Greifenstein Part 29

For he did mourn for her sincerely, in spite of his earlier indifference. He was yet too near the catastrophe to attempt to explain it, but in the confusion of his grief her words came vividly to his mind. He recalled the expression of her face when she had implored him not to forsake her, whatever happened, and he knew that in some way she must, even then, have had a forewarning of her end. He remembered many strange incongruities in her manner, which he had once disliked intensely, but which now pointed to the existence of a secret in her quiet life, and which, having seemed contemptible when she had been alive, took a tragic importance now that she was gone. He recalled very clearly that morning when he had felt a thrill of pitying tenderness for the lonely woman, and when she had responded so suddenly and pa.s.sionately to his simple words. He had never loved her, and had perhaps had little cause for any affection, but the suddenness and the horror of her death strengthened in him every kind memory, and overshadowed by its dark presence whatever in her life had lacked dignity and worth.

As for his father, he had felt for him a pa.s.sionate devotion of which he dared not think now. And yet he had been able to talk with Rex, if not freely, at least with a complete command of his faculties. He would have reproached himself with heartlessness, but when his thoughts dwelt upon those he had lost, he knew that the self-accusation was unmerited. Not comprehending what pa.s.sed in his own mind, and finding himself face to face with a problem that seemed to involve his own life or death, it is not altogether surprising that he should have persisted in undergoing a self-imposed suffering which he almost unconsciously regarded as a test of heroism.

But as he did his best to fortify himself in his intention another power stood before him, not a gloomy presence of evil, not a sorrowful but relentless fate, not a thing in itself terrible, grand or heroic, and yet stronger and more real than any of those other shadows which surrounded his life. He had not known that it was with him in such a shape, he had not realised what it would be to face that which has conquered all men sooner or later. The love of Hilda, which had softened all his youth, but which in its unopposed calm had seemed so gentle and tender that by an effort of his strong will he might put it off if he would, the quiet spirit of calm which had been with him so long, purifying his thoughts, simplifying his hopes for the future, encouraging him ever in each present day, the love of untarnished youth for spotless maidenhood rose up like the dawn upon a traveller in a strange land, shedding its universal light upon the secret places of his soul. It was a wonderful revelation of beauty appearing in the midst of his sorrow, contrasting the magnificence of its splendour with the darkness in which he would have hidden himself. He groaned as he lay alone in his solitary chamber, and the pa.s.sionate tears burst from his eyes. He had met at last that which must vanquish all his resolutions, and turn all his desperate efforts into vanity. That sudden flash of radiance in the midst of his grief was but a dark shadow compared with the light of Hilda's face. If the mere thought of her made all resistance seem impossible, would he be able to go to her to-morrow and tell her that they must part? But it was not a mere thought, as he called it. He had thought of her for years, but never in this way; she had dwelt in his heart a long time but he had never felt anything like this. It was true that he had never resisted her presence before.

Could that be the reason? Could it be that love was a companion for the weakest of mankind, if kindly entertained, and yet, if resisted, the master of the very strongest? Greif in his pride of youth believed himself as strong as any, and the sensation of being thus utterly overpowered was crus.h.i.+ng and humiliating. He would not yield, but he well knew that he was conquered beforehand, and must be led away captive in the end.

He sat up and tried to reason with himself. It was but an illusion after all, and it was just such an illusion as should strengthen his purpose.

If Hilda were indeed, as she doubtless was, this exquisitely lovely creature, could anything be more contemptible than to give her a name which must be a reproach, a position in which her beautiful life must be made half shameful by the memory of hideous crimes?

Momentarily satisfied with himself, he once more laid his head upon the pillow, but he had hardly closed his eyes when Rex's suggestion flashed through his brain, and Hilda's clear voice seemed to cry 'Sigmundskron!'

in his ears. The thought of bearing another name, of being no longer Greifenstein, of being the father of a new race in a new home, presented itself to him in all its attractions. After all, said Rex to his conscience, you are wholly innocent, and it is only the sound of the name to which you object or which you fear for her. Take hers and be happy under it, since you would be miserable under your own. After all, one is as good as another, and it would be better to be plain Herr Rex than to throw over the joy of a lifetime for the sake of three syllables that have a disagreeable ring. Names are nonsense and a man's reputation is his own, not to be made or marred by his father's evil deeds. The Sigmundskrons know all, and it is for them to judge, not for you. If they will make you one of them, what right have you to make them unhappy for the sake of your own prejudices?

