Greifenstein, p.26
Greifenstein, page 26
'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 pass 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 passed, 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 shiver passed through his limbs and he drew the furs more closely about him.
'You are wrong,' he said at last. 'Hilda will forget me in time and will marry a better man and a happier one. I did not mean to tell you—I may as well—I shall make arrangements to give her half of what I have in the world. She will be an heiress then, and can marry well.'
Frau von Sigmundskron did not understand him. To her, the speech seemed cynical and brutal, an insult to Hilda's love, a slight upon her own poverty. The gentle lady's pale and delicate face flushed suddenly with righteous anger and her small hands were clenched tightly beneath the furs. There was a bright light in her soft blue eyes as she answered him.
'Hilda will neither accept your fortune, nor forget you—though it would be better, perhaps, if you could pass out of her memory.'
Greif could not see her face which was hidden by the hood she wore, without leaning forward, but her words and her tone surprised him. He had been very far from supposing that he should offend her by making such a proposal or by hinting that Hilda might marry happily at some future time. The emotion he had felt had probably made his voice sound harshly, and after all, he had perhaps shown little delicacy in speaking of the money, but he was quite unprepared for his companion's freezing answer. With Greif, however, it was impossible that any misunderstanding should last long, for he was too honest and frank to submit to being misunderstood himself.
'I do not know what you thought that I meant,' he said, turning towards her. 'But you would not be angry if I had explained myself better.'
Frau von Sigmundskron gave him no assistance, but sat quite still in her seat. In her view he had spoken lightly of her child's love and had proposed to set matters right by giving her some of his money. She was angry, and she believed that she had a right to be.
'I love Hilda,' continued Greif, and his voice trembled a little. If there were a phrase which he had not meant to pronounce, or to think of during the day, it was that. He found himself in a position which obliged him to affirm the strength of his love, and the mere sound of the words disturbed him so that he stopped short, to collect his thoughts.
'You do not act as though you loved her,' said Frau von Sigmundskron coldly. Two days earlier it had seemed to her that in renouncing Hilda he was giving proof of a heroic devotion, and yet she was not really an inconsistent woman.
'I mean to,' answered Greif rather hotly. 'If I refuse to marry her, it is because I love her too much to do her such an irreparable injury. I do not see how I could love her more. As for the rest, it has nothing to do with my love or hers. You are the only heir to Greifenstein after me, and when I die it will in any case be all yours, or Hilda's. I can do nothing with so much, and you may as well have the benefit of what will be yours some day—perhaps very soon. Is that unreasonable? Does that offend you? If it does, let us say no more about it, and forgive me for having said as much.'
'It would be better not to speak of the fortune,' said the baroness, beginning to relent.
'And you understand me—about Hilda?'
'I cannot say that I do,' replied Frau von Sigmundskron with all the obstinacy of a good woman thoroughly roused in what she believes to be a good cause. 'You love her, and yet you are willing to make her miserably unhappy. The two facts do not agree.'
Greif suppressed a groan and looked at the trees before he answered. If she would only have left him alone, it would have been so much easier to do what he knew was right.
'It is perhaps better that she should be unhappy for a time, now, while she is young, than regret her name when she has taken mine.' His own words had a sententious sound in his ear and he felt that they were utterly inadequate, but he was fighting against heavy odds and did not know what to say.
'I tell you that the child would die of a broken heart!' exclaimed the baroness with the greatest conviction. 'You say you love her, but you do not know her as I do. I suppose you will allow that it would be better that she should have moments of regret in a lifetime of happiness, than that she should die.'
She was certainly using strong language, but the time was passing rapidly and in the distance she could distinguish already the grey towers of Sigmundskron crowning the beetling crag. She was to be pardoned if she seemed to exaggerate Hilda's danger, but she believed every word she spoke, and she was growing more and more nervous at every turn of the road.
'If I believed that, if I even thought that were better for Hilda's happiness—'
Greif left the sentence unfinished, for he felt that he was on the edge of the precipice, though he was still inwardly convinced that he was right and that she was wrong. The baroness thought the day was almost won. All her anger melted away in the prospect of success and she talked much and earnestly, dilating upon the situation and using every argument of persuasion which she could devise. But Greif said little, and though he was careful not to offend her afresh, he did not again come so near to committing himself, as he had done once.
'And for that matter,' said the baroness, as the carriage swung round the curve and began the last ascent that ended at the castle gate, 'for that matter, you can call yourself Sigmundskron instead of Greifenstein.'
Greif moved uneasily in his furs. It seemed as though everything were conspiring against him.
* * *
CHAPTER XVIII
Hilda's quick eyes had discerned the carriage when it was still far down upon the road, a mere moving speck in the distance. She had thought it probable that her mother would return on that day, and she knew that she would be driven over from Greifenstein. Moreover, it was very likely that Greif would accompany her, and from the moment when she first saw the vehicle, she watched it and followed it along the winding road until she could clearly see that a man was seated beside her mother. Then the look of anxiety disappeared all at once from her fair face, and was followed by an expression of satisfied happiness which would have been good to see if any one had been there to watch her.
She was standing upon a high part of the half-ruined building, on the northern side, and a person looking up from the road below could have seen her tall figure in strong relief against the pale winter sky. She had dressed herself all in black, but a wide mantle of coarse grey woollen stuff, gathered into a hood at the top and drawn tightly round her against the biting wind, concealed all her figure, leaving only her face visible. Rough and poor as the material was, it became her well, better perhaps than the richest furs could have done. Its folds fell gracefully to her feet as she held the cloak closely about her, and the unbroken neutral tint showed her height more plainly, and set off the marvellous beauty of her skin with a better contrast than any brighter colour.
