Day had dawned when Rex staggered to his feet, scarcely conscious of
where he was, nor of what had happened, knowing only that he had spent
many hours in utmost agony. The sight of the familiar objects in the
room recalled the whole train of thought which had preceded the shock
he had received. Slowly and painfully he began to walk up and down as he
had done during the night. It was not possible for his strong nature to
remain for any great length of time in a state of stupor, nor was there
any danger of his being again affected as he had been at first. After a
little while he grew calm and collected, and he realised that something
must be done immediately.
He had found the key to all his vain imaginings, to all his varied
moods, to the strange disturbance of his faculties in Hilda’s presence.
He loved his brother’s wife, and he knew it. He sought for a remedy, as
though he had been assailed by the plague.
There was a medicine close by, in the drawer of his desk, which would
cure love or anything else. He knew that. It would be the affair of a
moment, the pulling of a trigger, an explosion he should scarcely hear,
and there would be no more Rex. The temptation was strong, and moreover
there was a tendency in his nature towards suicide which he knew was
inherited. It would be a fitting end to the useless life he had led, the
son of such a father and of such a mother. No one would guess why he
was dead, and it would be soon done. Then indeed there would be no trace
left of the old times before the tragedy of Greifenstein. It would
be the last page in the history, as he himself was the last survivor,
except Greif, and Greif had a right to be happy.
A right--and why? What had Greif done to deserve Hilda more than Rex? He
was younger, handsomer, and more fortunate. That was the point. Greif’s
luck had saved him, and what was life to him was death to Rex. It was
pure good fortune. There had not been a struggle or the least desire
for one. Rex himself had done everything in his power to push on the
marriage, and could blame no one for the result. Greif was happy and
Rex was broken-hearted. If Greif had refused to marry Hilda, Rex might
perhaps have won her, supplying by his own wealth the fortune which
should have been hers through Greif’s ruin.
Luck indeed! There was Greif, nameless and penniless in reality, but
unconscious of the awful misfortunes he had escaped, delivered from the
borrowed name that was stained, and invested with one more noble and
spotless than the other had ever been, lord of Sigmundskron, husband of
Hilda, father of a new race. What more could the heart of man desire?
That was what Greif appeared to be, and was, so far as he himself
was aware. And this--Rex drew from a secret place his father’s last
letter--this was the real Greif whom none knew but Rex.
He read the words carefully many times. Then he leaned back in his chair
and gazed long through the open window at the distant forest. At last he
rose and lit a candle. It might be best that he should die now, but if
so, this secret must die with him. He had only preserved the writing in
case Greif refused to marry Hilda, and now they were not only married,
but there was an heir born to them. He held the letter in the midst of
the flame, and then the envelope till both were consumed to ashes, and
the summer breeze that blew into the room wafted the black remains,
light as threads of gossamer, from the table to the floor, and away into
dark corners to crumble into dust.
No one could ever guess the secret now, thought Rex, not dreaming that
by a strange train of circumstances another letter had been stored
away beneath the same roof but yesterday in the safe keeping of honest
Berbel. Greif was safe, thought Rex, as he laid his hand upon the drawer
again, to take the other thing from its place. He, Rex, would leave
no tell-tale letters behind. It should be sharp, short, complete and
decisive. There would be some regrets for the lonely man who was gone,
and they would never dream how he had purchased their security with his
life. He laid the weapon upon the table before him.
Their security? Surely, that was but a theatrical phrase, with no
meaning, spoken to make his miserable death seem grand, or at least
worthy. Security implied danger, and what danger could his wretched life
bring to Hilda or her husband? The thought that Hilda could ever love
him was monstrous, the suggestion that he could ever speak loving words
to her he loved, since he knew who she was, stung him like a blow on the
mouth. That splendid angel could no more stoop from her superb purity,
than he, Rex, could have flung a handful of mud in her divine face--no
more than he could have entertained for one horrible instant the thought
of sullying what God had made so white. He had a bitter scorn of that
word security, so soon as it had flashed unspoken through his mind;
he cursed his own soul for the contemptible thought. And in his
self-abasement, he was heroic, unconsciously, as heroes are. He was to
die, but it was for honour’s sake, and not for any foul wrong done to
man or woman.
