When Berbel had hidden the precious letter among her possessions, she had firmly intended to keep it for some time, before giving it to its owner, but she had not excluded from her calculations the possibility of consulting Hilda upon the matter. In the hurry and confusion of the christening day it had seemed to the good woman that she might wait an indefinite time, leaving Greif in ignorance of the writing, while he grew daily better able to bear such a sudden and vivid quickening of past horrors, as must be brought about in his mind when he should read his father’s message. It appeared to Berbel both wiser and kinder to hide the letter for a long time.
The day had passed off to the satisfaction of every one, and Berbel certainly deserved a share in the success of the christening. She had been indefatigable, wise and provident in all things, just as she had been in the old times when a penny meant more than a gold piece now. She had superintended everything and everybody, from the baby Sigmund to Greif himself, from the christening cake to the potato dumplings of the labourers’ feast. Nothing had escaped her quick eyes, or her ready memory, and all had gone well to the end.
But when all was over Berbel was tired, and she was fain to acknowledge that she was not the woman she had been twenty years before. She was tired with the long day’s work and slept, instead of meditating upon the letter, as she had meant to do. Moreover sleep brought a wiser judgment to her refreshed brain, and when she awoke in the morning she resolved to consult Hilda without delay. Once more she opened her treasure safe and took out the sealed envelope, and looked at it attentively; not that she meant to run the risk of carrying it about with her, but because she wished to fix its appearance in her mind, in order to describe it to Hilda. There was nothing remarkable about the outward look of the letter except, perhaps, the superscription, in which Wastei had detected something of old Greifenstein’s roughness. But Berbel thought it quite natural that he should have addressed it simply, ‘To my son Greif,’ as he had done. To her mind it was more affectionate, and looked better than if he had written ‘Seiner Hochwohlgeboren Herrn Greif von Greifenstein.’ She looked closely at the thing, turning it over and examining it with the utmost attention. But there was nothing worth noticing beyond what she saw at first. The writing was large, heavy and clear, and the envelope was sealed with wax bearing the impress of the Greifenstein arms. There could not be more than one sheet of paper inside, for the letter was very thin. Berbel was somewhat surprised to find it in such good condition, considering that it had lain between the linings of a coat for more than a year and a half, but she reflected that during that time it had been carefully preserved, most probably in a chest or drawer in the recesses of the Jew’s shop, and that, after all, there was no particular reason why it should be torn, or stained, or otherwise injured, as though it had been handed about from one person to another ever since it had been written. The pristine freshness of the paper was certainly a little tarnished, and there were a few insignificant creases on its smooth surface; but, on the whole, the letter looked as though it might have been written but a few weeks before it had fallen into Berbel’s hands. It struck the good woman that Hilda would certainly wish to hear the whole story of Wastei’s discovery, which was strange enough, indeed; and that when she had heard it, that would not be all, for if they decided to give Greif the letter at once, he also must know whence it came.
For a moment Berbel conceived it possible that it might not, after all, contain a farewell communication, since there was nothing to show that it had really been written on the fatal night, but the idea would not bear examination, and when she laid the envelope once more in its place in her box she was firmly persuaded that it contained old Greifenstein’s last words to his son. The longer she thought of this, the more she wondered how on the previous day she could have meditated keeping it from Greif for any length of time. Her motive had assuredly been to save him pain if possible, but at present she saw the whole matter in a different light. At the most, she thought, he might be saddened for a day or two by this message from another world, but it was better that he should suffer a little at present than that he should continue to fancy that his father had forgotten him in his last moments. Berbel was by no means without her share of the national military instinct, which will face annoyance in any shape, or impose it upon others rather than allow a duty of any kind to be eluded, or the execution of its mandates postponed. Better for Greif, she thought, that the matter should be settled at once, better for herself, better for everybody. Delay might be fatal. She herself might die suddenly, and the letter would be found among her belongings. What would be thought of her by her beloved mistress if it were discovered that she had concealed so precious a document? Or Greif might die, without ever knowing that his father had written—a hundred misfortunes might occur to prevent the letter reaching the hands for which it was destined. There was no time like the present, thought the sturdy Berbel, and no day like to-day for doing unpleasant things which could not be avoided.
It was necessary to find an opportunity of speaking with Hilda alone, without danger of interruption, and as soon as possible. It was yet early morning, and Hilda was in all probability still asleep, dreaming of the festivities of the previous day, but it would be important to know whether Greif was up or not, and whether he intended to leave the castle during the morning. Berbel left her room and went down to the court. The men were sure to know if Greif had meant to go into the forest or to stay at home, as he would certainly have given orders for some one to accompany him. He was not like his father, who had loved to tramp all day alone, wearying himself out, and coming home late in the evening, in the perpetual attempt to make the days seem short. Greif was by nature gregarious, and was not satisfied with the society of his dogs, but usually took a couple of men with him, when he could not prevail upon Rex to join in his expeditions.
Berbel went into the court and asked a few questions, carelessly enough. It was a warm morning and the men seemed sleepy after the carousal of the previous night. None of them had received any orders for the day, and those who had anything to do went about their occupations in a leisurely fashion, slowly and deliberately, while those who had no work sat together in a shady corner smoking their porcelain pipes, and discussing the festive reminiscences of the christening, enjoying their idleness as very strong men can, who habitually work hard and say little. It was evident that nothing would be done on that day, and it was probable that Greif would stay at home. Berbel turned away and went towards the entrance of the hall. She was about to go in when she heard footsteps behind her, and on looking round saw Wastei striding up with his long, greyhound step.
‘God greet you, Frau Berbel,’ he said, coming nearer.
