Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘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 com
ing 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!’

  ‘Wastei,’ answered Berbel. Being interpreted, the name signifies Sebastian.

  ‘And Wastei must have got it by poaching — ?’ Hilda’s face fell.

  ‘No — the forester has given him a licence this year, and I mended his breeches. There you have the whole history.’

  Hilda’s spirits revived immediately and she broke into a merry laugh, just as the sound of the horses’ bells was heard jingling in the castle-yard below the window. She ran down the stairs to meet her mother and Greif. The story of the hare and Wastei’s breeches had almost chased away her good intentions to look appropriately sad. The hideous tragedy of the Greifensteins was very far from her simple young life.

  The great carriage swung round and drew up before the door of the hall, and Hilda was already standing upon the low steps. She had thrown back her hood when she had descended from the battlements, and had not replaced it. Her glorious hair looked like bright gold against the darkness of the hall behind her, and as the cloak fell from her on each side, the black of her dress suddenly threw out by contrast the brilliancy of her face. In another moment her mother and she were clasped in each other’s arms, while Greif stood beside them on the steps.

  He closed his eyes for an instant, just as hers were turning toward him. This was the woman he had come to renounce, this was she whose love he could put away at a moment’s notice for the sake of an idea — his heart beat violently and then stood still, so that he turned very pale. Her hand was already in his, and he scarcely dared to look at her.

  ‘Greif — are you ill?’ she asked anxiously.

  He had not seen her smile. He had escaped that, he thought. But as he looked up he saw what was harder to bear than any look of joy at his coming. She, who never used to change colour, was pale to the lips, and in her eyes was a look of terror for him which betrayed all her love, and devotion and power of suffering for him, in the flash of an instant. She had indeed been terrified, for he had turned ashy white as he closed his eyes, and his figure had swayed a little unsteadily as though he had been about to fall.

  ‘Are you ill, Greif?’ she repeated, unconsciously drawing him nearer to her.

  ‘It is nothing. My head turned for a moment,’ he said.

  Hilda was not satisfied, but she saw that whatever had been the matter, he had recovered himself for the present, at least, and she supposed that he was exhausted with the fatigue and grief which had filled the last days. She became silent and preoccupied, as they all entered the hall together and ascended the steps to the sunny sitting-room over the court. Then Frau von Sigmundskron left her alone with Greif, on pretence of taking off her mantle and smoothing her hair, but as she went away she gave him a look which signified that she would not disturb them for some time.

  There was the great stone chimney-piece, just as Greif had seen it in his vision of the meeting, and Hilda sat down beside it, as he had fancied that she would. But the room was not cold, as he had anticipated, for the fire was clear and big, and the sun streamed brightly in through the southern window. He had imagined the place chill and dreary, for he knew that he should need the impression of dreariness to help him. Instead, it was warm and sunny, and though Hilda was still a little pale, her pallor did not produce the effect he had expected. He tried to begin, for in spite of all, his resolution was still unbroken, but the words stuck in his throat.

  ‘Greif,’ said Hilda, looking up suddenly into his face. ‘I do not know how to tell you — I am so sorry, so sorry for you, dear. I have not the words, but it is all in my heart. You understand, do you not?’

  She had risen, seeing that he was still standing, and she came to him, and clasped both her hands upon his shoulder and looked up into his eyes. It would have been easier if she had begun in any other way than that. With her touch upon him, her eyes on his, her breath and soft voice so near, he could not play coldness. But he was strong still.

  His arms went round her swiftly and pressed her to him, and he kissed her as he had never kissed her before, three times in quick succession. Then he gently led her back to her chair and returned to his own place, standing as he had meant to do, to give himself more courage. She submitted wonderingly, without understanding why he made her sit down, and for a few seconds neither spoke. At last he turned away from her and began to talk, looking at the window to avoid her eyes.

  ‘Hilda, a very terrible thing has happened, and I must explain it to you, in order that you may comprehend what I must do. Will you promise me to listen patiently and to forgive me beforehand for all I am going to say?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the young girl rather faintly. The strong presentiment of evil had come upon her again, as it had come that day when he was leaving Greifenstein. She bent her head and covered her eyes with her hand, as though not to see the blow that was to descend, though she must feel its weight. It was all instinctive, for not the faintest thought of what he was going to say could ever have suggested itself to her mind.

  ‘Yes,’ said Greif, ‘it is very terrible. But I have come here to say it and I must say it all. You know what has happened. My poor mother is dead, and those who murdered her, have killed themselves — my father and his half-brother. You did not know that I had an uncle?’

  Hilda shook her head, looking up for a moment.

  ‘He was a bad man, too,’ continued Greif. ‘He had been an officer and had betrayed his trust in the times of revolution, was sentenced and imprisoned; he escaped from the fortress, made his way to South America, and lived there for forty years in exile, until the amnesty was proclaimed. He was not Greifenstein, he was Rieseneck, half-brother to my father by the mother’s side and younger than he. That was bad enough, however. It was the reason why my father lived here in the forest so quietly. He was afraid that people would remember he was Rieseneck’s brother. You see, the affair made a great noise at the time. Your mother knows all about it. Well, it was hard enough, as I say, to have such a disgrace in the family. We did not know that Rieseneck had a son — I found that my best friend — his name is Rex — is he.’

  ‘How strange!’ exclaimed Hilda. ‘Why is his name Rex?’

  ‘It is not, exactly. He and his father called themselves so in order not to be identified. It was almost necessary for them — as it may be for me now.’

  ‘For you?’ asked Hilda in the utmost astonishment. ‘You would change your name — why?’

  Greif stared at her. She seemed not to understand at all, and yet he had gone into Rieseneck’s story merely
to make his own seem more terrible by comparison.

  ‘You must know that, in the world, such calamities as have befallen me leave a mark, a stain even upon the innocent,’ said Greif. ‘The world looks askance at the sons of murderers.’

  ‘And are you afraid of the world, Greif?’ asked Hilda. ‘That is not like you. For the Riesenecks, well, I understand — he was disgraced, condemned, imprisoned. But you! It is like a dreadful story of the dark ages, but there is no shame in it, nothing to be ashamed of. It is terrible, awful, appalling, but you can hold your head as high as any one. Do you suppose it is the first tragedy that ever occurred in your family or in mine? Did not old Sigmund strangle his own brother with his hands, here in this house, seven hundred years ago, and am I ashamed to call him my forefather?’

  ‘That is very different from what has happened to me,’ answered Greif. ‘You cannot understand, but the world judges according to its light. If I, the son of a man who murdered his wife and killed himself, were to present myself to any man of my own rank and ask him for his daughter in marriage I should receive a refusal, and perhaps an indignant one. I am not considered a fit person to marry an innocent girl of my class, I am stamped with a stained name, branded with the sign of others’ crimes, ruined before my life is begun, cut off from happiness, from ambition, from you — O Hilda! that is what I came to tell you — I have spoken very badly — it is best to say it clearly. My beloved, this has taken you from me, and me from you, and has cast me adrift from all that remained, from the greatest and best of all. If I could dare to marry you now, to give you my miserable name, to take you to the home that is darkened by so many deaths — I should be the last and lowest of men! It is of no use, for I feel it — the only honourable thing left for me to do, in so much dishonour, is to leave you for ever and at once. If I were willing still to make you my wife you ought to despise me, and trample the memory of my love under foot as a vile thing. O Hilda, Hilda! it is death to me, but it is best for you.’