Rex had not been wrong when he predicted that Hilda and Greif would be
married in the summer. It had certainly been the intention of the latter
to allow the whole year to pass after the winter’s tragedy, before
tasting the happiness that was before him, but even if his own courage
had been equal to the trial of waiting, other circumstances would have
determined him to hasten the day. Perhaps the most impatient of all was
Frau von Sigmundskron herself, and indeed the oldest are often those
most anxious to precipitate events, as though they feared lest death
should overtake them before everything is accomplished. The good
baroness was by no means old, but she was in haste to see the fulfilment
of her hopes. Hilda, who was already supremely happy, would have waited,
if Greif had desired it, and she at first approved of his intention to
let the proper time of mourning elapse. But Greif yielded without much
opposition to the wishes of Frau von Sigmundskron, who, strange to say,
was seconded by Rex.
‘It seems very wrong to do it,’ said Greif to the latter, as they
sat one evening together in the arbour of the garden, listening with
pleasure to the sound of the cool torrent tumbling along far below. It
was late in July.
‘There is nothing wrong in that which makes all happy,’ answered Rex,
taking his cigar from his mouth.
‘But there is a decency which is apart from right and wrong,’ objected
Greif, for the hundredth time.
‘Then keep it apart. Besides, decency can be divided under two kinds.
The one does not concern us, for it is purely esthetic. As for the other
sort, it means that tactful respect for tolerably sensible traditions,
by which society expresses its wish to continue to exist in social
bonds. It is founded on the necessity which exists, where many live
together, of not hurting the feelings of our neighbours. If you can show
me that you are offending any one’s sensibilities by getting married now
instead of five or six months hence, I will give up the contest and go
to bed, for it is late. If you cannot, and if you persist, I am ready to
argue with you all night.’
And so Greif suffered himself to be persuaded, and the wedding day was
fixed in the end of August, and everything was got ready.
Long before this, Rex and Greif had done all that there was to be done
in regard to the succession, and had sorted and arranged such papers as
had to be examined. But though Greif had willingly left the bulk of the
work to his cousin, and though the latter had searched everything far
more thoroughly than Greif guessed, not a scrap of writing had been
discovered which could be taken for a message from the dead man to his
son. Rex wondered what had become of the letter, until at last he began
to suspect that it had never been written. At first this appeared to be
a wild and inexplicable supposition, but the more he thought of it, the
more certain it grew, in his opinion, that Greifenstein had died without
leaving a word of farewell to Greif. The letter Rex himself had received
afforded a key to the situation. Old Greifenstein’s character had been
stern, resolute, moral, unbending. Rex felt certain that if he had
written to Greif at all, the letter would have contained a solemn
injunction, commanding him to take the consequences of his mother’s
crimes, to give over the whole fortune and estate to the Sigmundskrons,
as lawful heirs thereto, and, after confessing frankly that he was
nameless and penniless, to bear his poverty and shame like a brave man,
because they were inevitable in the course of divine justice. He would
probably have recommended him to enlist as a private soldier, and
trust to his education and to his own strength of determination for
advancement.
The stiff-necked old gentleman would in all human probability have
expressed himself in this manner, and Rex knew Greif well enough to know
the son would have fulfilled the father’s injunctions and carried out
his orders to the letter, no matter at what cost.
On the other hand it was possible that the grim nobleman might have
relented at the last minute. He might even have torn up the letter after
writing it, and burned the shreds in the library fire. If he did not
write at all, it was clear that matters were likely to remain in their
existing condition so far as Greif was concerned. He could not foresee
that the circumstances of his death would make Greif go to such lengths
as to break off the marriage. He would have guessed with a show of
probability that Frau von Sigmundskron would not refuse Greif and his
fortune for her daughter, on account of the evil associations created
in the name of Greifenstein by the triple tragedy. He would have said
to himself that he was not obliged to speak, since the money, the
only thing which could be contested would, after all, go to the
Sigmundskrons; and in that case he would have considered it justifiable
to take his secret with him to the grave.