He was no longer arrayed in his magnificent velvet coat as on the previous day. Such finery was only for the greatest festivities, and at present he wore no jacket at all, but a rough waistcoat with metal buttons, which hung loose and open over his shirt, and he had a bundle under his arm.
‘Good morning, Wastei,’ answered Berbel, fixing her sharp eyes upon him with a look of inquiry. She wondered why he had come.
‘I have brought you something,’ he remarked, standing still before her, and tapping the bundle he carried with one hand.
‘More trout?’ inquired Berbel with a twitching smile. ‘There is no gold to be picked up to-day, Master Wastei.’
‘Unfortunately,’ he answered. ‘But then one can never know,’ he added reflectively.
‘Out with it!’ exclaimed Berbel who was not in a humour for long conversations.
‘Out with it is soon said,’ returned the other. ‘It is a serious matter. Do you think I can chatter like a magpie without thinking of what I am to say?’
‘Then think, and be quick about it, or I shall go in.’
‘Oh, if you are in a hurry, you may take the bundle without any explanation,’ replied Wastei, holding it out towards her. Berbel took it, and felt it, as though trying to guess what it contained.
‘What is it?’ she asked at length, as her imagination failed to suggest the nature of the contents.
‘It is my coat,’ said Wastei. ‘The old wolf’s coat, if you like it better.’
‘And what am I to do with your coat?’ inquired Berbel. In spite of the question she had thrust the bundle under one arm and held it firmly, with the evident intention of keeping it.
‘When you have given the letter to the baron, you might be so kind as to mend the pocket for me,’ said Wastei calmly.
‘But I told you I should perhaps wait some time before giving the letter.’
‘Yes—but you have thought about that in the night,’ answered Wastei keenly. ‘You will not wait much longer than to-day.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘It would not be like you, Frau Berbel,’ said the man, with affected indifference.
‘Perhaps not,’ replied Berbel, smiling unconsciously at the subtle flattery bestowed upon her scrupulously honest character. ‘Perhaps not. I had thought of it, as you say.’
‘And I had thought that unless the old wolf’s coat were there with the hole in the pocket, Frau Berbel might not be able to make it quite clear that Master Wastei had spoken the truth. But if the truth is quite clear, why then—’ he paused, as though he did not care what might happen in such a case.
Berbel looked at him for a moment, and then laughed a little, a phenomenon which with her was exceedingly unusual.
‘You are really not stupid at all,’ she remarked. The ghost of a smile played about Wastei’s thin lips as he turned his eyes upon her. Their expression was at once keen, cunning and good-natured.
‘Nobody ever said I was particularly dull,’ he answered.
‘Then you want me to show the coat, together with the letter?’
‘Of course.’
‘But when they know that it belonged to Herr von Greifenstein, they will wish to keep it, will they not?’
‘Of course,’ repeated Wastei.
‘And then, when they find that you have bought it honestly, they will want to buy it of you.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you gave twenty marks for it?’
‘Twenty marks.’
‘And you think they will give you more for it, though I shall tell them just what it cost you at the Jew’s?’
‘Of course.’
‘You are not stupid, Wastei. You are not stupid at all. But I thought you imagined the coat would bring you luck. I wonder that you want to part with it!’
‘Do you? Is it not luck if I get more for it than it cost at the Jew’s?’ The man’s eyes twinkled as he spoke.
‘There is certainly something in what you say,’ answered Berbel. ‘I am not surprised that you got it so cheap. You understand a bargain, I see.’
‘And you will be glad, too, Frau Berbel, when you have to explain how the letter was found,’ said Wastei thoughtfully. ‘You will be glad to have the coat in your hands to show, and if they like, they can go to the Jew and he will tell them that I bought it only the other day.’
‘You are quite sure you are telling the truth, Wastei?’
‘I always do, now that I have a gun license,’ he answered. ‘You see, the truth is best for people who have anything to lose.’ ‘Fie, Wastei!’ exclaimed Berbel, half inclined to smile at his odd philosophy, but unwilling to let him see that she could appreciate a jest upon so moral a subject.
‘It is true, Frau Berbel. Not that I ever lied much, either, though I have told some smart tales to the foresters in the old days, when I was a free-shot in the forest, and they were always trying to catch me with a hare in my pocket—and to you too, Frau Berbel, when I used to make you think the game was all right. What did it matter, so long as you had it to eat, you and—well, those were queer times. I suppose you have game whenever you like, now, do you not?’
‘Ay, Wastei—I sometimes could not find any lead in your hares—’
‘That made them lighter to carry and more wholesome to eat,’ observed the other with a chuckle.
‘And I had my doubts about them, of course—’
‘But you did not ask many questions—not very many—did you?’
‘Not always, Wastei,’ answered Berbel with a twitch of the lips. ‘You see I thought it best to believe you, and to treat you like an honest fellow. There were reasons—’
‘Better than doubts, especially when the hare was dead and lying on your kitchen table. Well, well, those times are gone now, and if I ever shot a hare or a roebuck without lead, or pulled the trout out of the stream without making a hole in his nose, why I have forgotten it, and I will not do it again, I promise you. I am growing old, Frau Berbel, I am growing old.’
‘And wise, I hope—’
‘When a man is young he can do without a gun license,’ observed Wastei. ‘When the years begin to come, he wants that and other things too. May-wine in May, Frau Berbel, and brown beer in October.’
‘And all the cherry spirits you can pick up, between times, I suppose. What are the other things?’
‘A good house to live in, and a good wife to roll the potato dumplings. These are two things that are good when the grey years come.’
‘You put the house before the wife, I see,’ remarked Berbel.