Greif was very young to cope with such difficulties, when even love itself was against him. Though Rex said little, that little was eloquent and full of practical sense, like many of Rex's sayings. Greif shed bitter tears and ground his teeth and wrung his hands.

'Hilda! Hilda!' he cried aloud in his solitude, 'what would you have me do, if you knew all, if you knew me, if you knew my heart!'

When a man appeals against his love to the woman who loves him, his resolutions are at their last gasp for existence. Hilda answered his heart before the spoken words were out of his mouth.

'Love me, dear--that is all I ask!' It was as though her voice mingling with his own sounded aloud in the lonely room, and Greif started up, his eyes wide open, his breath caught upon his lips.

It was the merest illusion, but its vividness showed him the power of what produced it. He was struggling bravely for an idea, trying to do what seemed knightly, and n.o.ble, and high, and vanquished though he was, he would fight to the very end.

The cold, bright morning rose over the sombre trees and suddenly entered his chamber like the broad reflexion of polished steel, a chilly glare of snow and cloudless sky seen through a window high above the earth in midwinter. Greif awoke from the broken slumber that had come to him at last, and looked anxiously about him. Somehow the sweet vision that had so much disturbed him, when he could see nothing real but the glow of the dying embers on the hearth, was dissipated and gone under the cruelty of the icy daylight. With a heavy heart he rose and looked out upon the forest. From the place where he stood he could see the tall trees that surrounded the burial-ground of his race, and his eyes grew dark and gloomy as he thought of those who lay there. He was sadder and stronger than he had been a few hours ago. He would sit beside the baroness during the long drive to Sigmundskron, and what she might say would make no impression upon him, no more than the ringing of the horses' bells made upon the frozen snow. He would meet Hilda in the well-remembered sitting-room, and Hilda's mother would leave them alone.

It would be cold there, for there was never much fire. She would perhaps be pale--a little pale, and her eyes would be cast down. She would sit upon one side of the stone chimney-piece, and he would stand upon the other. There would be a moment's pause, and then he would tell her everything. It could not last long, and when it was over he would have conquered in the struggle.

He would drive back alone in the late afternoon through the dismal forest. To-morrow he would leave Greifenstein and go to his lawyer in the city. Half of his fortune should be Hilda's, and she should restore Sigmundskron and marry whomsoever she would. Then he would be free, and he would go away with Rex to some distant country, not to return for half a lifetime, if he ever returned at all.

The plan was simple, comprehensive and satisfactory. Nothing remained but to put it into immediate execution. He had given the necessary orders on the previous night and, as soon as Frau von Sigmundskron was ready, they would start upon their drive. He finished dressing and went in search of Rex. The latter looked even more pale and disturbed than Greif himself, though with characteristic determination he was attempting to eat his breakfast.

'I am going to Sigmundskron,' said Greif entering the room. 'Will you wait for me here? To-morrow we will go away, or tonight, if you like.'

'I will wait willingly. Where should I go?' Rex rose, pus.h.i.+ng the silver salver away from him.

'Very good. I shall be back at dusk. Good-bye.' Greif held out his hand in evident anxiety to get away, for he did not want to hear any more of his cousin's plausible reasoning, and dreaded lest Rex should broach the subject of his errand. But the latter detained him in spite of himself.

'Do nothing rash or hasty, Greif,' he said earnestly. 'A life's happiness is easily thrown away, and hardly found again when you have parted with it--and more than half of life's happiness is the love of woman. Good-bye.'

Greif made his escape as quickly as he could, but Rex had found time and words to touch the strongest cord in his heart. As he descended the stairs he felt again something of the influence that had visited him in the night, and he wished that he had not gone to Rex's room before leaving the house.

