Frau von Sigmundskron was somewhat surprised when she saw Greif enter the room without Hilda. Greif went up to her with the determination of a man who means to lose no time in getting through an unpleasant business.
‘Aunt Therese,’ he said—he called his father’s cousin ‘aunt,’ after the German manner—‘I told Hilda that I wanted to speak with you alone—do you mind?’
‘On the contrary,’ answered the baroness. ‘Sit down. I will work while you talk. It will help me to understand you.’
‘The matter is very simple,’ said Greif, seating himself. ‘I want to ask whether you are still of the same opinion in regard to my marriage with Hilda, as before I was taken ill.’
‘Of course I am—’ She looked up, in some surprise.
‘Because I am not,’ said Greif, delighted with himself at having found a way to make his aunt state her case first.
‘Not of my opinion, or not of your own former opinion?’ she inquired, rather puzzled.
‘I mean to say that I now once more ask for Hilda’s hand—’
Frau von Sigmundskron laughed, and laid down her work, to look at his face. She had not expected that he would express himself in such a way. Then all at once she saw that he had meant to act in the most loyal manner possible, and she grew grave, being pleased with him as she almost always was.
‘Do you think you need my consent again, Greif? You have it, with all my heart. You need hardly have asked it, for you knew the answer too well.’
‘It is this,’ said Greif, coming to the point. ‘In the first place, I knew very well what you would say, though I thank you all the same; but it was necessary to come to a clear understanding, because there is another point to be settled upon which much must depend. What I said three months ago holds good to-day. As Greifenstein I cannot marry Hilda. As Greif, I cannot any longer forego the happiness you and she have pressed upon me. But I must have another name—’
‘Is it really necessary?’ asked the baroness gravely.
‘It seems so to me. The papers have been full of our story, and I have received many letters of condolence, and some full of curiosity. It is a tale which no one will forget for many years. Few people could help associating disgrace with so much crime. I wish to marry Hilda under a name by which we may become known if we choose to go into the world hereafter, and which may be free from all disagreeable associations. You yourself suggested that I should take yours, she has suggested it and so has Rex. If you consent, it seems best that it should be so.’
‘Sigmundskron—’ She pronounced the syllables slowly, almost lovingly, and her eyes were fixed on Greif with a look he did not understand.
He could not know all that the name meant to her. She had married the last man who had borne it by his own right, the gallant young soldier, who was to restore the fallen fortunes of his race, in the only way in which they had ever been restored before, by the faithful service of his country. She remembered how firmly she had believed that he was to be great and famous, how confidently she had hoped to bear him strong, bright-eyed sons worthy of him and like him, who should in their turn do great deeds, of which he should live to be proud. The dream had vanished. Brave Sigmundskron had been shot down like many another, a mere lieutenant, with all his hopes and grand visions of the future, and his wife had been left alone with a widow’s pension and her little child. A girl, too—it had seemed as though nothing were to be spared her. If she had had a boy to bring up, another Sigmundskron to grow to better fortunes than his father, and perhaps to realise all his father had dreamed of for himself, it would have been easier then—but a girl! The name was ended, never to be spoken again, as it had been so many times, in the rollcalls of honour. She had brought him home and laid him beside his fathers, and she herself had broken the shield upon his tomb with her own hands, for he was the last of his race. In him ended the line of ancient Sigmund, as it had begun, in the strife and fury of battle. It had been a glorious line, take it all in all; though its last warrior had been but a poor lieutenant, he had been worthy of his fathers and had died the worthy death. If only Hilda could have been a man!
And now, after so many years, one stood before her, who craved the right to bear that spotless name, though he had not one drop of old Sigmund’s blood in his veins. She had even offered it to him herself—she wondered how she could have had the courage. What sort of a man was this, who would call himself Sigmundskron, like her dead soldier, and be Sigmundskron in all men’s eyes, and marry Hilda and be the father of many Sigmundskrons to come? She looked at Greif long and wondered what he would turn out to be.
That he was honourable and true hearted, she knew; that he was brave she had reason to believe; that he loved her daughter well, she knew also. But it was hard. Why did he want the name of her beloved dead? Because his own was stained—not by his fault—but it was darkened and made a reproach. Ay, it is easy for a man with a bad name to desire a good one; it is natural; if he be innocent, it is very pardonable. Greif had a right to ask for it, but would she give it? Would she suffer that which had been so long glorious in itself, that which was made sacred by the shedding of good blood in good cause, that which recalled all she had once worshipped—would she suffer that to be made a mere cloak for the evil deeds of Rieseneck and Greifenstein, murderers and suicides? It was hard to do it.
