Frau von Sigmundskron was somewhat surprised when she saw Greif enter
the room without Hilda. Greif went up to her with the determination of a
man who means to lose no time in getting through an unpleasant business.
‘Aunt Therese,’ he said--he called his father’s cousin ‘aunt,’ after the
German manner--‘I told Hilda that I wanted to speak with you alone--do
you mind?’
‘On the contrary,’ answered the baroness. ‘Sit down. I will work while
you talk. It will help me to understand you.’
‘The matter is very simple,’ said Greif, seating himself. ‘I want to ask
whether you are still of the same opinion in regard to my marriage with
Hilda, as before I was taken ill.’
‘Of course I am--’ She looked up, in some surprise.
‘Because I am not,’ said Greif, delighted with himself at having found a
way to make his aunt state her case first.
‘Not of my opinion, or not of your own former opinion?’ she inquired,
rather puzzled.
‘I mean to say that I now once more ask for Hilda’s hand--’
Frau von Sigmundskron laughed, and laid down her work, to look at his
face. She had not expected that he would express himself in such a way.
Then all at once she saw that he had meant to act in the most loyal
manner possible, and she grew grave, being pleased with him as she
almost always was.
‘Do you think you need my consent again, Greif? You have it, with all my
heart. You need hardly have asked it, for you knew the answer too well.’
‘It is this,’ said Greif, coming to the point. ‘In the first place, I
knew very well what you would say, though I thank you all the same;
but it was necessary to come to a clear understanding, because there
is another point to be settled upon which much must depend. What I
said three months ago holds good to-day. As Greifenstein I cannot marry
Hilda. As Greif, I cannot any longer forego the happiness you and she
have pressed upon me. But I must have another name--’
‘Is it really necessary?’ asked the baroness gravely.
‘It seems so to me. The papers have been full of our story, and I have
received many letters of condolence, and some full of curiosity. It is
a tale which no one will forget for many years. Few people could help
associating disgrace with so much crime. I wish to marry Hilda under
a name by which we may become known if we choose to go into the world
hereafter, and which may be free from all disagreeable associations. You
yourself suggested that I should take yours, she has suggested it and so
has Rex. If you consent, it seems best that it should be so.’
‘Sigmundskron--’ She pronounced the syllables slowly, almost lovingly,
and her eyes were fixed on Greif with a look he did not understand.
He could not know all that the name meant to her. She had married the
last man who had borne it by his own right, the gallant young soldier,
who was to restore the fallen fortunes of his race, in the only way in
which they had ever been restored before, by the faithful service of his
country. She remembered how firmly she had believed that he was to be
great and famous, how confidently she had hoped to bear him strong,
bright-eyed sons worthy of him and like him, who should in their turn
do great deeds, of which he should live to be proud. The dream had
vanished. Brave Sigmundskron had been shot down like many another, a
mere lieutenant, with all his hopes and grand visions of the future,
and his wife had been left alone with a widow’s pension and her little
child. A girl, too--it had seemed as though nothing were to be spared
her. If she had had a boy to bring up, another Sigmundskron to grow to
better fortunes than his father, and perhaps to realise all his father
had dreamed of for himself, it would have been easier then--but a girl!
The name was ended, never to be spoken again, as it had been so many
times, in the rollcalls of honour. She had brought him home and laid him
beside his fathers, and she herself had broken the shield upon his tomb
with her own hands, for he was the last of his race. In him ended the
line of ancient Sigmund, as it had begun, in the strife and fury of
battle. It had been a glorious line, take it all in all; though its
last warrior had been but a poor lieutenant, he had been worthy of his
fathers and had died the worthy death. If only Hilda could have been a
man!
And now, after so many years, one stood before her, who craved the right
to bear that spotless name, though he had not one drop of old Sigmund’s
blood in his veins. She had even offered it to him herself--she wondered
how she could have had the courage. What sort of a man was this,
who would call himself Sigmundskron, like her dead soldier, and be
Sigmundskron in all men’s eyes, and marry Hilda and be the father of
many Sigmundskrons to come? She looked at Greif long and wondered what
he would turn out to be.
That he was honourable and true hearted, she knew; that he was brave she
had reason to believe; that he loved her daughter well, she knew also.
But it was hard. Why did he want the name of her beloved dead? Because
his own was stained--not by his fault--but it was darkened and made a
reproach. Ay, it is easy for a man with a bad name to desire a good one;
it is natural; if he be innocent, it is very pardonable. Greif had a
right to ask for it, but would she give it? Would she suffer that which
had been so long glorious in itself, that which was made sacred by the
shedding of good blood in good cause, that which recalled all she had
once worshipped--would she suffer that to be made a mere cloak for the
evil deeds of Rieseneck and Greifenstein, murderers and suicides? It was
hard to do it.