The sight of Frau von Sigmundskron, wrapped in her dark mantle for the journey, recalled him to himself. Her kind eyes looked at him almost lovingly from beneath the hood that covered her white hair, as he bent and kissed her hand. Neither spoke as they gained the court and got into the carriage, but while Greif was wrapping her in the heavy furs and arranging a cus.h.i.+on behind her, he felt that she meant to do all she could to dissuade him from his intention on the way, and he knew that the real struggle was yet to come. Then Rex appeared again, bareheaded, to bid farewell to the baroness and to say a few words of heartfelt thanks. He alone knew how much both he and Greif owed to her discretion; far more than she dreamed of, as she answered him and gave him her hand.

The horses plunged forward, their hoofs clas.h.i.+ng noisily upon the pavement of the court; out of the bright light the carriage disappeared into the darkness of the gateway and as quickly rolled out again upon the dazzling snow beyond. After that there would be snow and trees and rocks, and rocks and trees and snow, until the grey towers of Sigmundskron loomed up above the tops of the firs.

Greif leaned back in silence, as they spun over the white road. Every moment now was a moment gained, provided that nothing were said to weaken his purpose. He braced himself in his seat, with his feet and his back, as though he expected the carriage to upset, and closed his lips tightly as if to meet a physical accident.

Frau von Sigmundskron glanced at him once or twice and noticed his expression, and his resolution to look straight before him. Had she possessed Rex's penetration, she would have guessed what was pa.s.sing in his mind. As it was, she vaguely suspected that he had not altogether given up his plan, and the thought made her uneasy. She could see the clearly cut outline of his handsome face without turning her head. He had put on a fur coat, and she thought that fur was singularly becoming to fair men who had good complexions--a frivolous observation, apparently, but in reality not so worthless as it appeared. She was thinking of the impression Greif would make upon Hilda, and wondering whether the girl would find him greatly changed or not. She was woman enough to suppose that much would depend upon the first moments of the meeting which was about to take place, and upon the look Greif should first see in Hilda's eyes. If he found her sad, pale, ready to pity him, his nature would be hardened, partly because he hated to be pitied by any one, partly because that same irritation would help him to execute his purpose. But if, on the contrary, Hilda met him with an ill-concealed joy, if there were light in her bright eyes and colour in her cheeks, if her voice spoke sympathy in his sorrows while her face told him of her gladness in the meeting, then things might turn out very differently. After all, thought Frau von Sigmundskron, Greif was only a man, and could not be expected to act altogether wisely unless a woman helped him.

She had certainly not always held such beliefs, but in latter years they had grown upon her. Sigmundskron was a women's establishment and naturally independent. The baroness had grown to think that, after all, women, when thrown entirely upon their own resources, can manage better than men. She was sure that no three men could have lived so decently and fairly well upon as little as sufficed for herself, Hilda and Berbel. It is true that the distance from such daily forethought and hourly prudence as she needed in her life, to such wisdom as Rex, for instance, possessed so abundantly, was considerable; but the baroness looked upon that as an insignificant argument, if indeed it presented itself to her mind at all. She thought little of Greif's determination to persist, if only Hilda could seem more glad to see him, than sympathising in his misfortunes. With a woman's wholesale faith in woman, she believed utterly in the power of one of Hilda's glances to keep Greif at Sigmundskron for ever. Especially good women believe in all other women, more than those who are neither notably good nor notably bad. A man's faith in his fellows bears little or no relation to his own moral character, the best men being often the most distrustful, and not always the most agreeable companions. But the better a woman is, the more she believes all other women to be both good and wise, a phenomenon not hitherto explained, though very frequently observed. The baroness held views of this sort concerning Hilda and old Berbel. It was characteristic of her that, as soon as her generosity had got the better of her hesitation in regard to the marriage, she began to consider Greif in the light of a well-beloved adversary, whom the feminine powers of Sigmundskron must vanquish for his own good. It was characteristic, too, that in all her uncertainty she had never considered for a moment the great worldly advantages to be gained or lost.

'We might have sent word that we were coming,' she said, when they had driven more than a mile without speaking. 'Hilda would have come to meet us on the road.'

'It is better so,' answered Greif mournfully.

'I do not see why--it would have given the child such pleasure,'

remarked his companion, glancing at his face to see whether his expression would change or not.

'Would it, do you think?' asked Greif in an indifferent tone, though a very slight colour rose in his pale face.

'Indeed it would. It is wrong in you to doubt it. Poor Hilda! She has not too many pleasures of any sort, and meeting you is one of the greatest.'