‘Because if I had a good house I could have the good wife fast enough. Wastei is not so dull as he looks. He has looked about him in the world. Ay, Frau Berbel, now if you were thinking of being married and had your choice of two men, would you choose the one with a house or the one without? It is a simple question.’ ‘Very simple, Master Wastei,’ answered Berbel, stiffening her stiff neck a little. ‘So simple that it is of no use to think about it, nor even to ask it. When do you want your coat back?’
‘I want a coat, but not that one—whenever you please. But do not hurry yourself, for I shall not catch cold, and my sweetheart does not care whether I have one or not.’
‘So you have a sweetheart, have you?’
‘Ay, and a treasure, too—in my waistcoat pocket,’ explained Wastei, showing the shining edge of the gold piece he had received on the previous day. ‘She has yellow hair, like the lady Hilda’s, and a golden heart like Frau Berbel’s—I only wish she were as big.’
‘Fie, Wastei—making compliments at this time of day, and to an old woman!’
‘Old friends, old logs, old spirits,’ observed Wastei. ‘We have known each other a long time, Frau Berbel, in good and bad days, summer and winter, and you have always been the same to me.’
‘Small credit for that!’ exclaimed Berbel. ‘You have done me many a good turn in twenty years, and my ladies too, and you have never got much by it, that I can see—more praise to you!’
‘Nonsense!’ ejaculated Wastei, who was visibly affected by the speech. ‘God greet you, Frau Berbel!’ he added, turning away abruptly and leaving her standing alone in the court.
Berbel looked after him for a few seconds, and there was an unusually tender expression in her sharp eyes, as she watched his retreating figure. He had been a wild fellow in his day, a daring poacher, an intrepid drinker of fiery cherry spirits, always the first in a fight and the last out of it, the terror of the head forester and his men, the object of old Greifenstein’s inveterate hatred, the admiration of the village maidens for twenty miles around, the central figure in a hundred adventures and hairbreadth escapes of all kinds, and yet, as though he were miraculously preserved from harm, he had always managed to keep out of trouble, and though many a time suspected of making free with the game, yet never convicted, nor even brought to a trial. It had been impossible to catch him and impossible to prove anything against him. At last the head forester, who had a secret reverence for his extraordinary powers of endurance and unrivalled skill in woodcraft, had made terms with him and employed him as a sort of supernumerary upon the government establishment. From that day, Wastei, who would have waged war to the death with all regular foresters, had surrendered at discretion to the kindness shown him, and had given up poaching for ever. Berbel could not help liking him, and being grateful to him for many a good turn he had done the poor ladies at Sigmundskron. She had often distrusted him at first, but after twenty years’ acquaintance and friendship she owned, as she watched him stride away, that he had a heart of gold, as he had said of her but a few moments earlier.
It seemed as though circumstances pointed clearly to the course she had intended to pursue, for since Wastei had brought her the coat it was no longer possible to put off the execution of her purpose. She determined to obtain an interview with Hilda as soon as possible and to place both the garment and the letter in her hands. The reasoning she followed in selecting Hilda for her confidence has been sufficiently explained already. The intimacy existing between the two made such a plan seem most natural to her, Hilda’s strong and sensible nature made it safe, the difficulty of the mission, so far as Greif was concerned, made it appear wisest to leave the matter to his wife’s wisdom and tact. Berbel went upstairs with her bundle under her arm.
Though Hilda had not risen quite so early as her old servant, she was by this time dressed and ready for the morning walk Greif liked so much in the summer time. Berbel met them both in one of the passages, walking quickly, arm in arm, talking and laughing happily as they went. Berbel would have let them pass, seeing that Hilda was not alone, had not the latter stopped and asked a question.
‘What have you got there, Berbel?’ she inquired, looking at the bundle.
‘It is a very important matter,’ answered Berbel. ‘And if you could spare me a few minutes—’
‘Is it really important?’ asked Hilda, leaning on her husband’s arm.
‘Very. And if you could spare the time—’ Berbel looked at Greif.
‘Very well,’ said the latter. ‘I have plenty to do, dear. Finish your business with Berbel and meet me on the tower—there is a man waiting for me, I believe.’
Thereupon Greif went on his way down the broad corridor, leaving Hilda and Berbel to their own devices.
‘What is it?’ asked Hilda, who wanted to lose no time in rejoining her husband.
‘It is a very serious affair, and concerns the baron,’ answered Berbel. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you would come to my room.’
Hilda followed her, wondering what could have happened, and not without some presentiment of evil. When they had reached their destination Berbel carefully bolted the door and turned to her mistress. It was a small bright room, vaulted and whitewashed, simply but comfortably furnished. Hilda sat down and looked up at Berbel’s face, somewhat anxiously.
‘It is nothing bad,’ said Berbel. ‘But it will give pain to the baron, and so I consulted you. I have found a letter written to him by Herr von Greifenstein on the night he died. No one but you can give it to him.’
Hilda started slightly. Anything which recalled the fearful tragedy was necessarily painful and disturbing to the peace of her unclouded happiness.
‘A letter?’ she repeated in a low voice. ‘Where did you find it? They searched everywhere for months. Are you quite sure?’
‘They might have searched for ever, but for the merest accident,’ answered Berbel, beginning to undo her bundle. ‘This,’ she added, unfolding the velvet garment—‘this is the coat Herr von Greifenstein wore when he shot himself.’
Hilda gazed silently at the thing during several seconds, and shuddered at the thoughts it recalled, though she was by no means persuaded that Berbel was not mistaken.
‘How do you know it is?’ she asked at last.
‘It was stolen on that night by one of those city servants who were always at Greifenstein. Your mother did not notice it. The man took it to a Jew, who kept it a year and then hung it up for sale. A few days ago Wastei bought it to wear at the christening.’ ‘But how did he know?’ ‘He guessed it, and found these marks.’
Berbel showed the collar of the coat to Hilda, putting her finger on each spot in succession.