There was only one objection to this attractive theory, and that lay in
the letter Rex himself had received. If Greifenstein had determined that
his own son was never to have any key to the mystery, he would never
have allowed his brother to write down the details for Rex, even with an
injunction to secrecy. And he had been a man capable, especially at
such a time, of enforcing his will upon Rieseneck. Unfortunately it was
impossible to know which of the two men had died first, and here a
third possibility presented itself which Rex could not afford to ignore,
though it contained a considerable element of improbability. It was
conceivable that Greifenstein should have been the first to die. In
that case Rieseneck, who must have felt that he had ruined Greif by his
revelations, might have burned his brother’s letter, before pulling the
trigger. It would have seemed more natural in that case that he should
have also destroyed his own, but it might be that he had warned Rex for
a good reason. Without such a warning, and if he had been a less devoted
friend of Greif’s, Rex might perhaps have instituted inquiries into his
father’s death which would have caused trouble, and which might even, by
some wholly unforeseen accident, have revealed the whole truth to Greif
himself. No one could tell what witnesses were still alive to swear
to the identity of her who had been the wife of both. There must
necessarily have been foul play in procuring the false papers upon which
she had contracted her second marriage, and she assuredly could not have
forged them alone. It was highly probable that some former associate of
hers in the revolutionary times had remained unnoticed in a government
office after the troubles were over, and had helped her to free herself
from Rieseneck, who had been the instrument of the revolutionary powers,
by procuring for her a set of false papers accurate enough to defy
detection. Such things might well have happened at such an unquiet
season. It would have sufficed that such a person should communicate
what he knew, cleverly shielding himself at the same time, in order to
reveal the whole story; and if no one had been warned of the danger,
while Rex himself was using all the power of the law to account for his
father’s death, the result might have been fatal to Greif.
Nevertheless, Rex clung to the theory that Greifenstein had never
written at all, and he met such difficulties as the theory presented, by
supposing that he had not been aware that Rieseneck was writing to Rex.
In any case, nothing had been found after the most exhaustive search,
and Rex was beginning to believe, willingly enough, that nothing would
ever be discovered. To avoid all risks, however, he did his utmost to
hasten the marriage, feeling that after that event there would be less
to fear from a disclosure of the truth.
Meanwhile Greif had obeyed the wishes of Frau von Sigmundskron and had
taken immediate steps to change his name. In Germany the matter is an
easy one, as it is managed chiefly through the Heralds’ Office. Nothing
is required beyond the formal and legal consent of all persons bearing
the name which the petitioner desires to assume. When this is given, the
necessary formalities are easily fulfilled, and a patent is placed in
the hands of the person who has applied. After that, it is no longer
in the power of the family who have given their consent to withdraw the
name, under any circumstances whatsoever. In Greif’s case, everything
was done very easily. The Heralds’ Office was well aware that the male
line of the Sigmundskrons was extinct, and that the family was only
represented by Hilda and her mother, the necessary documents were
forwarded, signed and attested by the two ladies in the presence of the
proper persons, and returned. A month later Greif received his patent,
sealed and signed by the sovereign, setting forth that he, Greif von
Greifenstein, only son of Hugo, deceased, was authorised and entitled
to be called henceforth Greif von Greifenstein and Sigmundskron, that
he was at liberty to use either or both names and to bear arms, three
crowns proper, or, in field azure, either quartered with those of
Greifenstein or separately, as good should seem in his own eyes.
And at mid-day on a certain day in June, the wood-cutters in the forest
had looked towards the towers of Sigmundskron as they sat in the shade
to eat their noon-tide meal, and they had seen a great standard rising
slowly to the peak of a lofty staff, and catching the breeze and
floating out bravely, displaying three golden crowns upon its azure
breadth.
‘What is it?’ asked one, a young fellow of twenty years.
