soon
as he could give an order of any sort. Now that he was perfectly well,
however, she felt that in spite of the relationship it was strangely
contrary to custom for two ladies to visit a young man who lived alone.
She would not have been a German of her class if she had not felt this,
but she would not have been herself if she had allowed a scruple of
etiquette to stand in the way of Hilda’s happiness.
There was still an element of uncertainty in the situation which caused
her some anxious moments. Since his recovery Greif had never approached
the question of marriage. It was indeed early yet, but the opportunities
had already been numerous, and he had not taken advantage of any. The
only point which favoured the impression that he had changed his mind,
was his frank and easy manner together with his evident desire to see as
much of Hilda as possible. But he had not spoken. The baroness was keen
enough to fancy that he was prevented from referring to the subject by
the painful reminiscence of his last interview at Sigmundskron, and by
a natural feeling of shame at the thought of retracting what he had once
taken such infinite pains to say. She was determined that the matter
should be put upon a sound basis as soon as possible, and she promised
herself to lead the conversation to the marriage whenever she had a
chance.
Unfortunately for her intentions the chance did not present itself, for
Greif spent the time of his visits with Hilda, and talked as little as
possible to her mother. The latter could almost have found courage to
come alone to Greifenstein, but Hilda would not have allowed her to
do so, for she would not have been willing to miss an opportunity of a
meeting. In this way matters had continued for some time after Greif had
been well enough to decide finally upon his own future as well as upon
Hilda’s, until he himself felt that he must soon speak his mind, or be
very much ashamed of himself for his hesitation.
Of all concerned, Hilda was the one whose character had changed the most
since the events of the winter. It seemed as though she had never before
realised what she was, nor what she was able to accomplish in the world.
From the day of Greif’s refusal to marry her at Sigmundskron she had
developed suddenly, from a simple girl into a strong and dominant woman.
After Greif had left her on that day she had still felt as certain of
marrying him as though they were already going to the altar. When she
had known that he was really ill she had felt an inward conviction that
he would recover quickly. When she had found him dying she had known
that she could save his life. She had acquired a sense of certainty
which nothing could disturb, and which had developed simultaneously with
a moral energy no one had before suspected that she possessed. If there
had ever been any resistance on either side the baroness would not have
felt as though her daughter had suddenly taken the mastery over her,
but there had been none. Never, in their peaceful lives, had they
experienced opposite desires or incompatible impulses. It had never
seemed as though Hilda were submitting to her mother, even when she was
a child, because their wishes appeared to be always exactly the same, so
that Hilda would have done of her own freewill, and if left to herself,
precisely what her mother desired her to do. The consequence was that
since Hilda had found that she had a will of her own, she had imposed it
upon her mother with the greatest ease; for the latter was so much taken
by surprise at Hilda’s initiative, as to take refuge in believing that
the girl must really want what she herself wanted, and that it was only
the appearance which made the result look different. It was only a half
belief, after all, for she could not help seeing that circumstances had
singularly developed the girl’s character, and that they had been of a
nature to do so, exceptional, startling and trying in every way. Frau
von Sigmundskron liked to fancy that she could still control every
impulse Hilda showed, as well as formerly, but she could not help being
proud of her daughter’s strength, for Hilda was like her father, a man
who, with the sweetest temper imaginable, had dared anything that a man
may dare.
Greif carried out his intention of going to Sigmundskron on the day
after his conversation with Rex. During the drive he thought of what was
before him, as he had thought three months earlier, when the prospect
had been very different.