‘It looks like rust,’ said Hilda.
‘It is the blood of Herr von Greifenstein,’ answered Berbel solemnly. ‘The ball went in just below the right ear, as I have heard your mother say more than once.’
‘How horrible!’ exclaimed Hilda, drawing back, though her eyes remained riveted on the rusty marks.
‘It is not gay,’ said Berbel grimly. ‘Now look here. Do you see the pocket? Yes. Well, do you see that the lining is torn just above it? Good. Herr von Greifenstein wrote his letter and slipped it into his pocket, because he was thinking of other things at that moment, and paid no attention to what he did, which was natural enough, poor gentleman. But instead of putting it into the pocket, he happened to slip it through the slit, so that it fell down between the coat and the lining. Do you see?’
‘Yes—and then?’
‘And then he pulled the trigger of his pistol and died. The letter was hidden in the coat, the coat was stolen, taken to the Jew’s and sold to Wastei eighteen months later, with the letter still in it. And Wastei brought me the letter yesterday, and the coat to-day. That is the whole history.’
‘Where is it—the letter?’ asked Hilda in an anxious tone.
Berbel unlocked her little deal chest and withdrew the precious document, which she put into Hilda’s hand. Hilda turned it over and over, and looked from it to the coat, and back again to the sealed envelope, reading the address again and again.
‘It is a strange story,’ she said at last. ‘But I do not see that there can be any doubt. O Berbel, Berbel! What do you think there is written inside this little bit of paper?’
‘A few words to say good-bye to his son, I suppose,’ the woman answered.
‘If it were only that—’ Hilda did not finish the sentence, but her face grew slowly pale and she stared vacantly out of the window, while the hand that held the letter rested on her knee.
‘I do not see that it can be anything else,’ said Berbel quietly. ‘It cannot be a will, for they found everything about the property. What could the poor gentleman say except “Good-bye,” and “God bless you”? It seems very simple to me. Of course I knew that it would make the baron very sad to read it, and so I came to you, because I knew you could find just the right moment to give it to him, and just the right words to say, and it seemed wrong in me to keep it even a day. At first, I thought I ought to put it away and wait a year or two, until he had quite forgotten the first shock—but then—’
‘Thank heaven you did not!’ exclaimed Hilda.
‘Well, I am glad I have pleased you,’ observed Berbel in her sharp, good-natured way.
‘Pleased? Oh, anything would have pleased me better than this thing! It is dreadful, after all this time has passed—’
‘But, after all,’ suggested Berbel, ‘it is only the affair of a day or two, and the baron will be very glad, afterwards, to feel that his father had not forgotten him.’
‘You do not understand,’ answered Hilda with increasing anxiety. ‘We never knew why they killed themselves—it is an awful secret, and the explanation is in this letter.’
‘You never knew!’ cried Berbel in great astonishment. It had not entered her comprehension that the real facts could be unknown, though they had never been communicated to herself.
‘No—neither I nor my husband, and I had hoped that as all has turned out happily we might never know. It would have been far better, far better!’
‘Yes, far better,’ echoed Berbel, whose simple calculations had been upset by the news, and who began to wish that the coat had fallen into other hands.
Hilda sat quite still, thinking what she should do. The situation was painful from its very simplicity, for it was assuredly her duty to go to her husband and give him the letter, telling him the whole truth at once. He had a right to receive the message from his dead father without a moment’s delay, and she knew it, though she hesitated at the thought of what might follow. Her beautiful young face was pale with anxiety, and her bright eyes were veiled by sad thoughts. Poor Berbel was terribly distressed at the result of her discovery and tried to imagine some means of improving the situation.
‘If you would let me,’ she said, at last, ‘I would take the letter to the baron and explain—if it would hurt you—’
‘You? I?’ cried Hilda almost fiercely. ‘It is of him I am thinking, and of what he will suffer. What does it matter for me? It is my duty, and I must do it—am I his wife only when the sun shines and we are happy? Ah, Berbel, you should know better than that!’
‘I only wanted to spare you,’ said Berbel humbly.
Hilda looked up quickly and then took the old servant’s hand kindly in hers.
‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘But you must think first of him, always—if you love me. Berbel—are you perfectly sure that all this is true and real, that no wicked person is trying to do us some harm?’
‘I am as sure as I can be—Wastei said I might ask the Jew, if I pleased.’
‘It is true—it is Wastei. Unless he is mistaken himself there can be no doubt, then. But it is all so strange!’
It was stranger still, perhaps, that Wastei’s name should be enough to dispel in Hilda’s mind all doubts as to the truth of the story, and yet she would have believed the wild, kind-hearted free-shot sooner than many a respectable member of society.
‘Put away the coat, Berbel,’ she said after a pause. ‘He will not need to see it when he has read the letter, and it would hurt him, as it hurts me.’
‘Shall I give it back to Wastei?’ inquired Berbel, folding it up.
‘No, oh no! Put it away carefully where it will be safe, but where no one will ever see it again.’
‘Wastei gave twenty marks for it,’ observed Berbel. ‘It is not fair that he should lose his money.’ She could not help speaking a good word for her old friend.
‘Give him forty to buy a new one. He has been honest, very honest.’ Hilda sighed, thinking, perhaps, of all the pain that might have been spared, if Wastei had put the letter into the fire, instead of giving it to Berbel.
The good woman carefully folded the coat and hid it away in the recesses of a huge press that filled the end of the room. Then she rolled up the coloured handkerchief and put it into her pocket.
‘It is Wastei’s,’ she said, as her mistress watched her.
The disappearance of the coat recalled to Hilda the duty of acting immediately, and she rose from her seat with a heavy heart. As she was about to leave the room a thought crossed her mind, and she stopped.
