Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘You would not be Greif.’

  ‘Nor should I be my miserable self, if I acted this lie before your mother!’

  ‘You would not be Greif, if you could kill her with the vanity of selfish truth-telling.’

  ‘The vanity! Ay, I have thought of that. Perhaps I am vain, after all — I, who have but little left to be proud of.’

  His head sank on his breast, and he sighed bitterly, wringing his fingers together. He wished he could shed tears, and cry aloud, and faint, as some women do.

  ‘And yet — you have me — not to be proud of, but to love,’ said Hilda gently.

  ‘In spite of all! Is it really true, quite true?’ He shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘It is true.’

  Hilda had no words left with which to persuade him of her unfaltering love, but perhaps at that moment the simple little phrase, with the accent she gave it, told Greif more than many protestations. It seemed to him that the course of his distress was checked suddenly, and that he felt the strain of the cable upon the firm anchor at last. It was the hour of destiny, when one word decides the future of many lives, for good or evil.

  ‘Thank God!’ Greif exclaimed in a low voice. He put out his hand and took hers. ‘I will never ask you again, dear,’ he said presently. ‘It was hard to believe, it seemed as though I ought not to believe it.’

  In spite of all, there was a happy light in his eyes, as he turned them to her and gazed into her face. After all, the terrible things told in the letter had happened long ago, and he was young, in the midst of a glorious present, in the very midst of all that love and happiness could give. It would be many a long year before he could think calmly of the hideous secret, and perhaps his whole life from that day would be more thoughtful and serious than it had been. But it was not in the power of an evil fate to follow him further than that. The curse of the Greifensteins, as people a hundred years ago would have called that strange chain of circumstances in which his race had been involved, had run its course, and had spent itself in the conflict with a woman’s love. Beyond that there was nothing but the smooth haven of rest, which no blast of evil could ruffle, and into which no overwhelming wave of calamity could break.

  Greif scarcely knew how it was that the struggle ended, nor why, when it was over, he felt that he had not lost the day. But nevertheless, it was so, and peace descended upon his soul. For a long time neither he nor Hilda spoke. Very gradually, the colour returned to Greif’s face, and the light to his eyes; very gradually the luminous veil of his happiness descended between him and the shades of the evil dead, not cutting off the memory of their deeds, but hiding the horror of their presence.

  ‘And so Rex is my brother,’ he said at last.

  ‘And mine,’ said Hilda.

  ‘He does not know — or does he?’

  ‘How could he?’

  ‘His father wrote to him — was that letter lost too? Is that yet to come?’ Greif’s heart sank at the thought that all was not over yet.

  ‘But if he had known,’ said Hilda, ‘could he have hidden it so long? And besides, he came with you. If there had been a letter to him, you would have known of it. Who could have given it to him, without your knowledge?’

  ‘Your mother.’

  ‘She never told me of it, though she often wondered that you had nothing.’

  ‘Rex knows!’ exclaimed Greif in a tone of conviction. ‘And he received the letter. I have told you how it was that he confessed to me his real name. He was telling the truth then, for I know him well. He would as soon have told me that he was my brother as my cousin—’

  ‘He would have hesitated to do that—’

  ‘No. You do not know him. He does not value his life a straw, and would as soon have taken that opportunity of parting with it as any other.’

  ‘But how could he have concealed it since? Why should my mother have never told us that his father wrote?’

  ‘Because she felt that I should have been pained to think that Rex had received something and I nothing. It is as clear as day. It explains many things. No one but a brother could have acted as he did all through my illness. I have often seen him looking at me strangely, and I never understood what it meant until now. He knew, and I did not. Besides—’

  ‘What?’ asked Hilda, as he stopped short.

  ‘Well, it would explain, too, why he was so anxious that you and I should be married. If he knew — and he did, I am sure — he saw that if I persisted he would have to tell me the truth, in order that you should have the fortune. I used to wonder why he pressed me so.’ ‘Do you think that was it?’

  ‘What else could he do? He must have ruined me, his brother, if the marriage had not taken place.’