At present he felt that it would be impossible to delay his retractation
any longer. So far as his happiness was concerned, the situation
might last until the eve of the wedding-day, but there were other
considerations to be thought of, which he could not disregard. Hilda and
he understood each other without words, but Hilda’s mother could not be
expected to understand without a formal explanation. She had a right to
it. Greif’s last act before his illness had been to refuse the marriage;
the baroness was entitled not only to know from his own lips that he had
changed his mind, but also to be consulted in the matter, as a question
of courtesy. Greif did not know exactly how to manage it. To his mind
there would be something inexpressibly ridiculous in asking an interview
with Frau von Sigmundskron, for the purpose of formally requesting, a
second time, the honour of her daughter’s hand. And yet he assuredly
could not go to her and say bluntly that he had changed his mind
and intended to take Hilda after all. Anything between the two
must necessarily take the shape of an apology of some sort and of a
retractation, though Greif felt that he had done nothing needing an
apology. He could not ask the baroness’s forgiveness for having been
stubbornly determined to sacrifice his whole life rather than injure her
daughter by giving her his name. It was true that he now saw the matter
differently, perceiving that he had done all that a man of the most
quixotic chivalry could do to prove the case against himself, and that
his judges refused wholly to be convinced. He did not regret what he had
done, though he was willing to believe that he had gone too far in the
right direction. He had offended no one, for his whole conduct had been
guided by the consideration of others. He had therefore nothing to
be forgiven him, and no shadow of a reason for putting himself in the
position of a penitent. To say that he had been mistaken, and to try and
shift the responsibility of his action upon his illness, was not to his
taste either. He had not refused to marry Hilda because he had been ill
at the time, but because he had been convinced that he ought to do
so. At present he was grateful both to her and to her mother for their
readiness to oppose his self-sacrifice. That at least he could say;
but after that it would be necessary in common courtesy to put to the
baroness the question old Greifenstein had asked long ago, in other
words, to renew the formal proposition of marriage. As a man of honour
it was indispensable that he should clearly define his position
without further delay, and he could see no other way of defining it,
satisfactory to himself and to the exigencies of his courteous rule of
life.
There was still another matter to be decided, and which did not tend
to make the coming interview seem easier. The origin of the whole
difficulty had not been removed, and although Greif had made up his mind
to submit to the happiness which was thrust upon him, he still felt that
to marry Hilda under his own name would be out of the question. He
was even more sure of this than before, for he had learned during his
convalescence that the tragedy of Greifenstein had been described in
every paper of the empire, and he knew that it must be the common topic
of conversation. His old comrades at Schwarzburg had read the story and
had written, some offering condolences, some refusing to believe the
tale at all. The professors of the University whose lectures Greif had
chiefly attended, had written in various manners, and the Magnificus
himself had deigned to offer his sympathy in a singularly human manner.
Most of these communications had been answered by Rex, who explained
that Greif had been seriously ill, and Greif himself replied to the more
important ones. The horror of the story was known through the length and
breadth of the land, and wherever Greif might go for years to come, his
name would instantly recall the terrible details of the triple crime.
All the arguments Greif had formerly used with so much force remained
unshaken, and he felt that there could be but one way of placing himself
and Hilda beyond their reach. Had Hilda never existed, he would
have determined to live in retirement, and to allow his race to be
extinguished in his own person, rather than perpetuate the memory of
such deeds. As it was, he had given up the thought, for the love of
her, and he knew that there was happiness in store for him. In order to
accept it, however, he must be no longer Greifenstein.
It was strange that each of the three in turn, Rex, the baroness, and
lastly, Hilda herself, should have suggested the advisability of his
taking the name of Sigmundskron in place of his own. Clearly, it was
the only course open to him, but it was a curious coincidence that
they should all have had the same thought. On the whole he was ready to
follow their advice, but as he drew near to his destination he realised
that it must be the first point settled. He did not exactly know how
to formulate his request, for he had never known anybody who had asked
another for his name. He almost wished that Hilda could manage it for
him, which was a proof that he had not yet altogether recovered his
strength.
He was glad that Rex had not come, after all. It was one of those
errands which he preferred to accomplish alone. Moreover, for some
reason which he could not guess, Rex seemed to avoid the Sigmundskrons
as much as he could. That he should never remain long in conversation
with Hilda, Greif thought natural; his cousin’s action might proceed
from delicacy, of a curiously unusual kind, or it might be the result
of Rex’s constant wish to leave the two together as much as possible.