‘Berbel,’ she said, ‘my mother must never know that this has been found, or at least, you must never speak of it to her or to any one, and you must tell Wastei to hold his tongue. She has had sorrow enough in her life, and we need not add any more, now that she is so happy.’
‘Good,’ answered Berbel. ‘I will not talk about it, and as for Wastei, I would trust him with anything.’
Hilda slipped the fatal letter into the bosom of her frock and went in search of her husband.
Greif had not found the man who was supposed to be waiting for him, and he himself had sat down to wait for Hilda on the shady side of the great tower. The air was warm and fragrant, even at that height, with the odour of the pines, and the sun was not yet high enough to make it unpleasantly hot. Through the bright, sunlit distance Greif could see many a familiar landmark of the forest, and as he sat there doing nothing, he amused himself half unconsciously with counting the points in the surrounding landscape which he had visited, and those he had never reached, and the number of the former greatly exceeded that of the rest. It was a very peaceful scene, and Greif breathed in the smooth refreshing air with delight, while his eyes wandered lazily up and down the heights and along the feathery green crests of the forest’s waves. For all the firs and pines were still tipped with the green of their new-grown shoots, though the autumn winds and the winter snows would soon stain the newcomers as black as the old boughs on which they grew. The time is short indeed, during which the Black Forest is not black, but takes a softer hue, and a warmer light. The autumn comes early, the spring comes late, there is but little summer, and the winter has it all to himself during the rest of the time. But though the summer days be few, they are of exquisite beauty, such as are rarely seen elsewhere in Europe. Greif knew, as he sat by his tower, that they were nearly over, and he was the more grateful for the delight of the soft sunshine, of the green treetops, of the fragrance of the forest coming up to his nostrils over the grey ramparts, of the short whistle of the shooting swallows, that seemed to spring up like the spray of a fountain out of the abyss beneath, and after circling the highest pinnacle of the castle fell again with lightning speed into the cool depths below. Greif listened to the rushing noise of their wings, and to their short, clear cry, and he wished that Hilda were beside him, to help him to enjoy the more what already gave him such keen pleasure. To him, indeed, Sigmundskron still had the charm of novelty. Its situation on a high and projecting crag was very different from that of Greifenstein, which latter was but the three-cornered end of a precipitous promontory, cut off from the forest by its single enormous bulwark. Sigmundskron commanded a view of many miles over the landscape below, while Greifenstein lay much lower, and a man standing on the topmost rampart could but just look over the level sea of the treetops to the higher hills in the distance beyond.
Greif was very happy. It seemed to him as though all the possible unhappiness of his life had concentrated itself into a very short time, not extending over more than a few days, from the moment when he had received news of the catastrophe in the hall at the banquet at Schwarzburg, to that in which the delirium of his fever had overtaken him. The rest had been but little troubled by the tragedy which had left him alone in the world. Nothing cuts us off from the past more effectually than a dangerous illness in which we are for the most part unconscious. Greif had felt, when he recovered, that he was completely separated from the former time, and the sensation had itself contributed to his recovery, by deadening the sense of pain that had been with him so constantly before he broke down altogether. Rex had not been ill, and to him the past did not seem so distant; moreover he knew what Greif did not know, and had greater cause for sadness. Greif was happy, and he knew it. It appeared impossible, so far as he could see, that anything should arise out of the gloom of Greifenstein to trouble his serenity in Sigmundskron. Every effort had been made by him and Rex together to discover some clue to the mystery, which for Rex was no mystery any longer, and nothing had been found which could cast the smallest light upon what had happened. Rex suggested the possibility of a sudden madness having overtaken one or more of the party, and Greif was so easily satisfied, and so glad to bury the past, that he accepted the idea without defining it. He reflected, indeed, that under no imaginable circumstances could his present be touched or disturbed by the true explanation of the tragedy, should it ever be found, and he was content to let the tide of years flow silently over the place those terrible deeds held in his own life.
It is no wonder that he was happy now, since all his hopes were attained and all his desires satisfied. Being also of a faithful and persistent nature, his satisfaction was solid and permanent. Apart from the one dark spot which was so rapidly fading into the dim distance, he had no regrets; no dreams of what might have been sent rays of false light through his present, no images of disappointed desires haunted him in the silent night, no shadows of a lost joy, still madly anticipated in the distorted anachronisms of a wounded heart, came between him and Hilda’s glorious beauty. That misery of humanity was unknown to him, in which the soul still looks forward with a beating, throbbing hope to what the memory knows is buried in the depth and dust of twenty years. All was real, present, glorious, happy and complete. If any one had asked him what he most dreaded, he would have said that he dreaded death alone, death for Hilda, death for the sturdy little child that was to bear the name now his, death for himself, though for himself the fear was less than for the other two. That anything but death could bring back those days and nights of agony through which he had once passed, he did not and he could not believe. Even as he sat beneath the shadow of the tower on that summer’s morning he asked himself the question, and the answer was the same as ever. Why, indeed, should he not be left in peace? Why should he even expect the possibility of evil? Evil might come, assuredly, but it must come in some sudden, violent and unexpected shape out of the present, by accident, by illness, by death. The terrors of the past were with the past, and Greif was too strong, and young, and happy to expect misfortune in the present. He sat there, peacefully gazing at the green feathers of the firs and at the circling swallows, and almost laughing to scorn the possibility of a pain that was already near him, that was with him now, as Hilda’s graceful figure emerged from the door of the tower and stood beside him.
