Rex’s room was situated in the upper story of the castle, at no great
distance from the staircase through which Greif and Hilda descended.
Greif knocked and opened the door almost simultaneously, not waiting for
permission to enter. Hilda stood in the corridor outside.
With a sharp exclamation Greif sprang forward. Fortunately, his presence
of mind did not forsake him, and he did not hesitate an instant. Before
Rex could pull the trigger of his revolver, Greif had grappled with him
and was trying to wrest the weapon from his grasp. It was an even match,
or very nearly so. Neither spoke a word while they both twisted and
wrenched and strained for the mastery. Greif’s superior height gave him
some advantage, but Rex was compactly built and very strong.
Very probably, if Greif had made a less sudden entry, Rex would have
laid the pistol down with all his usual calm, and would have postponed
his intention until he had got his brother out of the room. But Greif
had sprung upon him very unexpectedly, and Rex knew instantly that he
was detected in his purpose, and must either execute it now or give it
up, and resign himself to being treated like a madman, and watched by
lynx-eyed keepers day and night.
Hilda, who heard the noise of the scuffle, but had no idea that such a
contest was taking place, approached the open door, supposing from the
sound of shuffling feet that the two men were hunting some animal that
had got into the room. Just as she stood before the threshold, and
caught sight of Greif and Rex wrestling for life, Greif to take the
pistol, Rex to put it to his own head, she heard a low, angry voice
which she did not recognise. It was more like the growl of an angry wild
beast than anything else. Rex was not getting the better in the fight,
though he had not lost much. His object was to bring the muzzle of
his revolver against his own head, while Greif was doing his utmost to
prevent the movement.
‘Let me go!’ exclaimed Rex in deep, vibrating tones. ‘Let me go, man--I
love your wife, and I mean to die!’
With a violent effort he twisted his hand upwards, lowering his head as
much as he could at the same moment. As the charge exploded, the bullet
went crashing through the mirror, and the weapon was wrenched away by
other hands than Greif’s, whiter and smaller, but scarcely less strong.
Hilda had seen the danger and had joined in the struggle at the critical
moment, just in time to save Rex from a dangerous wound, if not from
actual death. She had got possession of the chief object of contention,
not without risk of being injured herself.
Rex’s efforts ceased almost immediately. Between his anger at having
been forced to relinquish his intention and his profound horror at
seeing Hilda at his side almost at the moment when he had said that he
loved her, Rex had no strength left. Only a supreme struggle, at once
moral and physical, could have forced from his lips the words he had
spoken. For a few seconds only his presence of mind failed him. Then
the superiority of his nature over ordinary mankind asserted itself. He
gently pushed Greif’s hands away, and drew back a step in the direction
of the door.
‘You know my secret now,’ he said, with a quiet dignity that was almost
beautiful to see. ‘I ask but the favour of being left alone.’
‘I will not leave you for an instant--’ Greif began, but Hilda
interrupted him and passed him quickly.
She came to Rex and laid one hand upon his shoulder, and looked into his
eyes.
‘Do you love me? Is it true?’ she asked earnestly, while Greif looked on
amazed.
‘But for your hand, I should have died with the confession on my lips,’
Rex answered. ‘I love you, yes.’
‘Then live, for my sake!’ said Hilda, holding out the hand that had
saved him.
‘For your sake?’ Rex repeated the words as though scarcely understanding
them.
‘For my sake and for his,’ Hilda answered, pointing to Greif.
‘With that sin against him in my heart? No. I will not. It would be but
a traitor’s life, a dog’s life. I will not.’
‘You shall, and you will!’ said Hilda, with that grand conviction of
power she had shown more than once during her life.
‘Only a man who has tried to die is worthy to live in such a case. Do
you know what my husband is to you?’
‘I know it better than he. I have known it long.’
‘Not better than he, or than I. We have learnt the secret today.’
‘You know!’ exclaimed Rex in great surprise. ‘Look at those ashes, there
upon the floor--they are all I have left of it--and you know! No--you
cannot, it is impossible--’
‘We know that you are brothers,’ said Hilda, taking his hand in spite of
him. ‘There is no secret any more, between us three--’
‘And you know that I love you, that I love my brother’s wife, and you
would have me live?’
‘Yes,’ said Greif, who had not spoken yet. ‘I would have you live,
through all our lives, and I would have you two love each other with all
your hearts, as I love you both.’
Rex stared at him, and then at Hilda. He raised one hand, and passed it
over his eyes.