He could say that, with a clear conscience. From the moment when he had
felt the truth, and had known that he loved his brother’s wife, he had
been tortured almost past endurance. Not one sweet thought of Hilda had
entered his heart, there was nothing there but the stabbing pain of his
own folly, and the scaring consciousness that his folly had ended in
the most appalling of all truths. There was nothing in his mind but a
relentless hatred of himself, a stunning and sudden comprehension of
what he had allowed himself to dream. Even, if there had been no other
reason, he deserved to die, he judged himself worthy of death. It was
for honour’s sake--how could he live and face them all, knowing what he
was, even if they did not know? There must be an end, and there could be
but one end to his sufferings. He put out his hand and drew the weapon
into his grasp.
What was honour, that he should die for it? He had believed in very
little beyond himself during forty years, but he believed in honour and
had been reckoned a most honourable man among those who had known him.
He had risked his life for it many a time, but now, for its sake, he was
to take his own life without risk, deliberately, as he would have shot a
wild beast, as he would have crushed a poisonous reptile under his heel.
What was this thing? Was it a fact, a shadow, an idea, a breath, a god
or a devil? What was it, for which such deeds had been done, for which
old Greifenstein and Rieseneck had slain his mother and laid down their
lives in such stern haste? A man might well ask what he was to die for,
thought Rex. Why did it seem base in him to live, even though every
moment of his existence were to be spent in rooting out what he so
hated, in burning out what had defiled his soul; and why did it seem
noble and brave to die? To die was easy as drawing a breath, to live was
a hard and fearful thing. Yet honour said, Die and be satisfied that you
are doing right. Did honour always command what was easiest for a man to
do? Again, what was it? He had but a few moments left to live, and in a
lifetime he had served honour scrupulously. What if it were but a
myth, but a legend of fools, a destroying idol worshipped by brave and
brainless visionaries, who had more courage than intelligence, more
desire to do right than discernment to sift right from wrong? Pity that
so many daring, honest men should have been spitted on rapiers, cloven
with sabres, riddled with bullet-holes, for the sake of a vain breath,
emptier than the glass he had raised to his lips last night! And yet--he
might search, and deny, and argue, and scoff--honour remained a fact.
No, not a fact, a law. A law having rules, and conditions and penalties
and rewards all defined in the human heart, all equally beyond the range
of the human intelligence. His brain could not imagine a question in
which honour was concerned, to which his heart did not give the right
answer instantaneously, quicker than the brain itself could have solved
the problem. And what the heart told him was right, indubitably and
indisputably right. Then he was to die for something he felt but could
not understand, for the decision of some power within him, wiser and
swifter and surer than the cool head to which he had trusted so long.
To call that power the heart was nonsense, as absurd as to call it a
function of the brain. It was distinct from both, it had a being of its
own, independent, dominating, tremendous in its effects. In danger
the head said, stop; the heart said, go on. And honour, then, was the
spontaneous reasoning of this superior power, whatever it might be. But,
if it reasoned, so unfailingly and so surely about some things, why had
it nothing to say about others? Why could this faultless judge decide of
nothing save right and wrong? From habit, doubtless, because we refer no
other questions to him. No, for when we ask a question of ourselves,
or when one is asked of us by another, we do not always know beforehand
which part of ourselves will answer. Mystery of mysteries, to be solved
only by assuming that man has an immortal soul. Idle waste of time,
thought Rex, looking at the cartridge in his revolver and then slowly
setting back the hammer. An idle waste of time, to think of such
matters. Honour or no honour, heart or no heart, the mysterious power
within him bade him die. Die, then, and be done with it. He held the
weapon in his hand, ready to do the deed. One second, and all would be
over. At one end of that polished dark blue barrel was life, with all
its dishonour, with all its sufferings, with all the monstrous blackness
of evil it held, the life of an honest man who loved his brother’s
wife in spite of himself, and loathed the thought. At the other end was
death, swift, sharp, sure, the answer to all questions, the solution of
all ills, the medicine for all earthly woe. Rex laid the revolver down,
and drew back a little from the table. Was it possible that he was
killing himself merely to escape suffering, to rid himself of pain, to
desist from a contest too bitter for his endurance? If that were it,
Rex was a miserable coward, and not the honourable man he had thought
himself. With the instinct that prompts many men to do the same at such
moments, he rose from his chair and went to the mirror. He started when
he saw himself in it. It was as though the marvellous look of youth
that had clung to him so long, had fallen from his face, and left an
old man’s features behind. His skin was livid, his eyes were sunken, the
flesh was drawn and white about his nostrils and brows and temples. His
hair and beard, matted with cold sweat, hung in wild disorder about his
head and face. It was strange that the bright summer’s morning should
even seem to change their colour--or was it a defect in the glass? He
looked nearer, and he scarcely dared to believe his eyes. There were
grey hairs, whole locks of grey, in the soft brown masses. He had heard
of such quick changes but had never believed them real. He gazed in
silence at the reflexion of himself for some minutes.