And yet she was willing, nay, even glad, that this man should marry her only child, the only daughter of her husband. She loved him in a way, for he was to be her son, the only son she could ever have. Ah, that was it. Greif was to be her son. She gazed into his face and wondered whether, if she had searched the world, she could have found one goodlier and stronger and truer to be a match for her own child, whether if she ever dreamed of what might have been, she saw in her fancy a son more worthy than this. And, after all, he did not ask the boon for his own advantage. He had bravely struggled to give up Hilda rather than let her risk the smallest worldly disadvantage or reproach through him. He asked for this for Hilda’s sake, not for his own, and would it not be a thousand times better that Hilda, and Hilda’s children, should still be Sigmundskron than wear a name black with ill-shed blood? Since she was to have a son given her would she not rather have him Sigmundskron than Greifenstein? Could he ever be a true son to her so long as he was called after those who had treated herself coldly and heartlessly during so many years, and who themselves had come to such an evil end?
She looked at him once more. Then she put out her hands and took his and drew him close to her so that she could see into his eyes. When she saw what was in them she was glad.
‘Will you be a son to me, Greif von Greifenstein?’ she asked solemnly.
‘I will indeed, so help me God, and you shall be my mother,’ he answered.
‘Then you shall be Sigmundskron,’ she said. ‘You are brave—be as brave as old Sigmund. You are true—be as true as he. You are faithful—be faithful to death, as he was, who was the last of Sigmund’s sons.’
The white-haired lady rose as she spoke, and drawing him still nearer to her, kissed his smooth young forehead, with the pale lips that had touched no man’s face since her dead husband had gone from her to his death.
‘Go and tell Hilda that you will be Sigmundskron to her in deed, and in heart, as well as in name,’ she said.
As she left the room, erect and with firm step, he saw the bright tears burst from her eyes, and roll down her pallid cheeks, though she would not bend her head nor heed them.
For many minutes he stood where she had left him, his hand resting upon the edge of the table, his look fixed upon the door, absently and seeing nothing.
‘That is what it is to have a spotless name,’ he said, almost aloud.
He went out softly as though from a hallowed place, and closed the door noiselessly behind him. His small anticipations of what that scene would be like, full of many words and attempts at tactful speech, seemed infinitely pitiful and contemptible now, beside the dignity, the kindness, the noble pride and the grand simplicity of the woman who had given him her name. He walked slowly, and his head was bent in thought as he threaded the well-known passages and stairways to the old rampart where he knew that Hilda was waiting for him.
She was sitting upon one of the stone projections, hatless in the April sun, her beautiful figure thrown into bold lines and curves as she looked down upon the road, sitting, but half turned upon her seat. She heard the crazy door of the turret creak and rattle, and she moved so that she could see Greif.
‘It has not lasted long,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Why do you look so grave?’ she asked quickly as she noticed his face, ‘Has anything happened?’
He sat down beside her and took her hand.
‘Do you know what your mother told me to say to you?’ he asked.
She shook her head expectantly, and her expression grew bright again.
‘She told me to tell you that I would be Sigmundskron to you in deed, and in heart, as well as in name—can I say more?’
‘But one thing more,’ she answered, as her arms went round him. ‘But one thing more—that you will be Greif, my Greif, the Greif I love, always and always, whether in my name or yours, until the end!’
As his own thoughts had dwindled before Frau von Sigmundskron’s earnest dignity, so that in turn grew dim and far away in the presence of Hilda’s love. All had been right in their own way, but Hilda’s speech was the best, and there was the most humanity in it, after all.
A long time they sat side by side in the sunlight, talking of each other and of themselves as lovers will, and must, if they would talk at all. As they were about to go down, Hilda stopped, just at the entrance of the turret, and swung the broken door gently on its creaking hinges.
‘You must not let your cousin hate me, Greif,’ she said, as though the thought troubled the cloudless joy of the future. ‘It would not be right. We must all be one, now and when we two are married. He saved your life by his care—why should he dislike me?’
‘He does not, dearest—you are mistaken,’ protested Greif, who was much embarrassed by the question. Hilda faced him at once, laying her hand upon his arm.
‘He does, and you must see it. Why does he never come here? Why is he so cold when we go to Greifenstein? I do not care a straw for his like or dislike, except because he is your cousin, and because I think we should all live harmoniously together. The strange thing is that he would give his life for you, and I am sure he is honest, though I cannot see into his eyes as I can into yours. What is the reason? You must know.’