‘I do not understand,’ he said, in a low voice.
‘It is because I understand, that I speak as I do,’ Greif answered
earnestly. ‘It is because I know that not a nobler man than you breathes
in the world. It is because there is but one Hilda in the earth, and she
is mine, as I am hers.’
‘You are not human, my brother,’ said Rex. ‘You should wish me dead.’
‘If you were any other man but Rex, I might. Being what you are, I wish
that we three may never part.’
‘Never!’ exclaimed Hilda. ‘Ah, Horst, do you not see that you are my
brother, too? Do you not feel that I am your sister--and should brothers
and sisters such as we are be made to part?’
‘I cannot tell,’ Rex answered. ‘If you would have me live, I can but
give you what life is left in me. You know me now. You know what I only
learned of myself last night, and what I would have taken to the grave,
unknown to any one, to-day. If in your eyes I am so far less base than
in my own, if you can look upon me and not loathe me, if you can think
of me and not call me traitor, why then this life is yours. And yet, I
wonder that you can, seeing that I am what I am. Would you know how it
came? You may know if you will, there is less shame to me in that than
in the rest. I loved in a dream. I made myself the father of this Hilda
in my shadowy visions; I made in my thoughts a mother for her, like
her, dead long ago, whom I had loved. I talked with a shadow, I loved
a shadow, and the unreal phantasm I loved grew to be like Hilda
herself--so like that when I saw they were the same, last night, here
upon this very spot, I knew that I must die and quickly. The shadow was
the living wife of him for whom I would give all, of my only friend, of
my only kinsman, of my only brother. And so, if you had not hindered me,
I should have been but a shadow now, myself. It had been best, perhaps.
But my life is yours, do with it what you will. It is yours in all
honour, such as it is. It was not to escape from torment that I would
have died; it was not because I feared by word or deed to break the seal
and to show you what was in me. It was to rid my brother and the world
of a wretch who had no claim to live.’
‘More right than I, or many a better man than I am,’ said Greif, laying
his hand upon his brother’s shoulder.
‘Be wise, Greif,’ answered Rex. ‘Think well of what is to come. Think
well whether you can trust me and trust yourself. For me--I care little.
A touch of the finger, a little noise, and you would be rid of me for
ever. There is a safety in death, which life cannot give.’
‘Do not talk any more of death, dear Horst,’ said Hilda. ‘It is but a
year and a few months, since two brothers and one woman, three as
we are, in the same bonds save one, all stood together as we stand,
perhaps, and by their deeds and deaths wiped away death from our lives.
Talk no more of death now--in this other home, where there are other
names than those that were dishonoured. Let this be the house of life,
as that was the house of death, the home of honest love, as that was the
home of treachery, the dwelling of peace, as that was made at last the
place of violent and desperate deeds. The hour of destiny is passed. The
days without fear begin to-day.’
It was indeed the decisive moment in the lives of all three, and there
was silence for a space after Hilda had spoken. The thoughts her words
called up passed rapidly through the minds of her hearers and produced
their effect on each. As she had truly said, there was a mysterious
resemblance between the climax and the anti-climax of their history.
As Rieseneck and Greifenstein had been half-brothers, so were Greif
and Rex; as their fathers had loved one woman, so they also both loved
Hilda; as the elder pair might have been, but for the woman who wrought
their destruction, honourable, brave and earnest men, so were their sons
in reality--the difference lay not so much between the fathers and the
sons, as between one woman and the other, between Clara Kurtz and Hilda
von Sigmundskron. Instead of ruining both brothers, as Clara had done,
Hilda had saved both from destruction, in the place of shame, she had
brought honour, in the stead of death she had given life to both. And
both looked at her during the silence and wondered inwardly at the
beauty of her strength, asking themselves how it was possible that in a
few short months this child of the forest, innocent and ignorant of the
world, should have attained to proportions that were almost divine in
their eyes, should have developed from the simple maiden to the noble
woman, from the quiet, gentle girl, to the splendidly dominating
incarnation of good, that had more than once overcome their mistaken
impulses, and made plain their way before them by the illumination of
the right, just as her golden head and gleaming eyes seemed to light
up the room in which she stood. They looked at her and wondered, both
loving her beyond all earthly things, each in his own way; the one with
the earnest, deep-rooted purpose to live and die in all honour for her
sake, silent for ever, having spoken once, doing daily homage to her
innocence and loveliness, and reverently sacrificing every day for her
the very love whereby he lived; the other, loving in her the wife, the
mother of his sons, the source of all the glorious happiness that had
come upon his early manhood in such an abundant measure, the woman who
had saved him, the woman he adored, the woman who was his, as he was
hers. Neither had known before how great and good she was, and from
this day neither would ever forget one shade of the goodness and the
greatness she had revealed to both.