Her face was still a little pale, but she looked almost supernaturally beautiful in her gravity. It is possible that if she had been transported into the midst of the world, of that company of half-morbid, half-enthusiastic beings which we define commonly as society, she might not have pleased those tired critics altogether as well as one of themselves, though she would assuredly have surprised them exceedingly, and perhaps when she began to grow old they would remember that they had never seen anything like her. But here, in her natural surroundings, she was magnificent. She was dressed all in white, and the delicate shades of her colouring did not suffer by the contrast, but seemed more perfect and harmonious, blended as all the tints were by the all-pervading light of the clear mountain air in the thin, vapoury blue shadows of the old tower. And the rough grey stone was a harmonious background for her beauty and its rugged surface showed more completely the exquisite outlines of her face and figure. Greif saw her beside him, and could not repress his admiration.
‘Hilda—how beautiful you are!’ he exclaimed, springing to his feet and putting his arms about her.
It seemed as though her perfection had suddenly become visible out of the dream of his cloudless happiness. She smiled faintly as she kissed him, so faintly that he was surprised and drew back, looking into her face.
‘Has anything happened, sweetheart?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Is anything the matter? You are pale, darling, tell me—’
‘Something has happened, Greif, and I will tell you,’ she said, sitting down upon the long stone seat that ran round the base of the tower, and touching the spot beside her with the palm of her hand, as though bidding him do likewise.
His face grew grave as he took his place at her side, still looking into her eyes.
‘It is something that pains you, dear—is it not?’ he asked tenderly.
‘Because it will pain you,’ she answered. ‘You must listen to my story patiently, Greif, for it is not easy to tell, and it is not easy to hear. But I will do my best, for it is best to tell it all quite plainly from beginning to end, is it not?’
‘Yes,’ answered Greif nervously. ‘Please tell me all quite frankly.’
‘It is about your father, Greif—about all that happened on that dreadful night at Greifenstein. Yes, darling, I will try and be quick. You know when—after they were dead, my mother went over, and did what she could until you came. You know, too, that the house was full of servants, whom your father was always changing—you sent them all away last year. Well, one of those wretches stole—had the heart to steal at that fearful time—a coat—one that belonged to your father—indeed—’ she hesitated.
‘And you have found it,’ asked Greif, whose face relaxed suddenly. He thought it was but a common theft, and was immensely relieved.
‘Yes, we have found it,’ continued Hilda. ‘But it was not a common coat, dear—it was the very one in which—the one he had on, I mean, when—’
‘I understand,’ Greif said in a low voice.
Hilda looked away, and clasped her hands upon her knee, making an effort to tell her story connectedly. She knew that it would be far better that Greif should be prepared by the knowledge of the details which it would be hard to communicate to him afterwards.
‘Yes,’ she continued, ‘and the wretched servant took it to a Jew and sold it, and the Jew hid it—I suppose because he knew it was stolen—and long afterwards, only a very few days ago, he sold it to Wastei—and Wastei gave it to Berbel, and Berbel showed it to me.’
‘Is it safe?’ asked Greif, almost under his breath.
‘Yes—quite safe.’
‘Then I do not want to see it—’
‘I have not told you all, dear. There is more. If it had been only that—but there is something else. The coat was torn inside, above the pocket, so that something that had been meant for the pocket had slipped down inside. It was very strange!’
‘Something of his?’
‘Of his—for you. Oh, Greif—it is the letter you searched for so long and could never find!’
Greif’s face turned white and his voice was thick and indistinct.
‘Give it to me,’ he tried to say, and he held out his hand to receive it.
Without another word Hilda drew the sealed envelope from the bosom of her frock and gave it to him, not daring to look at him. Then she rose and would have left him alone, but with one hand he caught hers and held her back.
‘Together, dear,’ he almost whispered.
Greif was stunned and shocked. It seemed as though the dead man had risen from his grave to deliver his message himself, to tell his own story and reveal his own secret. With trembling fingers Greif turned the envelope over and over, scarcely able to read the superscription at first, then glancing curiously at the impress on the seal, doubting, as Hilda had doubted, that it was perhaps not genuine. But his memory told him the truth. He knew the paper well, and as trivial details come before the mind in the most appalling moments of life, so he remembered instantly the whole appearance of the library at Greifenstein, the table with the huge old silver inkstand, the rack that had held that very writing paper, the heavy, clumsy seal that had sealed that envelope, and which always lay beside the blotter and next to the sealing wax. It all came back to him so vividly that, even if the letter had been a forgery, he would have believed it genuine, from the mere force of the associations it evoked. He held it in his hands and hesitated.
Within that narrow bit of folded paper was contained the secret of his father’s death, of his mother’s sudden end, of Rieseneck’s suicide. He had not a doubt of it, though he had not realised it at first. A sort of mist veiled his eyes and darkened the glorious day. It seemed so strange that such a poor scrap of perishable rag should hold the key to so great a mystery, the solution to such a fearful question. Within that cover was a sheet of paper and on it he should see characters traced in a familiar hand. He closed his eyes and fancied that he already saw the writing, for he had often imagined how it would look, during his long search. Again and again in his dreams, he had laid his hand upon that envelope, and had broken the seal and had read those short words of tender farewell which he felt must have been in his father’s heart at the supreme moment. And now he held the reality and yet he shut out the light of day in order to call up the fancy that had so often consoled his imagination. But the reality was not one with the dreamland shadow. In the one there had been only words of love and sad regret, in this real letter was written the secret whose effects had so nearly ruined his life, a secret so terrible, that had Hilda guessed it she would have thrust the cruel message from the dead into the flames, rather than allow it to live and stab Greif to the heart.
Hilda did not understand his hesitation, though she knew as well as he himself that the yet unread words contained the solution of the great problem. But she sat patiently by his side, her white hand resting on his shoulder, her anxious face turned towards his, her lips already parted, as though but awaiting her breath to speak words of consolation for the suffering that had not yet begun.