The blush in Greif's cheek deepened. Again he set his feet firmly before him and braced himself in his seat as though to resist a shock. He hated himself for betraying his feeling in his face, and wished it were night.

The baroness continued to speak in gentle tones, determined to obtain an answer from him, and if possible to make him engage in argument, for she believed that if he argued he was lost.

'Yes,' she said. 'It is a lonely life she leads up there. I am too old to be a real companion, and there is only old Berbel besides. It is pathetic to see her begin to count the days as soon as you are gone, and to watch her face as it gradually turns less grave when more than half the score is marked away.'

'Does she do that?' asked Greif, conscious that he was growing crimson.

'Always. She used to do it, when she was a mere child, and you were only an overgrown boy. It seems to me that she always loved you, long before--long ago, I mean.'

Greif sighed, and looked away. The half-boyish blush faded slowly from his cheeks and left his face paler than before. The good lady saw the change with regret, and wondered whether the slip of the tongue she had made in her last sentence could have anything to do with it. But she did not despair, though she allowed a few moments to pa.s.s in silence. To her surprise it was Greif who renewed the conversation, and in a manner she had not in the least expected.

'I have always loved Hilda,' he said, avoiding her eyes resolutely.

'Ever since I first remember your bringing her to Greifenstein. We were very small, and it must have been in the spring, for we picked mayflowers and found strawberries in the woods.'

'She was not more than six years old then,' observed Frau von Sigmundskron.

'And I was eleven, I think,' replied Greif, forgetting his effort to be silent in the childish reminiscence. 'Was that the first time you came?'

'I believe so. It was four years after we came to live in Sigmundskron.'

'Why did you not come sooner?' Greif asked. It seemed to him that it would be wise to keep the conversation upon the doings of twelve years ago. Another mile of the road was pa.s.sed, and he was still unshaken.

'There were many reasons,' answered the baroness. 'We had not always been on the best of terms, perhaps because we had scarcely ever met, and I did not care to seem to be forcing my acquaintance upon my relations, so I stayed away for a while. After all, what really brought us together more than anything else, was the fondness of you two children for each other, which showed itself from the first. They brought you to see Hilda, and then we went to your house again--and so--gradually--'

'I remember that Hilda wore a blue frock the first time she came,'

remarked Greif quickly, with an attempt to check the baroness's advance towards present times. The intention was so evident that she could not help smiling a little under her hood, and reflecting with some satisfaction that upon this subject, at least, she was more than a match for him.

'Perhaps she did,' she answered. 'I remember that she once had a blue frock.'

The triviality of what they were saying to each other struck Greif all at once, as compared with the horror of what they had left behind them at Greifenstein. It was but the third day since that fearful catastrophe had darkened his life, and he was exchanging remarks about the clothes Hilda had worn when she was a child. He thought he must be shamefully heartless, unless he were going mad, which, considering his words, seemed probable to himself. He leaned back again, and stared absently at the moving landscape. It seemed to him that his father's spirit was gliding along, high in the black trees beside the road, like mighty Wodin in the northern forests, watching the son he had left behind and listening to the foolish words that fell from his lips. The baroness attributed the sudden chill of his manner, and the gloomy look on his face to another cause.

'That was very long ago,' she said, taking advantage of his silence.

'Since then, Hilda has grown up, and you have become a man, and the love that began when you were children has--'

'I cannot marry her!' exclaimed Greif, so sharply and suddenly that his companion started and looked anxiously into his face.

'Then you will kill her,' answered Frau von Sigmundskron, after a short and painful pause. She, too, was roused to abandon the harmless attempt at diplomacy which had failed, and to speak out what was in her heart.

She was indignant with Greif, and she forgot altogether that she had at first felt precisely as he did himself in regard to the marriage. As the trees flew past and every effort of the strong horses brought her nearer to her home, she knew Hilda was first, and the instinct to defend her child from pain and sorrow gradually began to dominate her. Mild and gentle as she was, she was ready to attack Greif and to force him to marry her daughter whether he would or not. She grew nervous, for the coming meeting between the two might decide their fate, and every moment lost might be the most important. Greif did not reply at once to what she had said, but a s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed through his limbs and he drew the furs more closely about him.