‘I do not. I can see that he is very reserved with you and does not like to come here. I asked him only yesterday why he always stayed behind.’
‘And what did he say?’ asked Hilda eagerly.
‘Nothing to the point. He said he could not be of any use if he did come—which, after all, is absolutely true.’
‘You must find out. He dislikes me now, when we are married it will be worse, a year hence he will detest me altogether and tell you so, perhaps.’
‘Do you think he would tell me?’ asked Greif with a quiet smile, that did not agree with the sudden glittering of his eyes.
‘No,’ laughed Hilda. ‘That is an exaggeration. But he will make us both feel it.’
‘In that case we will not ask him to stay with us,’ answered Greif, half carelessly, half in anger at Rex’s imaginary future rudeness.
He saw that Hilda was annoyed by his cousin’s conduct, for it was the second time she had spoken of it during the visit, and he determined that he would put the matter very plainly to Rex as soon as he reached Greifenstein, the more so as he himself had noticed it and had already asked Rex for an explanation.
Hilda’s face grew grave. She knew how devoted Rex was to Greif, and she felt as though her future husband were to lose his best friend for a meaningless whim of the latter, in which she was involved against her will.
‘That must never be,’ she answered. ‘Next to me, no one loves you as Rex does. I would not have you quarrel for all the world—and it is mere jealousy, Greif, I know—’
‘Then he must be a very contemptible character,’ said Greif indignantly.
‘Because he is so much attached to you that it pains him to see his place taken by another, even by woman? No, sweetheart. That is not contemptible. But you must change it. Tell him to be reasonable—’
‘Could I say that you are offended with him?’ asked Greif. ‘Can I go to Rex and tell him that he must not only be civil but must be a friend to you?’
‘You are jesting,’ she answered. ‘But it is just what I would do in earnest—what I will do, if you will let me. He would understand that. I would say to him, Herr Rex, you are Greif’s only relation besides ourselves. It is absolutely necessary for his happiness that we should be on good terms, you and I. Is it my fault? He would answer that it was not, for he is honest. Then it is yours, I would say, and the sooner you turn yourself into a friend of mine, the better it will be for Greif, who is the only person you care for in the world. Is not that common sense?’
‘Do you mean to say that?’ asked Greif rather anxiously.
‘If you will let me, I will,’ answered Hilda, returning to her occupation and swinging the old door slowly between her two hands.
‘If I will let you!’ repeated Greif. ‘Do you think I would try to prevent you from saying what you please, darling—’
‘You ought to, if you think it would be a mistake—at least, after we are married.’
‘I am not sure that I could,’ he answered with a laugh.
‘No one else could,’ said Hilda, looking up at him with flashing eyes. ‘If I meant to do a thing, I would do it, of course. Did I not say that I would not let you go?’
‘Indeed you did. And you kept your word.’
‘And I love you—you know it?’
‘It is all I know, or care to know.’
‘Well, I will tell you something more. Because I love you, I want to do what you like, and not what I like, and I always will, so long as you love me.’
Greif drew her to him and held her close, and whispered a tender word into her ear.
‘But you must understand,’ she said. ‘It is not because you are to be my husband, that I mean to submit to you. I do not submit at all, and never shall. I am just as strong as you are, and you could not make me yield a hair’s-breadth. But I will always do everything you wish me to do, because I love you, and because you love me, not for any other reason. Do you understand?’
‘I would not have it otherwise, my darling—and I will do the same—’
‘You cannot quite—you cannot feel as I do, Greif. Perhaps, some day—when you and I are old, Greif—then you will love me as I love you now, but then, you see, I shall have learnt how to love you more, and you will still be hindmost in love’s race—for women are made to love and men to fight, in this world, and though I could fight not badly, if need were, for you, yet I know better how to do the sweeter thing, than you can ever know. Do you not believe me?’
‘Since you would have me—’
‘You do not—but you will, some day,’ she answered, shaking her beautiful head a little, and tapping the door with her fingers. ‘And now, dear,’ she added, laying her hand in his and beginning to walk up and down the old battlement, ‘and now, shall I tell Rex, or will you?’
‘I will tell him,’ said Greif firmly.