A baser man than Rex would have suffered and would have foreseen
suffering throughout his coming days, in dwelling beside the woman who
could not be his. But he was made of better stuff than most men, and
his passion had received a stern and sudden check from the force of his
commanding will. It was as though Hilda had been deified before him, and
had been lifted to a sphere in which he could worship her as a higher
being and forget that she was a woman. He bowed his head in thought,
while Hilda and Greif stood before him. They saw the white streaks in
the soft hair that had been so brown and bright but yesterday, and they
glanced at each other, awestruck at the thought of what he must have
suffered.
‘His hair is white--and it is for me!’ Hilda whispered as she leaned
upon her husband’s shoulder.
Rex’s quick ear caught the words, though they were scarcely audible. He
looked up, and his stony eyes grew strangely soft and expressive.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know it--but it is not strange. I am glad it is so,
for it was in a good cause. You are right, Hilda, my sister--the hour of
destiny is passed. It has left its marks, but they are pledges that it
will not return. The new life begins to-day--give me your hands, both
of you--do mine tremble so? It is with happiness, not with pain--oh,
not with pain, do not think it! Give me a share in your lives, since you
will. I take it gladly, and you shall not regret it. You have my
word that you shall never feel one sting when you look at me, you, my
brother, you, my sister. I will be a brother to you both, a son to her
you both call mother, though, in truth, I am too old for that--but she
must be a mother to us all, in place of what none of us have ever had,
save Hilda. And I kiss your hand, dear sister--so--it is the pledge--I
take yours in mine, brother, and I know you, and you know me, and we can
look each into the other’s eyes and say I trust, and know that we trust
well. There--it is done, and we are joined, we three, for good or evil,
to stand together if there be strife still in store for us who have
striven so much, to live in brotherly love and peace, if peace is to be
ours, until the grey years come and we are laid side by side together.’
‘So be it, and may God bless us all,’ said Greif.
‘God will bless us,’ answered Hilda softly.
One more pressure of the hands and then Greif and Hilda turned and went
away. The door closed softly behind them, and Rex was alone.
He went and took up the revolver that Hilda had laid upon the table,
looked at it long, and then placed it in the drawer, and turned the key
upon it. Once more he sat down where he had sat so long, and buried his
face in his hands, and pressed them to his aching eyes.
The greater sacrifice was accomplished now, and he knew that it was
over, and that his years would be in peace, for all was clear and honest
and true as the day. He looked up at last, upwards as though searching
for something above him, straining his weary sight for a vision that was
not granted him.
‘I have lived,’ he said aloud, in a strange voice. ‘I had never lived
before, never in all this time. And if they are right, if You are there,
You, their God--then bless me too, with them, and make me like them! Is
that a prayer? Why then, I will say Amen, and be it so! It is the only
prayer I could ever pray now, to be like them, to be like them--yes,
only that, to be like them!’
And Rex meant what he said. He was incapable of seeing that he himself
had done anything more than his plain and honourable duty. He knew that
he had overcome what had seemed most base in his own eyes, but he would
have been amazed if any one had suggested that any credit was due to
him for that, since he had but obeyed the law of honour, the only law he
knew or recognised. In his own estimation he was not less contemptible
for having harboured a thought which would have been dishonourable only
if it had been base and gross, but which, being so pure and sacred, was
but the natural expression of a noble heart. But he saw in Hilda and
Greif a generosity which seemed boundless when confronted with the evil
of which he judged himself guilty, and he felt that genuine gratitude
which only a high-souled being can feel in such a case.
Perhaps, if the truth were told, Rex was himself the noblest of the
three. It is certain that he had suffered most, and he had assuredly
suffered bravely, and fought against what he hated in himself with an
earnestness and true-hearted purpose worthy of a good man. Hilda and
Greif thought so, at least, as they walked slowly away from his room.
‘We have seen a strange and wonderful sight, my beloved,’ said Greif, as
they came out together again upon the terrace. They had returned thither
instinctively in order to be alone.
‘Wonderful indeed. Ah, Greif, you were right when you said that he was a
grand man. I never thought that there were such men as that nowadays.’