‘It is the flag of the Sigmundskrons,’ answered a grey-haired,
beetle-browed man, pausing with a mouthful of cheese stuck on the end of
his murderous knife. ‘I have not seen that these twenty years, since
the poor baron was killed in the war. There must be a new lord in
Sigmundskron. We will ask to-night in the village.’
And as they talked, the banner, hoisted by Wastei’s wiry arms, reached
the very top of the staff, and remained there, waving majestically,
where many a one like it had waved during eight hundred years and more.
At that moment Greif, in his carriage, was coming up the last ascent.
He saw the lordly standard, changed colour a little and then rose in
the light vehicle and uncovered his head. He felt as though all the dead
Sigmundskrons who lay side by side in the castle chapel had risen from
their tombs to greet the new possessor of their name. He could not do
less than rise himself, and salute their flag, though it was now to be
his own. His young heart, full of knightly traditions and aspirations,
felt something which a man of a younger race could not feel. It
represented much to him, which is lost in the glare of modern life. It
was easy for him to fancy the old Sigmundskrons in their gleaming mail,
high on their armoured horses, riding out in a close squadron from their
castle gate with their standard in their midst, some to die in defending
it, and some of them to bear home its tattered glories in victory. It
was an easy matter for him to identify himself with them and to feel
that henceforth he also had a part in their history. And there was more,
too, in the sight of the gleaming colours and dancing waves of the tall
banner. It was to him the signal of a new life’s starting-point,
the emblem of a new name. Yesterday he had been burdened with the
remembrance of blood shed in evil wise, to-day he began his existence
with a fair scroll before him on which no shameful thing was written. As
he stood bareheaded in his carriage, he was as it were saluting this
new life before him, as well as doing homage to the memory of the dead
Sigmundskrons.
So Greif was no longer Greifenstein now, and he informed the few persons
whom he wished should know the fact. And the time passed quickly on to
the wedding-day. In the meanwhile, between April and August, Rex and
Hilda met more often than before, and to all appearances they met on the
best of terms, to the no small satisfaction of Greif himself.
‘Rex,’ he had said one day, ‘Hilda is to be my wife, and it is necessary
that you should like her. You cannot have any good reason to the
contrary, and yet you act as though she were positively repulsive to
you.’
Thereupon Rex’s stony eyes had expressed something as nearly like
astonishment as they were capable of showing, for he was surprised at
being found out, almost for the first time in his life, and he perceived
that Greif had not found him out alone.
‘I am sorry that she should think me capable of disliking her,’ Rex
answered. ‘My position, indeed, is so different from what you both
suppose it to be, that I would make any sacrifice rather than see this
marriage broken off.’
Greif looked at him a moment, not quite understanding, for it was
impossible that he should appreciate all that Rex meant by the words. He
was pleased, nevertheless.
‘I wish you would go and tell that to Hilda,’ he said in answer.
‘I will,’ said Rex, and he did so on the first occasion that offered.
He and Greif went over to Sigmundskron together. Indeed, Rex went for
the express purpose of making his speech to Hilda, and Greif occupied
the attention of the baroness for a while in order that the two might
talk undisturbed.
‘So you have come at last,’ said Hilda. ‘It is long since we have seen
you.’
‘Yes, and I have come for an especial purpose,’ answered Rex. ‘It
appears that, in the inscrutable ways of fate, I have passed for an
ill-mannered barbarian in your eyes, and so I have come to show myself
and to tell you what I think on certain points.’
‘You talk very mysteriously,’ said Hilda.
‘The prologue of a tale should always be mysterious. It is only the
epilogue that must needs be clear. The story may be between the two. The
matter of all three is very simple, because it concerns you and me. To
be plain, Fraulein, I have come to justify myself in your eyes, to make
an apology, a declaration and a treaty, all at once.’
‘A treaty, at least, must have two sides,’ observed Hilda, for she knew
now what he was going to say.