‘Then promise me not to be angry, Greif. I could do it so well—but it is better so. Promise me that you will say it in such a way as shall make you feel afterwards that you have done the best—even long afterwards; in such a way as to show him how you value his friendship. He saved your life, by his care—’
‘And you called me back from death with your eyes—’
‘Do not think of my eyes, when you are talking to him,’ interrupted Hilda gravely. ‘Think of all he has done for you, and of what such a noble friendship deserves in return. Think that he is a lonely man, and not so young as you, and that he needs a little affection very much. Think that all I want is that we may be able to live happily together, you and I, and he, when he cares to be with us. But do not think of me—or if you do, think that if you and Rex were parted I should not forgive myself. Do I not owe him your life, as you do? If you had died, because he was not there to tend you—I cannot speak of it—but you owe him much, for it is your life, and I more, for I owe him our two lives together. Will you tell him that?’
‘I will try—he will not understand it all.’
‘Then, if he has not understood, if you cannot make him see it, then it will be my turn. But you can, Greif dear, I know you can. And it is not a small matter either, though it may seem so now. It is not a small matter to part with such a man as that, nor is it an insignificant evil, that I should have his dislike at the very beginning, before we are married. You must do your best, you must do all you can, and you will succeed—and by and by we will work together. Greif—’ she stopped suddenly and looked at him.
‘What is it, dear?’ he asked.
‘Greif, do you think I have any other reason for wanting Rex to like me? Do you think I am a vain woman?’
Greif stared at her a moment and then laughed aloud.
‘Why do you laugh?’ she asked, quietly. ‘Perhaps I am right. I have read of girls who were so vain that they wanted every man they saw to like them—and I have never seen any man—young, I mean, but you, until I saw Rex—and so I thought—perhaps—’
She did not finish the sentence, but stood looking at him with an expression of serious doubt upon her lovely face that made Greif laugh again.
‘Because if that were it,’ she said gravely, ‘Rex might go, and I should be glad of it—’
‘Hilda! How can you have such ideas!’ cried Greif at last. Her innocence was so astounding that he could not find words to answer her at once.
‘There might be just a possibility—’
‘That you, in your heart of hearts, are not satisfied with me alone, but want to make a conquest of Rex besides! Poor Rex! How he would laugh at the idea—Hilda, you must not think such things!’
‘Is it wrong?’ she asked, turning her clear eyes upon him.
‘Wrong? No. It is not wrong to any one but yourself, and it is really very wrong to believe that you could be capable of a contemptible, silly vanity like that.’
‘You do not think I should be—what do they call it—a coquette—if you took me into the world?’
‘You? Never!’ And Greif laughed again, as he well might.
In a woman differently brought up it would have been impossible not to suppose that such words were spoken out of sheer affectation, but Greif knew too well how Hilda had lived, to suspect such a thing. Her innocence was such that she did not understand the commonest feelings of women in the world, not even the most harmless.
‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘I do not mean to be bad, though I believe it is very easy, and one does not always know it, when one is.’
‘I should think one would know it oneself sooner than any one else,’ answered Greif. ‘But if I find out that you are bad, Hilda, I promise to tell you so.’
‘Seriously?’
‘I do not run any risk. What children we are, Hilda! And how pleasant it is to be children together, on a day like this, in a year like this, with such a creature as you, sweetheart!’
‘We cannot always be children,’ she answered. ‘Will it be very different then, I wonder? Will there be any change, except the good change of loving more than now?’
‘I do not see why there should be. Even if that never came, would it not be enough, as it is?’
‘Love must grow, Greif. I feel that. A love that does not grow is already beginning to die.’
‘Who told you so many things of love, Hilda?’
‘Who told me?’ she repeated, as the quick fire flashed in her eyes. ‘Do I need to be told, to know? Ah, Greif, if you felt what I feel—here—’ she pressed her hand to her side, ‘you would understand that I need no telling, nor ever shall. You are there, dear, there in the midst of my heart, more really even than you are before my eyes.’
‘You are more eloquent than I, sweetheart,’ said Greif. ‘You leave me nothing to say, except always to repeat what you have said.’
‘If I said little—’ She stopped and laughed.
‘It is not words only, nor the tones of them that make things true. If I had the skill I could say better what would please you to hear, but having none, I make your speeches my own, to be enough for both of us.’
‘Do you never feel as though you must speak, or your heart would burst?’
‘No—I wish I could, for then the words would come. I think that the more I feel the less I am able to say.’
‘You talked very badly when you were trying to persuade me that we ought not to marry,’ said Hilda, with a side glance at his happy face.
‘And you talked well—too well—’
‘Which of us two felt the more, I wonder?’
‘What I felt was almost too much. I came near never speaking again. I do not know how I got home that day.’
