Greifenstein, page 34
Nevertheless, Rex clung to the theory that Greifenstein had never written at all, and he met such difficulties as the theory presented, by supposing that he had not been aware that Rieseneck was writing to Rex. In any case, nothing had been found after the most exhaustive search, and Rex was beginning to believe, willingly enough, that nothing would ever be discovered. To avoid all risks, however, he did his utmost to hasten the marriage, feeling that after that event there would be less to fear from a disclosure of the truth.
Meanwhile Greif had obeyed the wishes of Frau von Sigmundskron and had taken immediate steps to change his name. In Germany the matter is an easy one, as it is managed chiefly through the Heralds' Office. Nothing is required beyond the formal and legal consent of all persons bearing the name which the petitioner desires to assume. When this is given, the necessary formalities are easily fulfilled, and a patent is placed in the hands of the person who has applied. After that, it is no longer in the power of the family who have given their consent to withdraw the name, under any circumstances whatsoever. In Greif's case, everything was done very easily. The Heralds' Office was well aware that the male line of the Sigmundskrons was extinct, and that the family was only represented by Hilda and her mother, the necessary documents were forwarded, signed and attested by the two ladies in the presence of the proper persons, and returned. A month later Greif received his patent, sealed and signed by the sovereign, setting forth that he, Greif von Greifenstein, only son of Hugo, deceased, was authorised and entitled to be called henceforth Greif von Greifenstein and Sigmundskron, that he was at liberty to use either or both names and to bear arms, three crowns proper, or, in field azure, either quartered with those of Greifenstein or separately, as good should seem in his own eyes.
And at mid-day on a certain day in June, the wood-cutters in the forest had looked towards the towers of Sigmundskron as they sat in the shade to eat their noon-tide meal, and they had seen a great standard rising slowly to the peak of a lofty staff, and catching the breeze and floating out bravely, displaying three golden crowns upon its azure breadth.
'What is it?' asked one, a young fellow of twenty years.
'It is the flag of the Sigmundskrons,' answered a grey-haired, beetle-browed man, pausing with a mouthful of cheese stuck on the end of his murderous knife. 'I have not seen that these twenty years, since the poor baron was killed in the war. There must be a new lord in Sigmundskron. We will ask to-night in the village.'
And as they talked, the banner, hoisted by Wastei's wiry arms, reached the very top of the staff, and remained there, waving majestically, where many a one like it had waved during eight hundred years and more. At that moment Greif, in his carriage, was coming up the last ascent. He saw the lordly standard, changed colour a little and then rose in the light vehicle and uncovered his head. He felt as though all the dead Sigmundskrons who lay side by side in the castle chapel had risen from their tombs to greet the new possessor of their name. He could not do less than rise himself, and salute their flag, though it was now to be his own. His young heart, full of knightly traditions and aspirations, felt something which a man of a younger race could not feel. It represented much to him, which is lost in the glare of modern life. It was easy for him to fancy the old Sigmundskrons in their gleaming mail, high on their armoured horses, riding out in a close squadron from their castle gate with their standard in their midst, some to die in defending it, and some of them to bear home its tattered glories in victory. It was an easy matter for him to identify himself with them and to feel that henceforth he also had a part in their history. And there was more, too, in the sight of the gleaming colours and dancing waves of the tall banner. It was to him the signal of a new life's starting-point, the emblem of a new name. Yesterday he had been burdened with the remembrance of blood shed in evil wise, to-day he began his existence with a fair scroll before him on which no shameful thing was written. As he stood bareheaded in his carriage, he was as it were saluting this new life before him, as well as doing homage to the memory of the dead Sigmundskrons.
So Greif was no longer Greifenstein now, and he informed the few persons whom he wished should know the fact. And the time passed quickly on to the wedding-day. In the meanwhile, between April and August, Rex and Hilda met more often than before, and to all appearances they met on the best of terms, to the no small satisfaction of Greif himself.
'Rex,' he had said one day, 'Hilda is to be my wife, and it is necessary that you should like her. You cannot have any good reason to the contrary, and yet you act as though she were positively repulsive to you.'
Thereupon Rex's stony eyes had expressed something as nearly like astonishment as they were capable of showing, for he was surprised at being found out, almost for the first time in his life, and he perceived that Greif had not found him out alone.
'I am sorry that she should think me capable of disliking her,' Rex answered. 'My position, indeed, is so different from what you both suppose it to be, that I would make any sacrifice rather than see this marriage broken off.'
Greif looked at him a moment, not quite understanding, for it was impossible that he should appreciate all that Rex meant by the words. He was pleased, nevertheless.
'I wish you would go and tell that to Hilda,' he said in answer.
'I will,' said Rex, and he did so on the first occasion that offered.
He and Greif went over to Sigmundskron together. Indeed, Rex went for the express purpose of making his speech to Hilda, and Greif occupied the attention of the baroness for a while in order that the two might talk undisturbed.
'So you have come at last,' said Hilda. 'It is long since we have seen you.'