  ‘Would he have done that?’ asked Hilda.

  ‘Rex believes in nothing but honour,’ Greif answered thoughtfully. ‘There is nothing in heaven or earth which could keep him from doing what he thinks honourable. He would ruin me or himself with perfect indifference rather than see an injustice done by the fault of either.’

  ‘He is a strange man.’

  ‘He is a grand man, noble in every part of him, splendidly unselfish, magnificently brave — I wish I were like him.’

  ‘I should not love you. He is cold as stone, though he may be all that you say, and though I am very fond of him.’

  ‘Yes — he is cold. He never loved a woman in his life. But I admire him and respect him, though I never quite understand him. There is always something that escapes me, something beyond my reach. Perhaps that is what they call genius.’

  ‘And yet no one has heard of him. He has never done anything with his talent. It is strange, too, for he is immensely wise. I wonder what the reason can be.’

  ‘He does not believe in anything — not even in greatness.’ answered Greif. ‘I believe his mind is so large that the greatest things seem little to him. I have heard him talk about almost everything at one time or another. The end of all his arguments is that nothing is worth while. And there is a reason, too. His father’s disgrace has pursued him since he was a child.’

  Greif’s voice fell suddenly, and his face grew dark.

  ‘And what should I be, then!’ he exclaimed a moment later.

  ‘What he is, were you in his place.’ Hilda answered. ‘But you are not, you see.’

  ‘But for you, Hilda, but for you.’

  ‘You for me, and I for you, my beloved. That is what love means.’

  Their hearts were too full for either of them to speak much so soon as they approached the question which had so nearly destroyed all their happiness. For a long time they were silent, unconscious of the swift flight of the hours, little guessing what a strange drama was being enacted almost beneath their feet, in the solitary room where Rex had determined to lay down the burden of life in the cause of honour.

  ‘I must go to him.’ said Greif at last.

  ‘To Rex?’

  ‘Yes. I must know how much he knows — though I am sure he knows all.’

  ‘Will you tell him if he does not know?’

  ‘Shall I?’

  ‘He is your brother. He will see it as I do. It is best that he should know.’

  ‘Come then, dear,’ said Greif rising from his seat.

  ‘Shall I go with you?’

  ‘I will bring him out of his room, if he is there, and you can wait a moment in the passage. If not, we will go on together and find him.’

  ‘It is twelve o’clock!’ exclaimed Hilda, glancing up at the great dial in the tower as she rose.

  ‘It has not struck yet,’ answered Greif carelessly.

  They entered the winding staircase together and went down.

  CHAPTER XXX

  REX’S ROOM WAS situated in the upper story of the castle, at no great distance from the staircase through which Greif and Hilda descended. Greif knocked and opened the door almost simultaneously, not waiting for permission to enter. Hilda stood in the corridor outside.

  With a sharp exclamation G
reif sprang forward. Fortunately, his presence of mind did not forsake him, and he did not hesitate an instant. Before Rex could pull the trigger of his revolver, Greif had grappled with him and was trying to wrest the weapon from his grasp. It was an even match, or very nearly so. Neither spoke a word while they both twisted and wrenched and strained for the mastery. Greif’s superior height gave him some advantage, but Rex was compactly built and very strong.

  Very probably, if Greif had made a less sudden entry, Rex would have laid the pistol down with all his usual calm, and would have postponed his intention until he had got his brother out of the room. But Greif had sprung upon him very unexpectedly, and Rex knew instantly that he was detected in his purpose, and must either execute it now or give it up, and resign himself to being treated like a madman, and watched by lynx-eyed keepers day and night.

  Hilda, who heard the noise of the scuffle, but had no idea that such a contest was taking place, approached the open door, supposing from the sound of shuffling feet that the two men were hunting some animal that had got into the room. Just as she stood before the threshold, and caught sight of Greif and Rex wrestling for life, Greif to take the pistol, Rex to put it to his own head, she heard a low, angry voice which she did not recognise. It was more like the growl of an angry wild beast than anything else. Rex was not getting the better in the fight, though he had not lost much. His object was to bring the muzzle of his revolver against his own head, while Greif was doing his utmost to prevent the movement.