‘And I—do you know? When you were gone, I did not shed a tear, I did not try to run after you, though I thought of it. I went quietly into the house and sat down and told my mother what I had said. Was it heartless, do you think? Was it because I felt nothing? It is true, I did not believe you were really ill, since you had the strength to go away on foot.’
‘What was it then?’ Greif looked wonderingly into her face.
‘It was victory, and I knew it. For one moment I was frightened, and then I saw it all. I saw you come back, as you have come to-day, to say what you have said. I felt as though my hand were still on your shoulder, as though you could not escape me, do what you might. I never doubted, until that dreadful day when Wastei came over and told my mother that you were very ill. He did not say you were dying, but he told us that your carriage was on the way to fetch us, and that they were sending relays of horses along the road so that we should lose no time—and she would have left me behind. But I knew the truth. I knew that if I could see you, you were saved; and then, when I pushed my mother aside and went in, it seemed too late. If I could die at all, being so strong, I should have died in that moment, when your head fell back upon my arm and your eyes closed—and then, a minute later, they told me you were saved, for when I knew you were still alive I knew you would be well again—and then—and then—oh, Greif!’
The tears that pain or sorrow could not have wrung from her, broke forth abundantly in the memory of that overwhelming joy. If Hilda had not been Hilda, the only woman of her kind, Greif would have kissed the tears away as they started from her eyes. But being Hilda, he could not. It was over in a minute, but he had become a little pale and his arm trembled under the light pressure of hers. She brushed the drops away, and saw his altered face.
‘What is the matter, dear?’ she asked. ‘It is only happiness—they do not hurt.’
‘Sometimes you are so beautiful that I do not dare to touch you,’ he said softly.
She turned her golden head quickly with a bright smile, and a crystal drop that lingered on her lashes fell upon her soft cheek. It was as though his words had been the breath of the south wind gently shaking the last drop of a summer shower from the petals of a perfect rose.
‘How shall I not be vain, if you say such things!’ she exclaimed.
‘How can I see you so, and not say them?’ he asked.
‘It is time to go down,’ she said. ‘We meant to go, when I began to speak of Rex, ever so long ago.’
‘I had forgotten Rex.’
‘Do not forget him. He is a good friend.’
So at last they descended the broken stair and disappeared into the house. When Greif was ready to go, and the carriage was before the door, Frau von Sigmundskron led him away from Hilda.
‘Let it be done soon,’ she said, earnestly.
‘The marriage?’ asked Greif in surprise.
‘No—the name. Let it be changed as soon as the lawyers can do it.’
‘I will see to it at once,’ he answered, wondering at her haste.
She saw the look of inquiry in his eyes and paused a moment, holding his hand in hers.
‘I have lived long without a son—give me one—and Sigmundskron has had no lord these eighteen years.’
‘I will not lose a day,’ he said. ‘And once more—I thank you with all my heart.’
He kissed her thin hand, and turned away to bid farewell to Hilda. A moment later the light carriage was whirling out through the castle gate. The two ladies watched until it was out of sight.
‘God bless you,’ said the mother solemnly, as though she were speaking to Greif. ‘God bless you and bring you back to be a son to me—no more Greifenstein, but Sigmundskron, you, and yours for ever, and ever! God bless you!’
Hilda looked at her mother intently. She did not know all that the words meant to the quiet, white-haired woman beside her. She could not know how often in those long years Therese von Sigmundskron had wished that, instead of a daughter, a son had been given to her, to bear the name and wear the sword of her dead husband; she could not know of all the tears her mother had shed in bitter self-reproach at her own ingratitude in thinking such a thought.
‘You do not understand, child,’ she said, taking her daughter by the hand. ‘Come with me.’
She led her to her own room. Upon a piece of black stuff on the wall, were hung two swords, one a sabre, and one a rapier in a three-cornered case, and above them a leathern helmet with a gilded spike. Beneath these weapons was a heavy old carved chest. With Hilda’s help she lifted the lid. Within were uniforms and military trappings of all sorts, and in one corner, folded together, a roll of faded bunting. This she took out and unwrapped, and spread it wide upon the floor.
It was torn and patched and faded, for it was the old flag that used to wave upon the dilapidated keep of the castle. On an azure field three golden crowns were set corner wise, two above and one below. Hilda looked at the banner curiously, and then at her mother.
‘We must make a new one, Hilda,’ she said. ‘And Wastei must pick out a again, and the old flag must float on the wind when he comes to his home.’
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