‘And we were wrong to say that he was cold.’
‘You saw his hair! I was frightened when I thought of what he must have
suffered, to make it change like that! Oh, Greif, is it my fault? Have I
any fault in it? I should never rest again, if I thought so.’
‘What fault of yours can there be?’
‘Do you remember, long ago, on that day when you came to ask my mother,
here, on this very terrace--I told you to speak to him?’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘Perhaps it was vanity after all. Perhaps, if I had let him hate me, or
dislike me, or whatever it was--all this might never have happened. It
is my fault, it is, I know it is!’
‘No, darling--it is not. Things could not then have gone on as they were
going, and we both did right. You heard his story--you know how truthful
he is. He told us exactly what had happened to him, and he told us for
that very reason, in order to make it clear that he had not known it
all along, but had realised it suddenly, as he said he did. If he had
guessed before that he was in danger of loving you he would not have
stayed a day under our roof. But it came upon him all at once, and when
it came upon him it was too strong, and too great.’
‘And besides, he knew that you were his brother, from the first. That
made it worse. How wonderfully he has kept the secret through all this
time!’
‘There is nobody like him. There is only one Rex in the world,’ said
Greif in a tone of conviction.
‘And there is only one Greif in the world,’ Hilda answered.
‘Fortunately. Do you know? I feel as if Rex were really going to make it
easier for us.’
‘Easier? How?’
‘Easier to keep this thing from your mother. Hilda--it is a fearful
story! As we stood there together, when you were speaking, I felt it
all, I saw those other three, I heard their voices, I knew what they
must have felt and thought and said, on that night. It must have been
an awful scene. And here are we--two brothers, as they were--ah, the
difference is in you, darling--how can I ever thank you for being
Hilda!’
‘By loving me, sweetheart. Do not think of that in any other way.
Besides, you owe me nothing. I cannot help loving you. If I did not love
you I might hate you, though I think I should admire you, all the same.’
‘Admire me!’ exclaimed Greif, with an honest laugh.
‘You were grand to-day--you were so generous!’
‘I do not see much generosity--’
‘You are not a woman. How can you see anything! Do you think that every
man would have put out his hand to another who loved his wife and said
so? It was splendid--I was so proud of you.’
‘What else could I have done? And then, I was not jealous, I am not now,
I never shall be, of him.’
‘You are right in that, dear. That is not the sort of love that a man
need be jealous of. It is not love at all, as we think of love, strong
as it is.’
‘How much you know!’
‘I know about love--yes, a great deal, for I have thought about it, ever
since I first loved you, when I was little. Yes, I know much about
love, much more than you would think. What Rex feels, is a sort of wild
adoration, half ecstasy, half imagination, which he connects in some way
with my face and the sound of my voice. That is all. It is not like what
I feel for you, or you for me. He would not be sorry if I died. It would
make it easier for him. He would build temples to me, and kneel before
a picture of me, and be quite as happy as he is now. One sees that. And
yet it is all so real, and he suffers so fearfully, that his hair has
turned white. Poor fellow, and I am so very fond of him!’
‘What makes you think all you say, Hilda?’ asked Greif, growing
interested in her strange view of the case.
‘The whole thing. He is as fond of you as ever, and more so, just as you
are of him. Now if it were our sort of love, you two would instinctively
go and cut each other’s throats, and that would be the natural ending.
Instead of that, you love each other like brothers as you are. Do you
not see that it must be a different kind of love from ours?’
‘Yes. You are right. But it is not less real.’
‘Less real? No! It seems more real to him than ours could ever seem, if
he were capable of it. That is the reason why he is so grand, and true
and noble--being placed as he is. If he loved me as you have always
loved me, I should hate him, even if I pitied him; I should want him to
go away, so that I might never see him again, nor hear of him. I should
be miserable so long as he were under the roof. And instead of that--I
feel that he is a dear brother and a true friend.’
‘So do I.’
‘And he will be all we expect of him. You and I must try to make his
life happy, Greif. He is a very lonely man. He is much older than we
are--just think! He is nearly as old as my mother. But he looked old
to-day. Poor Rex! I would do anything to make him happy.’
‘You have made him happy already.’
‘How?’
‘You have made him forgive himself, and you have made him feel that he
is one of us, more than ever before. Only a woman could have done that,
Hilda--perhaps no woman but you.’
‘Do you think I did that? I should be very glad--’
‘I am sure of it. He never yields unless he is convinced. He is a man
of iron and steel. If he had still believed that he was to blame for all
this, no earthly power would have made him consent to live. And now, he
will live, and he will be happy. He owes his life to you, darling.’