And yet she was willing, nay, even glad, that this man should marry her
only child, the only daughter of her husband. She loved him in a way,
for he was to be her son, the only son she could ever have. Ah, that
was it. Greif was to be her son. She gazed into his face and wondered
whether, if she had searched the world, she could have found one
goodlier and stronger and truer to be a match for her own child, whether
if she ever dreamed of what might have been, she saw in her fancy a son
more worthy than this. And, after all, he did not ask the boon for his
own advantage. He had bravely struggled to give up Hilda rather than let
her risk the smallest worldly disadvantage or reproach through him. He
asked for this for Hilda’s sake, not for his own, and would it not be a
thousand times better that Hilda, and Hilda’s children, should still be
Sigmundskron than wear a name black with ill-shed blood? Since she was
to have a son given her would she not rather have him Sigmundskron
than Greifenstein? Could he ever be a true son to her so long as he was
called after those who had treated herself coldly and heartlessly during
so many years, and who themselves had come to such an evil end?
She looked at him once more. Then she put out her hands and took his and
drew him close to her so that she could see into his eyes. When she saw
what was in them she was glad.
‘Will you be a son to me, Greif von Greifenstein?’ she asked solemnly.
‘I will indeed, so help me God, and you shall be my mother,’ he
answered.
‘Then you shall be Sigmundskron,’ she said. ‘You are brave--be as brave
as old Sigmund. You are true--be as true as he. You are faithful--be
faithful to death, as he was, who was the last of Sigmund’s sons.’
The white-haired lady rose as she spoke, and drawing him still nearer
to her, kissed his smooth young forehead, with the pale lips that had
touched no man’s face since her dead husband had gone from her to his
death.
‘Go and tell Hilda that you will be Sigmundskron to her in deed, and in
heart, as well as in name,’ she said.
As she left the room, erect and with firm step, he saw the bright tears
burst from her eyes, and roll down her pallid cheeks, though she would
not bend her head nor heed them.
For many minutes he stood where she had left him, his hand resting upon
the edge of the table, his look fixed upon the door, absently and seeing
nothing.
‘That is what it is to have a spotless name,’ he said, almost aloud.
He went out softly as though from a hallowed place, and closed the door
noiselessly behind him. His small anticipations of what that scene
would be like, full of many words and attempts at tactful speech,
seemed infinitely pitiful and contemptible now, beside the dignity, the
kindness, the noble pride and the grand simplicity of the woman who had
given him her name. He walked slowly, and his head was bent in thought
as he threaded the well-known passages and stairways to the old rampart
where he knew that Hilda was waiting for him.
She was sitting upon one of the stone projections, hatless in the April
sun, her beautiful figure thrown into bold lines and curves as she
looked down upon the road, sitting, but half turned upon her seat. She
heard the crazy door of the turret creak and rattle, and she moved so
that she could see Greif.
‘It has not lasted long,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Why do you look
so grave?’ she asked quickly as she noticed his face, ‘Has anything
happened?’
He sat down beside her and took her hand.
‘Do you know what your mother told me to say to you?’ he asked.
She shook her head expectantly, and her expression grew bright again.
‘She told me to tell you that I would be Sigmundskron to you in deed,
and in heart, as well as in name--can I say more?’
‘But one thing more,’ she answered, as her arms went round him. ‘But one
thing more--that you will be Greif, my Greif, the Greif I love, always
and always, whether in my name or yours, until the end!’
As his own thoughts had dwindled before Frau von Sigmundskron’s earnest
dignity, so that in turn grew dim and far away in the presence of
Hilda’s love. All had been right in their own way, but Hilda’s speech
was the best, and there was the most humanity in it, after all.
A long time they sat side by side in the sunlight, talking of each other
and of themselves as lovers will, and must, if they would talk at all.
As they were about to go down, Hilda stopped, just at the entrance of
the turret, and swung the broken door gently on its creaking hinges.
‘You must not let your cousin hate me, Greif,’ she said, as though
the thought troubled the cloudless joy of the future. ‘It would not be
right. We must all be one, now and when we two are married. He saved
your life by his care--why should he dislike me?’
‘He does not, dearest--you are mistaken,’ protested Greif, who was much
embarrassed by the question. Hilda faced him at once, laying her hand
upon his arm.
‘He does, and you must see it. Why does he never come here? Why is he so
cold when we go to Greifenstein? I do not care a straw for his like or
dislike, except because he is your cousin, and because I think we should
all live harmoniously together. The strange thing is that he would give
his life for you, and I am sure he is honest, though I cannot see into
his eyes as I can into yours. What is the reason? You must know.’