'Yes, and I have come for an especial purpose,' answered Rex. 'It appears that, in the inscrutable ways of fate, I have passed for an ill-mannered barbarian in your eyes, and so I have come to show myself and to tell you what I think on certain points.'
'You talk very mysteriously,' said Hilda.
'The prologue of a tale should always be mysterious. It is only the epilogue that must needs be clear. The story may be between the two. The matter of all three is very simple, because it concerns you and me. To be plain, Fraulein, I have come to justify myself in your eyes, to make an apology, a declaration and a treaty, all at once.'
'A treaty, at least, must have two sides,' observed Hilda, for she knew now what he was going to say.
'So does an apology,' answered Rex with a laugh. 'To be brief, I apologise to you for having ever so acted as to make you imagine that I was ill disposed towards you; I hereby declare that, far from being an enemy of yours, I would make any personal sacrifice rather than see your marriage hindered; and I propose that we agree henceforth not to imagine any more such things.'
Hilda was satisfied, for she saw that Greif had put the matter plainly. She hesitated a moment.
'What is your first name, Herr Rex?' she asked.
'Horst,' he answered, in some surprise.
'Very well. I agree to all you say. We will be good friends, and you shall be Cousin Horst to me, and I will be Cousin Hilda to you.'
'Thank you,' said Rex.
He wondered why he had ever disliked her, and he even asked himself whether the antipathy he had felt had been real or imaginary. From that time, however, his manner changed and Greif had no further cause of complaint.
The weeks sped on quickly, and the wedding-day came at last. Everything was done very quietly indeed, as was natural and right, considering that the year of mourning had not yet expired. Only when all was over, Greif made a great feast for all the men of the Greifenstein estates, and another in the court of Sigmundskron for the people of the tiny village. And it was to Sigmundskron that Hilda and Greif went first, while Rex and the baroness remained together at Greifenstein. There was as yet no outward change in Hilda's home, though a few rooms had been furnished for the newly-married pair. But the old sitting-room was left as it was for the present, and there Greif and Hilda dined together on the first evening, while the peasants were feasting beneath the window, in the August moonlight.
Many a long year had passed in melancholy silence since such merriment had been heard within those grey walls, and the people felt instinctively that a new era had begun for them, that there would be life in the old place again, and that the young lord would build up Sigmundskron to be what it had been before. Though not a foot of land remained to the name outside the ramparts, the feudal tradition had not disappeared. Old men were alive whose fathers had told them of the good old Sigmundskrons, how they had been brave in war and kind in peace, and generous till all was gone, and the voices of these drowned the ill-natured remarks of the few who said that the baroness was a miser and had hoarded her gold these twenty years in the deep vault under the haunted north-west tower, upon the brink of the precipice. Moreover, as is the nature of peasants, the sight of the feast warmed their hearts towards those who gave it, even before the great joints of meat were cut, or the first cask of beer broached. They had never seen such a banquet before. The long tables went all the way round the great courtyard, and not only had each table a fair white cloth, but there was also a fork at every place, and a stone drinking-jug. And in the midst of the open space stood a row of jolly-looking barrels and casks, there was beer and wine, white Schlossberger and red Affenthaler, but the national cherry spirits were conspicuous by their absence, for Greif knew the fierce Black Foresters well. Their iron heads could stand unlimited draughts of any drink except alcohol, as the event proved, for though they drank deep, and were merry to their heart's content they filed through the gate soberly enough before the clock struck midnight. But before that there was speech-making, and singing, and dancing of reels under the moonlight that mingled softly with the rays of countless paper lanterns. The latter were marvellous in the eyes of the foresters, though some of those who had served in the army said they had seen the like in Stuttgardt, on the King's birthday, when the Thiergarten was illuminated.
Meanwhile Greif and Hilda sat together by the open window high above the court and looked down upon the merry-making peasants, or talked together. All at once a tremendous voice thundered up from below, imposing silence on the assembly. It was so loud and deep and sonorous that Greif turned his head quickly to see if possible, by the uncertain light, the individual who was capable of making such an enormous noise.
'It is the mayor of Sigmundsdorf,' said Hilda, laughing. 'He has the loudest voice in the world. The people say that when he shouts at Berneck, the fishermen can hear him at Haigerloch in Hohenzollern.'
'I should think they might,' answered Greif.
'And now, gentlemen,' roared the mayor from below, as he addressed the rustics, 'it is our duty to thank the good givers, and to drink to their never-to-be-clouded conjugal happiness. From where I stand, gentlemen, I can see the golden moonlight shining upon the silvery hair—'
The mayor interrupted himself with a ponderous cough.
'The silvery moonlight shines upon the golden hair of the high and well-born Fraulein Hilda—I would say, of the high and well-born Frau von Sigmundskron, junior—'
Greif, listening above, drew in his head to suppress a convulsion of laughter, but the crowd applauded the figure of speech, and the mayor bellowed on.
'—and also upon that of her high and well-born consort and husband, the lord of Sigmundskron.'
The name burst from his lips like a clap of thunder, and Greif grew grave, for it meant something to him.