In either case it was not altogether surprising. But Greif often wished
that Rex would take the trouble to talk to the baroness, so that she
might not be left so much alone. It would have completed the party and
made every one feel more easy; after all, Rex was a man forty years of
age, and might reasonably be expected to devote his attention with a
good grace to a lady who was not much older than himself, though her
white hair contrasted oddly with his uncommonly youthful appearance.
But Rex hardly ever failed to find some excuse for staying at home when
Greif went to Sigmundskron, and when the ladies came to Greifenstein he
generally made his appearance as late as possible. Nevertheless Greif
believed that his cousin did not dislike the Sigmundskrons, and it was
certain that both mother and daughter thought extremely well of him.
Greif could not explain Rex’s coldness, and was obliged to ascribe it to
some uncommon bias of a remarkable character which he had never wholly
understood.
Being full of such thoughts, the time that had elapsed, between the
present day and the memorable visit three months earlier, seemed to
Greif to have dropped away with all it had contained. He felt as though
he had refused the marriage but yesterday and were going to take back
his refusal to-day. Only the weather had changed between then and now.
On that morning the ground had been covered with snow, and a bitter wind
that cut like a knife had been blowing across the road. It was even yet
not spring, but the snow was all gone, and the frost was thawing out of
the ground under the warm sun. In a few days the white thorn would begin
to bud, and fresh green violet leaves would come out along the borders
of the woods. A few birds were already circling in the air above the
fir-tops as though expecting to find the flies there already. The warmth
and the moisture of everything brought out the sweet smell of the forest
and blew it into Greif’s face at every turn of the drive.
For the twentieth time since he had been well enough to go out, he
watched the sturdy horses’ backs as they drew the light carriage up the
last steep ascent. For the twentieth time he looked up as he reached
the point whence the lower battlements of the half-ruined castle were
visible. As often happened, he descried Hilda’s tall figure against the
sky, and then immediately the gleam of something white, waved high to
welcome him. He wondered how she always knew when he was coming. But
Hilda had found that when he came he naturally started always at the
same hour, so that every morning she went up, and stood on the rampart
for twenty minutes, scanning every bit of the winding road that was in
sight. At the end of that time, if she had not seen the carriage, she
knew that he was not coming, and descended again into the interior, her
face less bright and her eyes less glad than when she had gone up the
steps.
There she was to-day, in her accustomed place, and a moment later the
sun caught the white handkerchief she waved. As he flourished his in
return, Greif wondered how he could ever have come over that same road
with the fixed purpose of bidding farewell for ever to her who awaited
him, and he was amazed at his own courage in having executed his
intention, for he felt that he could not do as much now. But there was
little time left him for reflexion. Five minutes later the carriage
rattled through the gate into the wide paved court, swung round upon
its wheels and stopped before the hall door. Out of the dim shadow Hilda
came quickly forward and took his hands, and they were together once
more, as they had been so often during the last month and a half.
‘I have not come to see you,’ said Greif, with a laugh that only
half concealed his embarrassment. ‘I have to request the honour of an
interview with your mother to-day.’
Hilda looked at him a moment and then laughed, too.
‘Has it come to this, Greif!’ she exclaimed.
‘It has come to this,’ he answered, his mirth subsiding at the prospect
of what was before him.
‘And what are you going to say?’ she asked. ‘That you have changed your
mind? That you yield to pressure? That you are the lawful prey of one
Hilda von Sigmundskron and cannot escape your fate? Or that you were
very ill and never meant it, and are very sorry, and will never do so
again? Why did you not bring Rex to talk to me while you are explaining
everything to my mother?’
‘Rex would not come to-day. He sends his homage--’
‘He always does--I believe you invent it--the message I mean. Rex hates
me, Greif. Do you know why? Because he is jealous. He thinks you do not
care for his society any longer--’
‘That is absurd--you must not say such foolish things!’
They reached the door of the sitting-room as he spoke. Greif entered and
found himself with the baroness. Hilda closed the door when he had gone
in and went away, leaving the two together.