‘I do not. I can see that he is very reserved with you and does not like
to come here. I asked him only yesterday why he always stayed behind.’
‘And what did he say?’ asked Hilda eagerly.
‘Nothing to the point. He said he could not be of any use if he did
come--which, after all, is absolutely true.’
‘You must find out. He dislikes me now, when we are married it will
be worse, a year hence he will detest me altogether and tell you so,
perhaps.’
‘Do you think he would tell me?’ asked Greif with a quiet smile, that
did not agree with the sudden glittering of his eyes.
‘No,’ laughed Hilda. ‘That is an exaggeration. But he will make us both
feel it.’
‘In that case we will not ask him to stay with us,’ answered Greif, half
carelessly, half in anger at Rex’s imaginary future rudeness.
He saw that Hilda was annoyed by his cousin’s conduct, for it was the
second time she had spoken of it during the visit, and he determined
that he would put the matter very plainly to Rex as soon as he reached
Greifenstein, the more so as he himself had noticed it and had already
asked Rex for an explanation.
Hilda’s face grew grave. She knew how devoted Rex was to Greif, and she
felt as though her future husband were to lose his best friend for a
meaningless whim of the latter, in which she was involved against her
will.
‘That must never be,’ she answered. ‘Next to me, no one loves you as
Rex does. I would not have you quarrel for all the world--and it is mere
jealousy, Greif, I know--’
‘Then he must be a very contemptible character,’ said Greif indignantly.
‘Because he is so much attached to you that it pains him to see his
place taken by another, even by woman? No, sweetheart. That is not
contemptible. But you must change it. Tell him to be reasonable--’
‘Could I say that you are offended with him?’ asked Greif. ‘Can I go to
Rex and tell him that he must not only be civil but must be a friend to
you?’
‘You are jesting,’ she answered. ‘But it is just what I would do in
earnest--what I will do, if you will let me. He would understand that.
I would say to him, Herr Rex, you are Greif’s only relation besides
ourselves. It is absolutely necessary for his happiness that we should
be on good terms, you and I. Is it my fault? He would answer that it was
not, for he is honest. Then it is yours, I would say, and the sooner you
turn yourself into a friend of mine, the better it will be for Greif,
who is the only person you care for in the world. Is not that common
sense?’
‘Do you mean to say that?’ asked Greif rather anxiously.
‘If you will let me, I will,’ answered Hilda, returning to her
occupation and swinging the old door slowly between her two hands.
‘If I will let you!’ repeated Greif. ‘Do you think I would try to
prevent you from saying what you please, darling--’
‘You ought to, if you think it would be a mistake--at least, after we
are married.’
‘I am not sure that I could,’ he answered with a laugh.
‘No one else could,’ said Hilda, looking up at him with flashing eyes.
‘If I meant to do a thing, I would do it, of course. Did I not say that
I would not let you go?’
‘Indeed you did. And you kept your word.’
‘And I love you--you know it?’
‘It is all I know, or care to know.’
‘Well, I will tell you something more. Because I love you, I want to do
what you like, and not what I like, and I always will, so long as you
love me.’
Greif drew her to him and held her close, and whispered a tender word
into her ear.
‘But you must understand,’ she said. ‘It is not because you are to be my
husband, that I mean to submit to you. I do not submit at all, and never
shall. I am just as strong as you are, and you could not make me yield
a hair’s-breadth. But I will always do everything you wish me to do,
because I love you, and because you love me, not for any other reason.
Do you understand?’
‘I would not have it otherwise, my darling--and I will do the same--’
‘You cannot quite--you cannot feel as I do, Greif. Perhaps, some
day--when you and I are old, Greif--then you will love me as I love you
now, but then, you see, I shall have learnt how to love you more, and
you will still be hindmost in love’s race--for women are made to love
and men to fight, in this world, and though I could fight not badly, if
need were, for you, yet I know better how to do the sweeter thing, than
you can ever know. Do you not believe me?’
‘Since you would have me--’
‘You do not--but you will, some day,’ she answered, shaking her
beautiful head a little, and tapping the door with her fingers. ‘And
now, dear,’ she added, laying her hand in his and beginning to walk up
and down the old battlement, ‘and now, shall I tell Rex, or will you?’
‘I will tell him,’ said Greif firmly.
‘Then promise me not to be angry, Greif. I could do it so well--but it
is better so. Promise me that you will say it in such a way as shall
make you feel afterwards that you have done the best--even long
afterwards; in such a way as to show him how you value his friendship.