  ‘Let me go!’ exclaimed Rex in deep, vibrating tones. ‘Let me go, man — I love your wife, and I mean to die!’

  With a violent effort he twisted his hand upwards, lowering his head as much as he could at the same moment. As the charge exploded, the bullet went crashing through the mirror, and the weapon was wrenched away by other hands than Greif’s, whiter and smaller, but scarcely less strong. Hilda had seen the danger and had joined in the struggle at the critical moment, just in time to save Rex from a dangerous wound, if not from actual death. She had got possession of the chief object of contention, not without risk of being injured herself.

  Rex’s efforts ceased almost immediately. Between his anger at having been forced to relinquish his intention and his profound horror at seeing Hilda at his side almost at the moment when he had said that he loved her, Rex had no strength left. Only a supreme struggle, at once moral and physical, could have forced from his lips the words he had spoken. For a few seconds only his presence of mind failed him. Then the superiority of his nature over ordinary mankind asserted itself. He gently pushed Greif’s hands away, and drew back a step in the direction of the door.

  ‘You know my secret now,’ he said, with a quiet dignity that was almost beautiful to see. ‘I ask but the favour of being left alone.’

  ‘I will not leave you for an instant—’ Greif began, but Hilda interrupted him and passed him quickly.

  She came to Rex and laid one hand upon his shoulder, and looked into his eyes.

  ‘Do you love me? Is it true?’ she asked earnestly, while Greif looked on amazed.

  ‘But for your hand, I should have died with the confession on my lips,’ Rex answered. ‘I love you, yes.’

  ‘Then live, for my sake!’ said Hilda, holding out the hand that had saved him.

  ‘For your sake?’ Rex repeated the words as though scarcely understanding them.

  ‘For my sake and for his,’ Hilda answered, pointing to Greif.

  ‘With that sin against him in my heart? No. I will not. It would be but a traitor’s life, a dog’s life. I will not.’

  ‘You shall, and you will!’ said Hilda, with that grand conviction of power she had shown more than once during her life.

  ‘Only a man who has tried to die is worthy to live in such a case. Do you know what my husband is to you?’

  ‘I know it better than he. I have known it long.’

  ‘Not better than he, or than I. We have learnt the secret today.’

  ‘You know!’ exclaimed Rex in great surprise. ‘Look at those ashes, there upon the floor — they are all I have left of it — and you know! No — you cannot, it is impossible—’

  ‘We know that you are brothers,’ said Hilda, taking his hand in spite of him. ‘There is no secret any more, between us three—’

  ‘And you know that I love you, that I love my brother’s wife, and you would have me live?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Greif, who had not spoken yet. ‘I would have you live, through all our lives, and I would have you two love each other with all your hearts, as I love you both.’

  Rex stared at him, and then at Hilda. He raised one hand, and passed it over his eyes.

  ‘I do not understand,’ he said, in a low voice.

  ‘It is because I understand, that I speak as I do,’ Greif answered earnestly. ‘It is because I know that not a nobler man than you breathes in the world. It is because there is but one Hilda in the earth, and she is mine, as I am hers.’

  ‘You are not human, my brother,’ said Rex. ‘You should wish me dead.’

  ‘If you were any other man but Rex, I might. Being what you are, I wish that we three may never part.’

  ‘Never!’ exclaimed Hilda. ‘Ah, Horst, do you not see that you are my brother, too? Do you not feel that I am your sister — and should brothers and sisters such as we are be made to part?’