‘As I owe yours to him.’
‘As I owe mine to you both. Surely, no three were ever so bound together
as we are. It is strange and wonderful.’
‘But the bond is closest here, my beloved!’ exclaimed Hilda, as her arms
went round him.
‘Ay, closest and best!’ answered Greif, as their lips met.
During that long and eventful morning Frau von Sigmundskron had been
alone. Of all the four she only knew no sadness. When she went from time
to time and gazed upon her little grandson, she felt as though her
heart would burst with gladness. There, in his small cradle, lay the
realisation of a hope she had thought vain for nearly twenty years.
There lay a little Sigmundskron, a sturdy little baby with white hair
and bright eyes and rosy mouth, his tiny hands clenched stubbornly in
the first effort to feel his own mimic strength, fair as a Gothic child
should be, without blemish, perfect and noble in every point. There he
was, and his name was Sigmundskron as well as Sigmund, and the day would
come when he should be tall and strong. In his veins there stirred
that good blood that had never known fear or dishonour, untainted
still through nigh a thousand years. Not only had he the name, as Greif
had--that little child had the blood also, and he would surely have the
loyal heart and the strong hand. And he should have brothers, too. Never
again should the fate of the ancient race hang by the single silken
strand that had borne its burden so bravely. And that little child was
to have not only the name and the lion’s soul, and the bare walls of
Sigmundskron. He was to have broad lands and princely wealth. He was to
have the power, as well as the will, the worldly greatness befitting the
son of such a high and lordly line.
It seemed too good to believe, too good to think, too good to see. Day
after day from his birth the white-haired lady came and looked at him
and never tired of the wonderful truth. All had been wonderful of late,
but the rosy little Sigmund was the best of all her wonders. She had
grown to care for little else. She loved them all with a great love
passing words, but she loved them best for what they had given her, for
what lay in the cradle in the great cool nursery.
The tears would come, and she let them flow on unheeded, day by day. But
they were not the old tears of long ago, that had left cruel stains upon
her cheeks and aching fires in her brain. Their soothing streams came
from the fountain of a new life and washed away the pain of the grey
years in their healing flood. Instead of the pale dye of grief, they
left behind them soft, faint hues as of returning day; instead of
fierce, smarting heat, they brought the clear light of other years to
the eyes that had seen such horror of death, such misery of want, and
that now gazed tranquilly on such sights of unspeakable joy.
To-day, she spent long hours alone beside what she loved best in the
world. The christening had given a new impulse to all she felt, and it
seemed to her that the child was more her own than ever. A long time she
stood with folded hands before the tiny bed, thinking, thinking always
of the great deeds that little boy should one day dare and do, for God
and king and country. Many times she stooped and kissed his dazzling
face, that seemed to glow with light from within, and each time her
cheeks were wet, as the sudden and almost unbearable thrill of certain
happiness leaped through her heart. Then all at once she smiled, then
turned and went out softly and entered her own room.
The glory of the summer’s day streamed in through the lofty window,
shedding a blaze of light upon all within, upon the smooth matting that
had replaced the patched old carpet, upon the old chest that held so
many of her dearest treasures, upon the broad expanse of black velvet
whereon were hung the most precious things she owned, two swords in
their scabbards and a leathern helmet with a gilded spike.
She went up to the place and stood a moment, looking at the three
objects. Then she took down the sabre and held it in her two hands,
lovingly, as she would have held the child she adored. Her white hand
grasped the hilt, and the burnished blade leaped from its sheath like a
meteor into the blazing sunshine.
There was not a tarnished spot upon the good steel, not a speck of dust
upon its gleaming length, not a shadow along the bright bevel. But she
was not satisfied. With endless care she polished the shining surface
again and again, with leather and silk, as she had done every day since
she had brought it back nearly twenty years ago. She sheathed it then
in its scabbard, and rubbed that, and last of all the hilt. Then she was
satisfied.
Once more she paused and gazed at the spot where it had hung so long, as
though asking herself whether she could part with it. But her hesitation
was short, and the bright smile came again to her face as she went back
to her grandson’s cradle. With her own hands she drove two nails into
the tapestried wall above his head. As the clock struck twelve, she
fastened the burnished weapon securely in its new place.
‘It is the sword of his fathers,’ she said softly. ‘God give him
strength and grace to draw it in good cause!’