He saved your life, by his care--’
‘And you called me back from death with your eyes--’
‘Do not think of my eyes, when you are talking to him,’ interrupted
Hilda gravely. ‘Think of all he has done for you, and of what such a
noble friendship deserves in return. Think that he is a lonely man, and
not so young as you, and that he needs a little affection very much.
Think that all I want is that we may be able to live happily together,
you and I, and he, when he cares to be with us. But do not think of
me--or if you do, think that if you and Rex were parted I should not
forgive myself. Do I not owe him your life, as you do? If you had died,
because he was not there to tend you--I cannot speak of it--but you owe
him much, for it is your life, and I more, for I owe him our two lives
together. Will you tell him that?’
‘I will try--he will not understand it all.’
‘Then, if he has not understood, if you cannot make him see it, then it
will be my turn. But you can, Greif dear, I know you can. And it is
not a small matter either, though it may seem so now. It is not a small
matter to part with such a man as that, nor is it an insignificant evil,
that I should have his dislike at the very beginning, before we are
married. You must do your best, you must do all you can, and you will
succeed--and by and by we will work together. Greif--’ she stopped
suddenly and looked at him.
‘What is it, dear?’ he asked.
‘Greif, do you think I have any other reason for wanting Rex to like me?
Do you think I am a vain woman?’
Greif stared at her a moment and then laughed aloud.
‘Why do you laugh?’ she asked, quietly. ‘Perhaps I am right. I have read
of girls who were so vain that they wanted every man they saw to like
them--and I have never seen any man--young, I mean, but you, until I saw
Rex--and so I thought--perhaps--’
She did not finish the sentence, but stood looking at him with an
expression of serious doubt upon her lovely face that made Greif laugh
again.
‘Because if that were it,’ she said gravely, ‘Rex might go, and I should
be glad of it--’
‘Hilda! How can you have such ideas!’ cried Greif at last. Her innocence
was so astounding that he could not find words to answer her at once.
‘There might be just a possibility--’
‘That you, in your heart of hearts, are not satisfied with me alone, but
want to make a conquest of Rex besides! Poor Rex! How he would laugh at
the idea--Hilda, you must not think such things!’
‘Is it wrong?’ she asked, turning her clear eyes upon him.
‘Wrong? No. It is not wrong to any one but yourself, and it is really
very wrong to believe that you could be capable of a contemptible, silly
vanity like that.’
‘You do not think I should be--what do they call it--a coquette--if you
took me into the world?’
‘You? Never!’ And Greif laughed again, as he well might.
In a woman differently brought up it would have been impossible not to
suppose that such words were spoken out of sheer affectation, but
Greif knew too well how Hilda had lived, to suspect such a thing. Her
innocence was such that she did not understand the commonest feelings of
women in the world, not even the most harmless.
‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘I do not mean to be bad, though I believe it is
very easy, and one does not always know it, when one is.’
‘I should think one would know it oneself sooner than any one else,’
answered Greif. ‘But if I find out that you are bad, Hilda, I promise to
tell you so.’
‘Seriously?’
‘I do not run any risk. What children we are, Hilda! And how pleasant
it is to be children together, on a day like this, in a year like this,
with such a creature as you, sweetheart!’
‘We cannot always be children,’ she answered. ‘Will it be very different
then, I wonder? Will there be any change, except the good change of
loving more than now?’
‘I do not see why there should be. Even if that never came, would it not
be enough, as it is?’
‘Love must grow, Greif. I feel that. A love that does not grow is
already beginning to die.’
‘Who told you so many things of love, Hilda?’
‘Who told me?’ she repeated, as the quick fire flashed in her eyes. ‘Do
I need to be told, to know? Ah, Greif, if you felt what I feel--here--’
she pressed her hand to her side, ‘you would understand that I need no
telling, nor ever shall. You are there, dear, there in the midst of my
heart, more really even than you are before my eyes.’
‘You are more eloquent than I, sweetheart,’ said Greif. ‘You leave me
nothing to say, except always to repeat what you have said.’
‘If I said little--’ She stopped and laughed.
‘It is not words only, nor the tones of them that make things true. If
I had the skill I could say better what would please you to hear, but
having none, I make your speeches my own, to be enough for both of us.’
‘Do you never feel as though you must speak, or your heart would burst?’
‘No--I wish I could, for then the words would come. I think that the
more I feel the less I am able to say.’
‘You talked very badly when you were trying to persuade me that we ought
not to marry,’ said Hilda, with a side glance at his happy face.
‘And you talked well--too well--’
‘Which of us two felt the more, I wonder?’
‘What I felt was almost too much. I came near never speaking again. I do
not know how I got home that day.’