‘So does an apology,’ answered Rex with a laugh. ‘To be brief, I
apologise to you for having ever so acted as to make you imagine that I
was ill disposed towards you; I hereby declare that, far from being an
enemy of yours, I would make any personal sacrifice rather than see your
marriage hindered; and I propose that we agree henceforth not to imagine
any more such things.’
Hilda was satisfied, for she saw that Greif had put the matter plainly.
She hesitated a moment.
‘What is your first name, Herr Rex?’ she asked.
‘Horst,’ he answered, in some surprise.
‘Very well. I agree to all you say. We will be good friends, and you
shall be Cousin Horst to me, and I will be Cousin Hilda to you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rex.
He wondered why he had ever disliked her, and he even asked himself
whether the antipathy he had felt had been real or imaginary. From that
time, however, his manner changed and Greif had no further cause of
complaint.
The weeks sped on quickly, and the wedding-day came at last. Everything
was done very quietly indeed, as was natural and right, considering that
the year of mourning had not yet expired. Only when all was over, Greif
made a great feast for all the men of the Greifenstein estates, and
another in the court of Sigmundskron for the people of the tiny village.
And it was to Sigmundskron that Hilda and Greif went first, while Rex
and the baroness remained together at Greifenstein. There was as yet no
outward change in Hilda’s home, though a few rooms had been furnished
for the newly-married pair. But the old sitting-room was left as it was
for the present, and there Greif and Hilda dined together on the first
evening, while the peasants were feasting beneath the window, in the
August moonlight.
Many a long year had passed in melancholy silence since such
merriment had been heard within those grey walls, and the people felt
instinctively that a new era had begun for them, that there would be
life in the old place again, and that the young lord would build up
Sigmundskron to be what it had been before. Though not a foot of land
remained to the name outside the ramparts, the feudal tradition had not
disappeared. Old men were alive whose fathers had told them of the good
old Sigmundskrons, how they had been brave in war and kind in peace,
and generous till all was gone, and the voices of these drowned the
ill-natured remarks of the few who said that the baroness was a miser
and had hoarded her gold these twenty years in the deep vault under the
haunted north-west tower, upon the brink of the precipice. Moreover, as
is the nature of peasants, the sight of the feast warmed their hearts
towards those who gave it, even before the great joints of meat were
cut, or the first cask of beer broached. They had never seen such
a banquet before. The long tables went all the way round the great
courtyard, and not only had each table a fair white cloth, but there was
also a fork at every place, and a stone drinking-jug. And in the midst
of the open space stood a row of jolly-looking barrels and casks, there
was beer and wine, white Schlossberger and red Affenthaler, but the
national cherry spirits were conspicuous by their absence, for Greif
knew the fierce Black Foresters well. Their iron heads could stand
unlimited draughts of any drink except alcohol, as the event proved,
for though they drank deep, and were merry to their heart’s content they
filed through the gate soberly enough before the clock struck midnight.
But before that there was speech-making, and singing, and dancing of
reels under the moonlight that mingled softly with the rays of countless
paper lanterns. The latter were marvellous in the eyes of the foresters,
though some of those who had served in the army said they had seen the
like in Stuttgardt, on the King’s birthday, when the Thiergarten was
illuminated.
Meanwhile Greif and Hilda sat together by the open window high above
the court and looked down upon the merry-making peasants, or talked
together. All at once a tremendous voice thundered up from below,
imposing silence on the assembly. It was so loud and deep and sonorous
that Greif turned his head quickly to see if possible, by the uncertain
light, the individual who was capable of making such an enormous noise.
‘It is the mayor of Sigmundsdorf,’ said Hilda, laughing. ‘He has the
loudest voice in the world. The people say that when he shouts at
Berneck, the fishermen can hear him at Haigerloch in Hohenzollern.’
‘I should think they might,’ answered Greif.