‘I am an old man,’ he said softly, and turned away, forgetting what he
had come to see--whether he were a coward or not.
He went back to the table and sat down, supporting his head in his two
hands. He realised what he had suffered, and the question returned to
his agonised brain. Was he killing himself to escape torture, or out of
his love of honour? He wondered bitterly whether any pain could be worse
in the future than what he had borne during this night, and during the
hours since the dawn had broken in upon him. It seemed impossible.
Then on a sudden, the bright image of Hilda burst upon his sight as he
pressed his closed lids with the palms of his hands. Hilda was there
before him in all her splendour, he could see every line of her face,
every shade of its glorious colouring, every twist of her yellow hair.
The light streamed upon him from the whole vision, and he was looking
into the bright depths of her eyes. It was exquisite delight, and yet he
felt overwhelmed with shame that he should dare to look and love. It
was like him to fight to the utmost. With a supreme effort he opened his
eyes, and suffered himself to be dazzled by the violent daylight. The
vision was gone, but he understood what he must bear, without a sign
of pain, if he were to look upon the reality. And yet he knew his own
strength. Face to face with Hilda he could have forced his stony eyes
to dulness and his features to an indifferent calm. He could do that and
not fail. The clear memory of her he had received in that moment told
him how much he was able to resist, but showed him also what that
resistance would cost; above all it had exhibited to him in all beauty
and clearness of detail that upon which he was never to look again. The
pain had been sharp and quick, and was scarcely distinguished from the
momentary, involuntary happiness. But he could bear it, and worse. It
was not to escape it that he had determined to end his life. Nor would
he do the fatal deed if he were sure that he were impelled to it merely
in the hope of escaping a little suffering, or much. Whatever his faults
might be, he was brave still; braver now, perhaps, than he had ever
been. There had been a time when all human action, or inaction, had
seemed to him so indifferent in itself and in its consequences, that he
had almost scoffed at the idea of contrasting courage with cowardice.
But he had not then been put to the test as he was now.
It was not the fear of what he must bear that drove him from existence.
He was sure of that. He resolutely set himself to think of what life
would be in the future, if he chose it, and if he stayed where he was.
It was clear that he could live, if he pleased, and meet Hilda, and
Greif, and Hilda’s mother, and keep a calm face and a steady voice when
he was with them. If it were a question of courage, that would be the
least courageous course. It would be easier to suffer anything than to
put himself beyond the possibility of ever seeing Hilda again. He owned,
in bitter self-contempt, that this was absolutely true. The sting
of death was there, in the choice of total extinction, in the act of
leaving all that he loved, as well as in the extermination of that self
which held the power to love. But for one thought, life would still be
sweet. All the torment of an existence made dreadful by the hopelessness
of an unquenchable passion would be nothing, as compared with the hourly
joy of seeing Hilda and of hearing her voice. That would compensate for
all things, no matter how horrible, except one; but that one outweighed
the rest. The certainty that his whole life hereafter must be one long
act of treachery to Greif must overbalance everything else.
That was the point of honour he had sought to explain. He thought he had
been mistaken, and that his self-hatred and self-contempt had really but
little to do with his decision. It was neither for his own sake, nor for
Hilda’s that he must leave the world so suddenly, but for Greif’s. Greif
was his trusted friend, Greif was his cousin, Greif was his brother. To
feel what he felt for that brother’s wife was treachery, no matter
how he should hide his feelings or fight against them. The time would
assuredly come when he must hate this man, as he now loved him, and his
jealousy would take some active shape, and do Greif some real injury.
At any cost, such a catastrophe must be warded off. To leave the two in
their happiness and to go away, plunging again into the old existence
he hated, would be of no avail. Rex knew human nature well, and was wise
enough to include himself in what he knew. He was sure that, sooner or
later, his resolution to keep away from Sigmundskron would break down,
as much through the insistance of Greif and Hilda, as on account of his
own inclinations. Here, too, the humanity of the man showed itself,
as well as the weakest points in his self-knowledge and reasoning.