Greif roused himself, as though ashamed of the emotion he had shown, though indeed he had seemed outwardly calm enough. He pressed his lips together and ran his finger through the upper side of the envelope, so as not to break the seal. His hands did not tremble any longer, and with the action all his dreams vanished in the broad light of the summer morning. Carefully he withdrew the sheet and spread it out.
‘Shall I go, sweetheart? Would you rather be alone?’ Hilda asked once more.
‘No, darling. Read it with me—let us read it together,’ he answered quietly, as though he were speaking in some sacred presence.
Hilda bent her golden head forward until it was close to his, and their cheeks touched as they read together the contents.
‘My dear Greif, my beloved son—first of all, I remind you that you are a man and a brave one, and I solemnly enjoin upon you to act like one, and to put your trust in God. A great misfortune has befallen you, and at the moment of death I look to you to bear its burden in a manner worthy of a German gentleman. Heaven will certainly atone to you for the injustice of a cruel destiny. Your mother was the lawful wife of my brother Rieseneck. She has deceived me for five and twenty years, until his sudden coming revealed to me all her crimes within an hour. You are therefore illegitimate and nameless, and not one penny of my fortune is yours. I am utterly dishonoured by this enormous wickedness. My brother and I have done justice upon the woman Clara Kurtz, Freiherrin von Rieseneck, after receiving her full confession, and nothing remains for us but to die decently. As for you, I need not point out your course. You will declare the truth to my cousin Therese von Sigmundskron, who is the sole heir to all my fortune and estates, being next of kin in the line of the Greifensteins. You will renounce your engagement to marry Hilda von Sigmundskron. You will enter the ranks and serve your king as a private soldier, which is the only course open to a penniless gentleman. I know you too well to think you will hesitate a moment. My brother leaves a son by his wife, who goes by the name of Rex, and to whom he is now writing. Perhaps it is the student of whom you have spoken often to me lately. He is your brother as Rieseneck is mine, and he is rich by his father’s death. But you will accept nothing from him, nor from any one else except your sovereign, who, if he learns your story, may help you if he be graciously pleased to do so.
‘My son, I am about to die. I have taken the law into my own hands and I must pay the penalty by the only hand to which I can submit. If I have been at fault towards you, if I have been deceived by this woman through any carelessness of mine, I, your father, implore your forgiveness at this final moment. And so I leave you. May the God of our fathers protect and bless you, and bring you to a nobler end than mine. Though you are nameless and penniless, you can yet be a Christian man; you can be true, you can be brave, and you can give your life, which is all you have to give, to your king and your country. Farewell. Your father,
‘HUGO VON GREIFENSTEIN.’
Strange as it may seem, both Hilda and Greif read this long letter to the end before they paused, almost before they understood what it meant. Their two faces were livid, as they sat in the shadow of the tower, and gazed at each other with wild and staring eyes. The cold sweat of horror stood upon Greif’s forehead, like the drops of moisture on a marble statue when the south wind blows.
But there was a vast difference between Greif’s condition now and his state when he had broken down under the burden of his emotions eighteen months earlier. The calm and peaceful life had strengthened his character and fortified his nerves, and though Hilda expected every moment that he would sink down as he had done on that memorable day, almost unconscious with pain, he nevertheless sat upright in his seat, bracing himself, as it were, against the huge wave of his misfortunes, which had risen from the depths of the tomb to overtake him and annihilate his happiness in a single moment. His comprehension seemed to grow clearer, and he grasped the whole frightful hopelessness of his enormous calamity.
Hilda understood it too, in a measure, but she thought only of his suffering, and not of any possible consequences to herself. With womanly tenderness, she took her handkerchief, and pressed the cool linen to his wet brow, while she could see his broad chest heaving and hear the dull, short sound of his breath between his grinding teeth. Her arms went round him, and tried to draw him to her, but he sat upright like a figure of stone, unbending as a block of granite.
‘Greif!’ she cried at last. ‘Speak to me, dear one—’
‘How can I speak to you, whom I have dishonoured?’ he asked, slowly turning his head towards her and yet trying to draw back from her embrace.
‘Dishonoured me! Ah, Greif—’
‘Yes—Hilda, I am no more your husband, than my wretched father was husband to the creature who bore me—who ruined him and me—’
‘Greif—sweetheart, beloved, are you mad?’
‘Mad? No! The merciful unhinging of that rack of torture which should be my mind, God has denied me. Mad? It were better, for your sake. Mad? I know not what I say. You are not my wife, nor Sigmund, Sigmund, nor I Sigmundskron, nor Greifenstein, nor Hilda’s husband, nor anything that I wot of—save a nameless vagabond who has dishonoured Hilda—’
‘Greif—for the love of Heaven—’
‘Ay, I must speak, and quickly. It is better that you should know all the truth from these lips, foul from their birth—that have kissed yours, though they be not worthy to eat the dust in your path—these lips that kissed that vile thing they called my mother, and that spoke words of sorrow, and uttered cries of grief, at a death too decent for such a being—no, let me speak, take your pure hands from me—I am not your husband! By a name that was never mine, I took your name—thank God you have it still! Your marriage is no marriage, your child is nameless as I am—do you know how the law would call me? One Greif, the bastard son of a certain Herr von Greifenstein and of a woman known as Clara Kurtz—that is the designation of all my honours, that is the description of your child’s father, of the man you have called husband for twelve months and one day! The curse of God in Heaven on that wretch—she was not woman—may the furies of hell not tire of tormenting her accursed soul throughout all ages—yes—I mean my mother, I mean every word I say—I would say more if I knew how! She has done all this—she brought my father to his death, my brave old father, whom I loved, and she has brought me to shame worse than death; and worse than shame or death to me, she has brought dishonour upon the only creature left me to love—oh, death was made too easy for her by those merciful men, they were a thousand times too pitiful, too kind!’