‘And now, gentlemen,’ roared the mayor from below, as he addressed the
rustics, ‘it is our duty to thank the good givers, and to drink to their
never-to-be-clouded conjugal happiness. From where I stand, gentlemen, I
can see the golden moonlight shining upon the silvery hair--’
The mayor interrupted himself with a ponderous cough.
‘The silvery moonlight shines upon the golden hair of the high and
well-born Fraulein Hilda--I would say, of the high and well-born Frau
von Sigmundskron, junior--’
Greif, listening above, drew in his head to suppress a convulsion of
laughter, but the crowd applauded the figure of speech, and the mayor
bellowed on.
‘--and also upon that of her high and well-born consort and husband, the
lord of Sigmundskron.’
The name burst from his lips like a clap of thunder, and Greif grew
grave, for it meant something to him.
‘And though I could say much more,’ continued the mayor, ‘I will not,
for silence is gold, as the burgomaster of Kalw says. And so, gentlemen,
we wish them happiness, a hundred years of life, and a son as handsome
as themselves for every tower there is on Sigmundskron. Sigmundskron
hoch!’
The mayor had seemed to be exerting his full powers during the whole
speech, but an unparalleled experience in making noise had taught him
the art of reserving a final explosion in the depths of his huge chest,
which he knew could never fail to thrill his audience with wonder and
delight. His last cheer broke out like the salute of a broadside of
cannon, striking the old walls like a battering-ram, till the panes
rattled, echoing up to tower and turret, and then reverberating and
rolling away among the distant trees, as though it were in haste to
fulfil its mission and tell the whole wide forest that Sigmundskron had
a lord again, and that Hilda was married to her true love at last.
‘Sigmundskron hoch!’ yelled the peasants in a wild attempt to rival
their leader, which not even their numbers could help them to do.
Then Greif took a tall glass from the table and gave it to Hilda, and
took another for himself, and the two stood up in the opening of the
Gothic window, the moonlight falling upon their happy faces and upon the
slender goblets in their hands. Another shout went up from below, and
then all was still.
‘It is we who have to thank you,’ said Greif, in clear, ringing tones.
‘It is we who come to ask your help to make Sigmundskron what it was in
the old days. May you all live to sup with us each year as to-night, for
another fifty years! We thank you for your good wishes, and we drink
to you all--to our good friend the mayor of Sigmundsdorf and to all the
rest. Hoch, Sigmundsdorf! Hoch, the brave foresters! Hoch, the Black
Forest we all love! Hoch, the dear Swabian land!’
Hilda’s silver voice rang high in the last cheer, and then the two
touched their glasses with their lips, while all the people shouted with
joy below and the mayor’s earth-shaking roars of delight made the great
owls in the tower shrink into their holes and blink with wonder.
It was a glorious night, and for many a year the people of Sigmundsdorf
will remember the look that was on those two beautiful young faces that
looked down upon them from the high, arched window, and all agreed that
the mayor of Sigmundsdorf had never made such a noble speech as on that
occasion, or shown the superiority of his voice over all other voices
with such brilliant success.
So Hilda and Greif were married, and none but Rex knew what a mortal
danger had hung over their happiness until that day. When all was done
and ended, Rex drew a long breath and sat down alone to think over the
peril from which Greif had escaped. By this time he was fully persuaded
that the latter would never be disturbed by the discovery of a letter
left by his father, and he had entirely adopted the theory that no
such letter had ever existed. It was a comforting belief, and seemed
reasonable enough, so that he classified it amongst his convictions and
tormented himself no more.
He could not help reflecting, however, upon the complications that might
arise if such a document should after all find its way into Greif’s
hands, and as he thought over the various turns affairs might take
he trembled at the responsibility he had assumed. There were delicate
points of law involved, concerning which he himself was uncertain.