‘And I--do you know? When you were gone, I did not shed a tear, I did
not try to run after you, though I thought of it. I went quietly into
the house and sat down and told my mother what I had said. Was it
heartless, do you think? Was it because I felt nothing? It is true, I
did not believe you were really ill, since you had the strength to go
away on foot.’
‘What was it then?’ Greif looked wonderingly into her face.
‘It was victory, and I knew it. For one moment I was frightened, and
then I saw it all. I saw you come back, as you have come to-day, to
say what you have said. I felt as though my hand were still on your
shoulder, as though you could not escape me, do what you might. I never
doubted, until that dreadful day when Wastei came over and told my
mother that you were very ill. He did not say you were dying, but he
told us that your carriage was on the way to fetch us, and that they
were sending relays of horses along the road so that we should lose no
time--and she would have left me behind. But I knew the truth. I knew
that if I could see you, you were saved; and then, when I pushed my
mother aside and went in, it seemed too late. If I could die at all,
being so strong, I should have died in that moment, when your head fell
back upon my arm and your eyes closed--and then, a minute later, they
told me you were saved, for when I knew you were still alive I knew you
would be well again--and then--and then--oh, Greif!’
The tears that pain or sorrow could not have wrung from her, broke forth
abundantly in the memory of that overwhelming joy. If Hilda had not been
Hilda, the only woman of her kind, Greif would have kissed the tears
away as they started from her eyes. But being Hilda, he could not.
It was over in a minute, but he had become a little pale and his arm
trembled under the light pressure of hers. She brushed the drops away,
and saw his altered face.
‘What is the matter, dear?’ she asked. ‘It is only happiness--they do
not hurt.’
‘Sometimes you are so beautiful that I do not dare to touch you,’ he
said softly.
She turned her golden head quickly with a bright smile, and a crystal
drop that lingered on her lashes fell upon her soft cheek. It was as
though his words had been the breath of the south wind gently shaking
the last drop of a summer shower from the petals of a perfect rose.
‘How shall I not be vain, if you say such things!’ she exclaimed.
‘How can I see you so, and not say them?’ he asked.
‘It is time to go down,’ she said. ‘We meant to go, when I began to
speak of Rex, ever so long ago.’
‘I had forgotten Rex.’
‘Do not forget him. He is a good friend.’
So at last they descended the broken stair and disappeared into the
house. When Greif was ready to go, and the carriage was before the door,
Frau von Sigmundskron led him away from Hilda.
‘Let it be done soon,’ she said, earnestly.
‘The marriage?’ asked Greif in surprise.
‘No--the name. Let it be changed as soon as the lawyers can do it.’
‘I will see to it at once,’ he answered, wondering at her haste.
She saw the look of inquiry in his eyes and paused a moment, holding his
hand in hers.
‘I have lived long without a son--give me one--and Sigmundskron has had
no lord these eighteen years.’
‘I will not lose a day,’ he said. ‘And once more--I thank you with all
my heart.’
He kissed her thin hand, and turned away to bid farewell to Hilda. A
moment later the light carriage was whirling out through the castle
gate. The two ladies watched until it was out of sight.
‘God bless you,’ said the mother solemnly, as though she were speaking
to Greif. ‘God bless you and bring you back to be a son to me--no more
Greifenstein, but Sigmundskron, you, and yours for ever, and ever! God
bless you!’
Hilda looked at her mother intently. She did not know all that the words
meant to the quiet, white-haired woman beside her. She could not know
how often in those long years Therese von Sigmundskron had wished that,
instead of a daughter, a son had been given to her, to bear the name and
wear the sword of her dead husband; she could not know of all the tears
her mother had shed in bitter self-reproach at her own ingratitude in
thinking such a thought.
‘You do not understand, child,’ she said, taking her daughter by the
hand. ‘Come with me.’
She led her to her own room. Upon a piece of black stuff on the wall,
were hung two swords, one a sabre, and one a rapier in a three-cornered
case, and above them a leathern helmet with a gilded spike. Beneath
these weapons was a heavy old carved chest. With Hilda’s help she lifted
the lid. Within were uniforms and military trappings of all sorts, and
in one corner, folded together, a roll of faded bunting. This she took
out and unwrapped, and spread it wide upon the floor.
It was torn and patched and faded, for it was the old flag that used to
wave upon the dilapidated keep of the castle. On an azure field three
golden crowns were set corner wise, two above and one below. Hilda
looked at the banner curiously, and then at her mother.
‘We must make a new one, Hilda,’ she said. ‘And Wastei must pick out
a tall, straight sapling from the forest--for Sigmundskron has a lord
again, and the old flag must float on the wind when he comes to his
home.’