Sigmundskron had been very desolate and lonely during the last two days, since Hilda's mother had ridden away through the bitter night to do her duty in the house of death. Of course both Hilda and the faithful Berbel had their occupations as usual, and talked over them when they were together, but the time had passed slowly and heavily. Hilda could form no clear conception of what had taken place, from the confused account of the groom who had brought the news. The idea that her uncle Greifenstein and her aunt Clara were both dead, as well as another unknown gentleman who had been with them, was very dreadful; but Hilda knew so little of death, that the story seemed melancholy and weird to her imagination rather than ghastly and vivid with realised horror. By no effort of her mind could she fancy how the three looked, for she had never seen any one dead in her whole life. She had read of violent deeds in history, but they seemed more like ugly fairy stories than realities, and the tragedy of Greifenstein struck her in a very similar light. It was as though some strange evil genius had passed through the forest, scarce twenty miles from her home, destroying all that he found in his way. They were gone, suddenly, like the light of a candle extinguished, and she should never see them again. They had crossed the boundary into the wonderful land beyond, and perhaps from where they were now they could see her dreaming about them, and asking herself what that great change meant which only takes place once for each man and each woman in the world. Perhaps—Hilda trembled at the heresy, but let her thoughts run on nevertheless, because after all it was only her imagination that was talking—perhaps that was the end, and there was nothing beyond it. It would be infinitely horrible to be put out of existence altogether, without hope of any life at all afterwards. That might be what was meant by hell, and outer darkness, but upon this point Hilda was not decided. She made up her mind, however, after a little more reflexion, that the Greifensteins could not possibly have been bad enough to deserve to be put out entirely, though she frankly owned to herself that she had never liked her aunt Clara. She was sorry for her now, at all events, and she wished that she had at least made an effort to be more fond of her.
Hilda tried to decide what she should say to Greif when she met him. She never doubted that he would come to Sigmundskron, and in her ignorance of formalities she almost dared to hope that he would stay with her mother for a time. He would certainly not care to remain in Greifenstein for the present. If indeed he should wish to spend a few days with his relations, Hilda foresaw many and great difficulties, but she was surprised that such important household questions as those of bed and board for a possible guest should seem so insignificant when that guest was to be Greif himself.
The real trouble lay in deciding what she should say. It was clear that she could not help looking pleased when he arrived, though it would be her duty to look somewhat sad and sorrowful. Of course she felt for him and he knew it, but he would perhaps expect her to show it very clearly in the first minute and would be hurt if she even smiled. It was not easy not to smile when she saw Greif after a long separation. Perhaps the best way to look very mournful would be to think that he could not marry her for a long time, now, on account of the mourning. But then, Greif had finished his studies and would henceforth be always at home, which in Hilda's opinion would be almost the same thing as being married, provided she could see him all the time.
Then she thought of that strange warning she had given him when they last parted. She had not understood why she spoke, and yet, she had not been able to keep silence. Surely this could not be what was meant. Besides, it was superstitious to believe in such things, and she had been thoughtless in yielding to the impulse. Greif was safe, at all events, and she supposed that everybody's parents must die some day, though not necessarily in such a strange way. Her own father had been killed, too, before she could know him—if she had known him, she would have loved him, as Greif had loved the old gentleman who was now dead.
Hilda became aware that her reflexions were growing more and more heartless and that they did not help her at all, especially as she could not communicate them to Berbel. She resolved not to reflect any more for the present, and applied herself diligently to her household occupations until the morning on which she expected her mother to return. And now she was not to be alone any longer, for the carriage was advancing up the hill and she could plainly see Greif sitting beside the baroness in the big carriage. She knew his fur cap, for it was the same he had worn last year. She gazed a few moments longer at the pair, regretting that she must be thought heartless if she waved her handkerchief as a signal of welcome, and then she swiftly descended the broken steps that led down into the house, closing as well as she could the crazy door of the turret, to keep out at least a little of the strong north wind.
'Berbel! Berbel! Mamma is coming with Herr Greif!' she cried, before she was really within hearing of the room where Berbel was at work.
Her clear voice rang through the stone passages before her as she ran on, repeating the news until Berbel answered her at last.
'Is there anything for dinner?' asked Hilda breathlessly, as she stood in the doorway.
The grey-haired woman looked up from her sewing, over her horn-rimmed glasses. She had a hard, good face, with rough brows, sharp eyes and a large mole upon her chin. She was spotlessly clean, and everything about her was supernaturally neat.
She was broad-shouldered, rather bony than otherwise, and she moved as though nothing were any trouble which merely required exertion.
'There are potatoes,' she answered laconically, but a strangely genial, half comical little smile was twitching at the corners of her solid mouth.
'Nothing else? Oh, Berbel, there must be something else!' Hilda's voice was full of a sudden distress, and her face exhibited considerable dismay.
'I shall find something,' replied the other. 'Better see first whether they are hungry. Poor Herr Greif will not eat much—'
'No—but only potatoes, Berbel!'
'Potato dumplings are good things,' observed the woman.
'And fried potatoes with a stewed hare are better,' she added after a pause.
'Is there a hare, then? Oh, Berbel, you dear old thing, how could you frighten me in that way! Where did you get it? We have not had one for ever so long!'