  ‘I cannot tell,’ Rex answered. ‘If you would have me live, I can but give you what life is left in me. You know me now. You know what I only learned of myself last night, and what I would have taken to the grave, unknown to any one, to-day. If in your eyes I am so far less base than in my own, if you can look upon me and not loathe me, if you can think of me and not call me traitor, why then this life is yours. And yet, I wonder that you can, seeing that I am what I am. Would you know how it came? You may know if you will, there is less shame to me in that than in the rest. I loved in a dream. I made myself the father of this Hilda in my shadowy visions; I made in my thoughts a mother for her, like her, dead long ago, whom I had loved. I talked with a shadow, I loved a shadow, and the unreal phantasm I loved grew to be like Hilda herself — so like that when I saw they were the same, last night, here upon this very spot, I knew that I must die and quickly. The shadow was the living wife of him for whom I would give all, of my only friend, of my only kinsman, of my only brother. And so, if you had not hindered me, I should have been but a shadow now, myself. It had been best, perhaps. But my life is yours, do with it what you will. It is yours in all honour, such as it is. It was not to escape from torment that I would have died; it was not because I feared by word or deed to break the seal and to show you what was in me. It was to rid my brother and the world of a wretch who had no claim to live.’

  ‘More right than I, or many a better man than I am,’ said Greif, laying his hand upon his brother’s shoulder.

  ‘Be wise, Greif,’ answered Rex. ‘Think well of what is to come. Think well whether you can trust me and trust yourself. For me — I care little. A touch of the finger, a little noise, and you would be rid of me for ever. There is a safety in death, which life cannot give.’

  ‘Do not talk any more of death, dear Horst,’ said Hilda. ‘It is but a year and a few months, since two brothers and one woman, three as we are, in the same bonds save one, all stood together as we stand, perhaps, and by their deeds and deaths wiped away death from our lives. Talk no more of death now — in this other home, where there are other names than those that were dishonoured. Let this be the house of life, as that was the house of death, the home of honest love, as that was the home of treachery, the dwelling of peace, as that was made at last the place of violent and desperate deeds. The hour of destiny is passed. The days without fear begin to-day.’

  It was indeed the decisive moment in the lives of all three, and there was silence for a space after Hilda had spoken. The thoughts her words called up passed rapidly through the minds of her hearers and produced their effect on each. As she had truly said, there was
a mysterious resemblance between the climax and the anti-climax of their history. As Rieseneck and Greifenstein had been half-brothers, so were Greif and Rex; as their fathers had loved one woman, so they also both loved Hilda; as the elder pair might have been, but for the woman who wrought their destruction, honourable, brave and earnest men, so were their sons in reality — the difference lay not so much between the fathers and the sons, as between one woman and the other, between Clara Kurtz and Hilda von Sigmundskron. Instead of ruining both brothers, as Clara had done, Hilda had saved both from destruction, in the place of shame, she had brought honour, in the stead of death she had given life to both. And both looked at her during the silence and wondered inwardly at the beauty of her strength, asking themselves how it was possible that in a few short months this child of the forest, innocent and ignorant of the world, should have attained to proportions that were almost divine in their eyes, should have developed from the simple maiden to the noble woman, from the quiet, gentle girl, to the splendidly dominating incarnation of good, that had more than once overcome their mistaken impulses, and made plain their way before them by the illumination of the right, just as her golden head and gleaming eyes seemed to light up the room in which she stood. They looked at her and wondered, both loving her beyond all earthly things, each in his own way; the one with the earnest, deep-rooted purpose to live and die in all honour for her sake, silent for ever, having spoken once, doing daily homage to her innocence and loveliness, and reverently sacrificing every day for her the very love whereby he lived; the other, loving in her the wife, the mother of his sons, the source of all the glorious happiness that had come upon his early manhood in such an abundant measure, the woman who had saved him, the woman he adored, the woman who was his, as he was hers. Neither had known before how great and good she was, and from this day neither would ever forget one shade of the goodness and the greatness she had revealed to both.

  A baser man than Rex would have suffered and would have foreseen suffering throughout his coming days, in dwelling beside the woman who could not be his. But he was made of better stuff than most men, and his passion had received a stern and sudden check from the force of his commanding will. It was as though Hilda had been deified before him, and had been lifted to a sphere in which he could worship her as a higher being and forget that she was a woman. He bowed his head in thought, while Hilda and Greif stood before him. They saw the white streaks in the soft hair that had been so brown and bright but yesterday, and they glanced at each other, awestruck at the thought of what he must have suffered.