Rex might and could have left Sigmundskron then, and his courage would
assuredly have kept him away longer than he suspected, even long enough,
perhaps, to cool the heat of his passion and make his return both
possible and safe. Had he been called upon to decide the case for
another he would in all probability have advised such a course, for he
would then have taken into consideration the value of life as a factor
in the question. But, for his own part, he held his existence as of
little worth, and it would not have needed half of what he now suffered
to prompt him to part with it. At any time during the last ten years,
a severe shock to his feelings, or a fit of unconquerable melancholy,
would have been enough to suggest to him the advisability of making a
precipitate exit from the stage on which he found himself. Death had
long possessed attractions for him, and it was long since life had
offered him anything for the enjoyment of which he would have taken the
trouble to undergo any annoyance whatsoever. Life seemed to him such a
very trivial matter that he felt no hesitation in abandoning it, and
he only put off the doing so for a few minutes now, out of curiosity to
understand more fully the motives of his action.
It was so very simple to pull the trigger of a pistol, and so very
complicated to begin a new existence, just when he had believed that his
wanderings were over. The future was inexpressibly dismal, lonely and
painful, and death was such a natural and easy escape from it. These
reflexions were assuredly present, unknown to himself, in the midst of
the many thoughts that crowded his brain in that supreme hour, and they
must have influenced him in forming his ultimate decision, though he
did not guess that they were at work. He saw only the alternative
possibilities of an ignoble life or of an honourable death, and he chose
the more pleasant, the easier, the quicker. In the twinkling of an eye
it would be done, and here would be no more Rex. Those left behind would
think kindly of him; they would suppose he had been mad, and in due time
they would congratulate themselves that he had not lived to be a burthen
to them. Rex had not any great belief in human sympathy, nor in the
regret people felt for the dead. The fact that he could not place
credence in the existence of a future life could be traced to his
indifference about the present, and in its turn made him sceptical
concerning the beliefs of others. Protestations of friendship or
affection could mean but little to a man who had scarcely ever expressed
either, except from a desire not to seem brutal or unfeeling. It was
true that he was profoundly attached to Greif, but his instinct told him
that his attachment was only half reciprocated. He loved Hilda in a way
of his own, as men have seldom loved, but he knew that Hilda’s thoughts
of him did not go farther than a vague half-friendly, half-cousinly
regard. It was not likely that he should expect of either a passionate
grief over his end, or any exaggerated mourning for his death. The idea
that the fact of the suicide, independently of his own personality,
would add a deeper shadow to the memories of Greifenstein troubled
him very little. He had seen how Greif had forgotten the horror of the
tragedy in his love of Hilda, and since Hilda would still be at hand,
she would help him to forget this also. With the coolness of a man
of his age, he calculated the extent of Greif’s possible distress
and reckoned it insignificant. With the generosity of his exceptional
nature, he admitted that his fondness for his brother did not depend
upon any principle of reciprocity. If he had chosen, eighteen months
earlier, to remain alive instead of following the example of his unhappy
father, it had been for Greif’s sake that he had lived, though Greif
had never known it; if now, knowing the thing that was in his heart, he
chose to die, it was for Greif’s sake still.
He was glad that he was not doing such a deed merely to escape suffering
himself. The thought would have stayed his hand, preserving him to
undergo the most terrible ordeal he could imagine; whereas, in its
absence he could spare himself that, at least, without a pang, while
ridding Greif of the presence of a traitor.
The word was too strong, but Rex could not see that it was so. It
seemed to him that by all the wild indulgence of his imagination he had
fostered that growth of which he had so suddenly been made aware. He
could no longer separate the intention from the fact, and he believed
himself guilty of both alike, though he was in reality but the victim of
circumstances and the sport of a cruel destiny. Everything combined to
bring about the unavoidable result, the fatal tendency to suicide that
existed in his blood, the excessive emotion of a heart unused to feel,
the despair of an absolutely hopeless love, the horror of a self that
seemed all at once blackened by the most hideous treachery, even the
constitutional fearlessness of a man to whom the moment of death offered
no terrors; everything was present which could drive Rex over the brink,
and everything was absent which might have held him back.