'And though I could say much more,' continued the mayor, 'I will not, for silence is gold, as the burgomaster of Kalw says. And so, gentlemen, we wish them happiness, a hundred years of life, and a son as handsome as themselves for every tower there is on Sigmundskron. Sigmundskron hoch!'
The mayor had seemed to be exerting his full powers during the whole speech, but an unparalleled experience in making noise had taught him the art of reserving a final explosion in the depths of his huge chest, which he knew could never fail to thrill his audience with wonder and delight. His last cheer broke out like the salute of a broadside of cannon, striking the old walls like a battering-ram, till the panes rattled, echoing up to tower and turret, and then reverberating and rolling away among the distant trees, as though it were in haste to fulfil its mission and tell the whole wide forest that Sigmundskron had a lord again, and that Hilda was married to her true love at last.
'Sigmundskron hoch!' yelled the peasants in a wild attempt to rival their leader, which not even their numbers could help them to do.
Then Greif took a tall glass from the table and gave it to Hilda, and took another for himself, and the two stood up in the opening of the Gothic window, the moonlight falling upon their happy faces and upon the slender goblets in their hands. Another shout went up from below, and then all was still.
'It is we who have to thank you,' said Greif, in clear, ringing tones. 'It is we who come to ask your help to make Sigmundskron what it was in the old days. May you all live to sup with us each year as to-night, for another fifty years! We thank you for your good wishes, and we drink to you all—to our good friend the mayor of Sigmundsdorf and to all the rest. Hoch, Sigmundsdorf! Hoch, the brave foresters! Hoch, the Black Forest we all love! Hoch, the dear Swabian land!'
Hilda's silver voice rang high in the last cheer, and then the two touched their glasses with their lips, while all the people shouted with joy below and the mayor's earth-shaking roars of delight made the great owls in the tower shrink into their holes and blink with wonder.
It was a glorious night, and for many a year the people of Sigmundsdorf will remember the look that was on those two beautiful young faces that looked down upon them from the high, arched window, and all agreed that the mayor of Sigmundsdorf had never made such a noble speech as on that occasion, or shown the superiority of his voice over all other voices with such brilliant success.
So Hilda and Greif were married, and none but Rex knew what a mortal danger had hung over their happiness until that day. When all was done and ended, Rex drew a long breath and sat down alone to think over the peril from which Greif had escaped. By this time he was fully persuaded that the latter would never be disturbed by the discovery of a letter left by his father, and he had entirely adopted the theory that no such letter had ever existed. It was a comforting belief, and seemed reasonable enough, so that he classified it amongst his convictions and tormented himself no more.
He could not help reflecting, however, upon the complications that might arise if such a document should after all find its way into Greif's hands, and as he thought over the various turns affairs might take he trembled at the responsibility he had assumed. There were delicate points of law involved, concerning which he himself was uncertain.
In the first place, as Greifenstein, Greif was not married at all. His birth was illegitimate, and if he had been married under the name he supposed to be his, the union was not valid. For the law only acknowledges such marriages as take place under the true and lawful names of both parties. If one or the other, though wholly innocent and ignorant of any mistake, turns out to have been married under a wrong appellation, the office is void and of no effect. The question was, whether Greif, as Sigmundskron, was legally Hilda's husband. Rex was inclined to believe that he was. The Heralds' Office might withdraw from him the name and arms of Greifenstein, but Rex did not believe that they could interdict Greif from using those of Sigmundskron, since the Sigmundskrons had themselves conferred them upon him, in his own person, whatever he was before. In that case Greif was really and truly Sigmundskron, and he was not really anything else, except a nameless orphan. And, if so, the marriage was valid after all. It was a fortunate coincidence which had given a name to a man who really had none at all.
Of course, if no one but Rex were ever to know the secret, there was no danger in store for the young couple. But if any untoward accident should reveal it, or if any other individual were already in possession of it, their case might be bad indeed. Rex could not think of it without experiencing a very unpleasant sensation. He remembered how old Greifenstein had lived during five and twenty years in ignorance of his own shame, and how it had found him out at last. It would be horrible indeed if such a catastrophe should fall upon Greif and Hilda. But it would be better, in the extreme case, that Greif should learn the truth first. If Frau von Sigmundskron should be the first to find it out, it was impossible to foretell what might happen. She would find it hard to believe that Greif had not known it when he married her daughter; she would remember how he had done his best to refuse Hilda, and she would ascribe that to his knowledge that he was illegitimate; his change of name would look like a piece of deliberate scheming to supply himself with what he most lacked, a name. She would misunderstand all his actions and misconstrue all his intentions; he would appear to her in the light of a clever actor who had made the emotions he really felt serve the greater ends he had so carefully concealed. Rex thought of her behaviour with regard to the name, and he understood the immense value she put upon it; he saw how she had persuaded herself that in Greif her husband's race was to be revived again, and he could guess what she would feel when she discovered that she had conferred what she held most holy on earth, not upon an unfortunate nobleman, but upon a murderer's bastard, who had cleverly robbed her of what she could no longer take back.
