Greifenstein, page 25
Though Rex's blood was German, his character had suffered a certain modification by the manner of his bringing up. His mode of thought certainly differed from Greif's to an extent which could not be accounted for upon the ground of temperament alone. Brave, manly and sufficiently generous though he was, Rex undeniably had a preference for accomplishing his ends mysteriously and by diplomatic means, a characteristic more southern than northern, and assuredly not German. He was a man well able to sustain whatever part he chose to play, and it was at least to his credit that he never employed his remarkable powers of concealment to a bad purpose. In his place, Greif would have told everything, and would then have offered everything he possessed to compensate the mischief done by the truth; he would not have been able to hide what he knew for a week, in such a case, for his extreme love of frankness would have tortured him until it was out, but if there were no justice to be accomplished, he could have held his peace as well as another. Rex saw far and clearly before him. His sceptical mind could not accept the conventional traditions of truthfulness at any price, of honourable sentiment exaggerated to Quixotism. He felt the necessity of weighing results before acting, rather than of following moral precepts and letting the results take care of themselves. To him ultimate good was everything, and religious morality was an empty bubble, unless it could be made to contribute directly and clearly to a good result. With Greif's more simple and straightforward nature, truthfulness, and such virtues as go with it, were invested with all the superior importance which religion gives to each present act of life, and so far as the future was concerned, a semi-conscious faith in the efficacy of principle supplied the place of Rex's well thought-out combinations and philosophical disquisitions about relative right and wrong.
* * *
CHAPTER XVII
The effect of what Rex had said was to hasten Greif's action. After listening to his cousin's arguments, he felt that what was to be done must be done quickly, lest his courage should fail him. If he had been left to himself he would never have doubted his own strength, and would very possibly have waited a day or two before going to Sigmundskron to bid Hilda farewell. Now, however, he felt that to hesitate or delay would be fatal, and he resolved to lose no time in carrying out his intentions. In order to isolate himself more completely from all outward influences he would have sent Frau von Sigmundskron back alone and would have followed her a few hours later; but his sense of common decency, as well as his profound gratitude, forbade such a course. He could not by any means avoid the long drive in her company, and he tried to harden his heart as he submitted to his destiny. It was certain that, unless she had changed her mind, she would talk of the matter of his visit, and would repeat in his unwilling ear all those arguments which appealed to his heart so strongly, and which so grievously shook his chivalrous resolution.
During the long night that succeeded the day of the funeral ceremony, the sorrow of the parting which was before him assumed such proportions as made the past seem less horrible, and the change from one kind of suffering to another afforded his exhausted nature a relief of which he was not conscious, but which was nevertheless very real. He himself could not understand how it had been possible for him to discuss with Rex matters so closely connected with his future happiness, scarcely an hour after the heavy gates of the mausoleum had closed upon the father he had so deeply loved, and upon the mother he so tenderly regretted. 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 passionately 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 passionate 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 passed 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 passionate 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 crushing 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 noble, 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, pushing 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 cushion 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 clashing 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 passing 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.