He rose once more from his chair and made a few steps in the room, with
downcast eyes and folded arms. Methodical and rational to the end, he
collected his thoughts for the last time and reviewed the result of
his melancholy reflexions, forcing himself to state the facts with the
utmost plainness and conciseness, as though he were summing up the case
before the jury of his faculties, upon whom depended the final verdict.
Too wise to die in vain, too brave to die for a selfish motive, too
noble to be influenced by any fear of death itself, he was determined
that the deed should be done calmly, in the fullest consciousness of its
importance to himself and others, to the fullest satisfaction of his own
enlightened reasoning.
That his present condition was wholly intolerable, he refused to
believe, for he would not admit that there could be anything too hard
for him to endure if his own inclinations were alone considered. It was
possible that his strength might break down if he were exposed to such
an ordeal as life with Hilda and his brother during many years; but he
should certainly be aware, in such a case, of the failing of his powers,
and he would be able to keep his own secret until the end, or, if not,
to do a year hence what he meant to do now. He was far too old, and far
too wise, to take his life from romantic and scarcely defined motives,
seeking nothing but relief from a half hysteric pain, asking of death
nothing but the forgetfulness of life and love.
One watching him might have seen as much, from his face and manner.
Being about to die, he looked more like a strong man humiliated by the
shame of his own deeds than like a boy in a fit of despair. The look
of compact strength that belonged to him was not gone, and his step was
firm and even. His face was haggard, pale and drawn, but its expression
was calm and determined, full of the dignity of a man superior to all
hasty impulses, and very far removed from the influence of all base
motives. And his outward appearance represented very truly the moral
position he had taken and held with such tenacity. A wise man might have
differed from him, but could not have despised him; a religious person
would have been sorry for him, but could not have condemned his profound
determination to do what was just according to his light, in perfect
sacrifice of himself, to the atonement for an involuntary wrong; a weak
man would have envied his strength, a strong man might well have admired
his calm power of reasoning in the face of death, and a man of heart
would have felt for him.
He stood still before the table and looked out through the open window
into the bright summer air. Presently he spoke to himself in a low,
distinct voice.
‘It is best,’ he said decisively. ‘I, Horst von Rieseneck, stand here to
die, because I love my brother’s wife. I die of my own free will. I die
because I will not live and feel such a thing in my heart, because I
will not be dishonoured in my own estimation. I obey no man, I fear
no man, I am influenced by no man. It is my own decision, and I have a
right to it. It is my own life and I have a right to take it. It is
my own love and I have a right to kill it. I do not die to escape
suffering, but the inward conviction of dishonour, which no honest man
is called upon to bear. I die in the full possession of all my senses
and faculties, and if any of them were disturbed I would wait, in order
to judge more calmly. That is all I have to say, I believe.’
It was the last satisfaction Rex could give himself in the world he was
about to leave. His intelligence demanded of him that his end should
be calm, determined and yet unprejudiced, and that to the very last
he should remain open to the conviction of error should any sufficient
reason or reasons occur to him within a reasonable time. But no reason
why he should hold his hand presented itself, and he was aware that
he had reached the supreme moment. He was glad that he had not done in
haste what he was now going to do upon mature consideration, for he had
always loved to be justified in his actions. But since the result of
so much thought had only strengthened his first intention, there was no
object in delaying the end any longer.
Having made up his mind definitely, he crossed the room and unlocked the
door, reflecting that, since he was to be found dead in a few minutes,
there was no use in making a mystery of the fact nor in obliging people
to break the door. Keen, cool and practical to the end, the action was
characteristic of him. He came back to the table a last time and took
the revolver in his hand. He examined the lock, raised the weapon
steadily and planted the cold muzzle firmly against his temple. Then he
turned his eyes towards the open window and pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell with an inoffensive snap, and Rex frowned. But he
had not the slightest intention of relinquishing his purpose. With
incredible coolness, he went to a corner of the room and took a box of
perfectly fresh cartridges from the drawer where he kept his ammunition;
after carefully removing the charges from the revolver, he reloaded the
chambers, one by one, raised the hammer and resumed his position. Some
moments elapsed before he again lifted the weapon to his head. The
incident had shaken his nerves, and he was determined to die in full
consciousness and appreciation of his act.
‘I wish I could flatter myself that it is for Hilda’s sake,’ he thought.
‘But as I cannot, let this be the end.’
The castle clock began to toll the hour of noon, as he raised the
revolver a second time.