He paused, trembling in every limb with the wrathful passion for which words alone were no satisfaction. Hilda was startled at the violence of his language, and alarmed by the furious look in his eyes, but actual fear was too foreign to her nature to influence her. She understood, now, however, what had escaped her before, namely that he believed their marriage to have been no marriage at all in law. Then her love spoke out, softly at first and with a gentle accent.
‘Greif, my beloved—let them rest in their graves! They cannot harm us.’
‘Not harm us?’ he cried. ‘Do you know that every word I have told you is true—that the curse of that dead woman will pursue us to the end? Do you understand that we are not married man and wife?’
‘That is not true,’ answered Hilda. ‘God made us man and wife—’
‘Ay—but the law—’
‘What is the law to us? Do we not love? Is not that law?’
‘It may be in heaven—’
‘And it is on earth. It is love that has made us what we are, by Heaven’s help. It is neither man nor law, for my love is beyond all laws or men, save you! And this thing, what is it? A voice from the dead cries in our ears that we are not what we are, what I know we are, because a deed of shame was done long years ago of which we knew nothing, nor guessed anything until this moment. Is that justice; is that the law you fear and respect, the law you will allow to come between you and me? There is a better law than that, my beloved, the law that binds me to you with bands of steel, for good or ill, for shame or fame, for honour or dishonour—’
‘Ah—the dishonour of it, Hilda, the dishonour!’
‘The dishonour of what? Of a bit of paper, of a dead woman’s sin and miserable death? Is that all? Or is it for name, or no name? And if it be that, what then? Do you think that if you were but a trooper in the ranks, calling yourself by any meaningless syllables that it crossed your mind to choose, if you were the poorest soldier that ever drew sword, do you think that I would not follow you, and work for you and slave for you, and live as I could, or starve, rather than leave you for one day, a thousand times rather than be Hilda von Sigmundskron and heir to all the wealth of the Greifensteins, as that thing says I am? Could all the laws you talk of prevent me from doing that? And you talk of my dishonour through you! I would beg for you, I would toil for you, I would wear out my body and my soul to get you bread—oh, I would almost sell the hope of heaven for your dear sake! And you say that because you have found this paper I am not your wife! A bit of paper, Greif, between you and me—a bit of paper on the one hand and my love on the other, with all it means, with all that harm or pain to you could make it mean, does make it mean, now and for ever! Oh, my beloved, my beloved, have you loved me so long without knowing what love means?’
She would have twined her arm about his neck, but he hid his face in his hands and would not move. To himself, he seemed the basest of mankind, absolutely innocent as he was of every thought or intention of evil. He cursed his weakness in having yielded long ago, in having broken down into unconsciousness, to wake again, weak and enfeebled by his illness, no longer able to break through the spell that drew him towards her. He called himself, in his heart, a traitor, a coward, a weakling, a miserable wretch without strength, or faith, or honour. There were no bounds to his self-abasement, no depths to which he did not sink in his self-judgment. He recalled that morning eighteen months ago when he had come over to Sigmundskron to fight the battle of honour, he remembered the agony of that bitter struggle, the triumph of his heart when he had made the last desperate effort and had gone forth victorious, though the fever was already on him, and he could scarcely see the road under his feet. He reproached himself bitterly with having yielded after winning such a fight, with having stooped to do the bidding of love, after having trampled down every loving instinct and every tender thought within him, in the proud consciousness of doing right for right’s sake only. If he had but been brave still when his body was so weak, all that now was could not have been. He would have cared for neither name nor fame, still less for fortune, without Hilda. But he had yielded, he had grafted the infamy of his birth upon the spotless line of her he loved, and fate had done the rest. The relentless destiny which had overtaken his father, his mother and his brother, had tracked him down and struck him within the boundaries of the false paradise his weakness had built up. He said to himself that he, too, must die, for he was the last and the lowest of living men.
‘Will you not be persuaded, Greif?’ asked Hilda, after a long pause. ‘Do you not see that I am right, and that you are wrong—wrong only in this?’
‘I see nothing,’ he answered, ‘unless it be that I have brought the most irretrievable dishonour upon all I love, as dishonour was brought upon me by him who loved me best.’
‘And if I refuse to be dishonoured, what then?’
‘What then? I do not know what then,’ he answered half absently, not understanding her thoughts.
‘Will you dishonour me in spite of yourself, in spite of my love?’
He did not answer this time, but buried his face in his hands once more, as though trying to shut out the sight of her from his aching eyes. The tones of Hilda’s voice rose and fell faintly, as if they reached him through some thick substance that dulled their distinctness. At first he scarcely knew what she was saying, and he hardly cared.
‘And if my love will not move you, then, I will tell you more,’ she said, with a strong and rising intonation. ‘I tell you that you have not dishonoured me, because I will not be dishonoured. You and I have done right before God, and before man until this day, and if there be wrong now it shall be right and I will make it right. I, Hilda von Sigmundskron, am your wife. I, Hilda von Sigmundskron, will not have it told to the world that I am a disgraced woman, that I am married to a nameless being, the mother of a nameless child. Your wife I am, and you are Sigmundskron and Greifenstein, and so you shall live and die, for I will make it law! There goes the law! Prove that you are a bastard if you can, and that I am a dishonoured woman!’ With a movement like a falcon swooping to the earth and soaring again to heaven, she had snatched the fallen letter from the ground. Before she had finished speaking, her desperate fingers had torn the paper to tiniest scraps and the light shreds were floating fast before the summer breeze, like snow-flakes in the sun, to the deep abyss below the castle wall.