In the first place, as Greifenstein, Greif was not married at all. His
birth was illegitimate, and if he had been married under the name
he supposed to be his, the union was not valid. For the law only
acknowledges such marriages as take place under the true and lawful
names of both parties. If one or the other, though wholly innocent and
ignorant of any mistake, turns out to have been married under a wrong
appellation, the office is void and of no effect. The question was,
whether Greif, as Sigmundskron, was legally Hilda’s husband. Rex was
inclined to believe that he was. The Heralds’ Office might withdraw from
him the name and arms of Greifenstein, but Rex did not believe that
they could interdict Greif from using those of Sigmundskron, since the
Sigmundskrons had themselves conferred them upon him, in his own
person, whatever he was before. In that case Greif was really and truly
Sigmundskron, and he was not really anything else, except a nameless
orphan. And, if so, the marriage was valid after all. It was a fortunate
coincidence which had given a name to a man who really had none at all.
Of course, if no one but Rex were ever to know the secret, there was
no danger in store for the young couple. But if any untoward accident
should reveal it, or if any other individual were already in possession
of it, their case might be bad indeed. Rex could not think of it
without experiencing a very unpleasant sensation. He remembered how old
Greifenstein had lived during five and twenty years in ignorance of his
own shame, and how it had found him out at last. It would be horrible
indeed if such a catastrophe should fall upon Greif and Hilda. But it
would be better, in the extreme case, that Greif should learn the truth
first. If Frau von Sigmundskron should be the first to find it out, it
was impossible to foretell what might happen. She would find it hard to
believe that Greif had not known it when he married her daughter; she
would remember how he had done his best to refuse Hilda, and she would
ascribe that to his knowledge that he was illegitimate; his change of
name would look like a piece of deliberate scheming to supply himself
with what he most lacked, a name. She would misunderstand all his
actions and misconstrue all his intentions; he would appear to her in
the light of a clever actor who had made the emotions he really felt
serve the greater ends he had so carefully concealed. Rex thought of her
behaviour with regard to the name, and he understood the immense value
she put upon it; he saw how she had persuaded herself that in Greif
her husband’s race was to be revived again, and he could guess what she
would feel when she discovered that she had conferred what she held most
holy on earth, not upon an unfortunate nobleman, but upon a murderer’s
bastard, who had cleverly robbed her of what she could no longer take
back.
Rex thought of the strange fatality which pursued himself and his
brother. He himself had been the chief cause of the present situation,
both by his silence concerning the secret and by his constant efforts to
promote the marriage. If he had possessed old Greifenstein’s character,
he would have acted very differently. He would have told Greif the
truth brutally in order to prevent even the distant possibility of such
mischief as might now arise. And yet Rex’s conscience did not reproach
him. He asked himself whether he could possibly have dealt such a blow
upon any human being, especially upon one who had suffered, like Greif,
almost all that a man can suffer and live. He wondered whether he were
amenable to the law for his silence, though he really cared very little
about the legality or illegality of his actions in the present case.
He felt that both he and his brother were men beyond the pale of common
laws, pursued by an evil destiny that did not quite leave them even in
their happiness. He went back to his own father’s story from its first
beginning, and beyond that to the untimely death of the father of old
Greifenstein, which had led to the second marriage of the latter’s
mother, and so to the birth of Rieseneck with all his woes and miserable
deeds; then to the early quarrels of the two half-brothers, to their
separation, to the singular state of things in which Greifenstein hardly
knew of his brother’s marriage and never saw the face of his brother’s
wife; then onward to Rieseneck’s surrender of the arsenal guard, to his
imprisonment, escape and exile, followed by his wife’s unlawful marriage
to the brother of her living husband, then to the evil fatality which
had sent a child in this false union to inherit so much shame and
horror, to be saved from it, so far at least, by his unknown brother,
appearing as his cousin, Rex, the traitor’s son. In such a train of
destiny, what might not be yet in store for Horst von Rieseneck and
for his brother Greif von Sigmundskron? Rex almost smiled as he gave to
each, in his imagination, the only name that was lawfully his--he smiled
at the ingenuity of fate in finding so much mischief to do.