Greifenstein Part 53

'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 pa.s.sed. 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 s.p.a.ce after Hilda had spoken. The thoughts her words called up pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sion 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 wors.h.i.+p 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.

'His hair is white--and it is for me!' Hilda whispered as she leaned upon her husband's shoulder.

Rex's quick ear caught the words, though they were scarcely audible. He looked up, and his stony eyes grew strangely soft and expressive.

'Yes,' he said. 'I know it--but it is not strange. I am glad it is so, for it was in a good cause. You are right, Hilda, my sister--the hour of destiny is pa.s.sed. It has left its marks, but they are pledges that it will not return. The new life begins to-day--give me your hands, both of you--do mine tremble so? It is with happiness, not with pain--oh, not with pain, do not think it! Give me a share in your lives, since you will. I take it gladly, and you shall not regret it. You have my word that you shall never feel one sting when you look at me, you, my brother, you, my sister. I will be a brother to you both, a son to her you both call mother, though, in truth, I am too old for that--but she must be a mother to us all, in place of what none of us have ever had, save Hilda. And I kiss your hand, dear sister--so--it is the pledge--I take yours in mine, brother, and I know you, and you know me, and we can look each into the other's eyes and say I trust, and know that we trust well. There--it is done, and we are joined, we three, for good or evil, to stand together if there be strife still in store for us who have striven so much, to live in brotherly love and peace, if peace is to be ours, until the grey years come and we are laid side by side together.'

'So be it, and may G.o.d bless us all,' said Greif.

'G.o.d will bless us,' answered Hilda softly.

One more pressure of the hands and then Greif and Hilda turned and went away. The door closed softly behind them, and Rex was alone.

He went and took up the revolver that Hilda had laid upon the table, looked at it long, and then placed it in the drawer, and turned the key upon it. Once more he sat down where he had sat so long, and buried his face in his hands, and pressed them to his aching eyes.

The greater sacrifice was accomplished now, and he knew that it was over, and that his years would be in peace, for all was clear and honest and true as the day. He looked up at last, upwards as though searching for something above him, straining his weary sight for a vision that was not granted him.

'I have lived,' he said aloud, in a strange voice. 'I had never lived before, never in all this time. And if they are right, if You are there, You, their G.o.d--then bless me too, with them, and make me like them! Is that a prayer? Why then, I will say Amen, and be it so! It is the only prayer I could ever pray now, to be like them, to be like them--yes, only that, to be like them!'

And Rex meant what he said. He was incapable of seeing that he himself had done anything more than his plain and honourable duty. He knew that he had overcome what had seemed most base in his own eyes, but he would have been amazed if any one had suggested that any credit was due to him for that, since he had but obeyed the law of honour, the only law he knew or recognised. In his own estimation he was not less contemptible for having harboured a thought which would have been dishonourable only if it had been base and gross, but which, being so pure and sacred, was but the natural expression of a n.o.ble heart. But he saw in Hilda and Greif a generosity which seemed boundless when confronted with the evil of which he judged himself guilty, and he felt that genuine grat.i.tude which only a high-souled being can feel in such a case.

Perhaps, if the truth were told, Rex was himself the n.o.blest of the three. It is certain that he had suffered most, and he had a.s.suredly suffered bravely, and fought against what he hated in himself with an earnestness and true-hearted purpose worthy of a good man. Hilda and Greif thought so, at least, as they walked slowly away from his room.

'We have seen a strange and wonderful sight, my beloved,' said Greif, as they came out together again upon the terrace. They had returned thither instinctively in order to be alone.

'Wonderful indeed. Ah, Greif, you were right when you said that he was a grand man. I never thought that there were such men as that nowadays.'

'And we were wrong to say that he was cold.'

'You saw his hair! I was frightened when I thought of what he must have suffered, to make it change like that! Oh, Greif, is it my fault? Have I any fault in it? I should never rest again, if I thought so.'

'What fault of yours can there be?'

'Do you remember, long ago, on that day when you came to ask my mother, here, on this very terrace--I told you to speak to him?'

'Yes. What of it?'

'Perhaps it was vanity after all. Perhaps, if I had let him hate me, or dislike me, or whatever it was--all this might never have happened. It is my fault, it is, I know it is!'

'No, darling--it is not. Things could not then have gone on as they were going, and we both did right. You heard his story--you know how truthful he is. He told us exactly what had happened to him, and he told us for that very reason, in order to make it clear that he had not known it all along, but had realised it suddenly, as he said he did. If he had guessed before that he was in danger of loving you he would not have stayed a day under our roof. But it came upon him all at once, and when it came upon him it was too strong, and too great.'

'And besides, he knew that you were his brother, from the first. That made it worse. How wonderfully he has kept the secret through all this time!'

'There is n.o.body like him. There is only one Rex in the world,' said Greif in a tone of conviction.

'And there is only one Greif in the world,' Hilda answered.

'Fortunately. Do you know? I feel as if Rex were really going to make it easier for us.'

'Easier? How?'

'Easier to keep this thing from your mother. Hilda--it is a fearful story! As we stood there together, when you were speaking, I felt it all, I saw those other three, I heard their voices, I knew what they must have felt and thought and said, on that night. It must have been an awful scene. And here are we--two brothers, as they were--ah, the difference is in you, darling--how can I ever thank you for being Hilda!'

'By loving me, sweetheart. Do not think of that in any other way.

Besides, you owe me nothing. I cannot help loving you. If I did not love you I might hate you, though I think I should admire you, all the same.'

'Admire me!' exclaimed Greif, with an honest laugh.

'You were grand to-day--you were so generous!'

'I do not see much generosity--'

'You are not a woman. How can you see anything! Do you think that every man would have put out his hand to another who loved his wife and said so? It was splendid--I was so proud of you.'

'What else could I have done? And then, I was not jealous, I am not now, I never shall be, of him.'

'You are right in that, dear. That is not the sort of love that a man need be jealous of. It is not love at all, as we think of love, strong as it is.'

'How much you know!'

'I know about love--yes, a great deal, for I have thought about it, ever since I first loved you, when I was little. Yes, I know much about love, much more than you would think. What Rex feels, is a sort of wild adoration, half ecstasy, half imagination, which he connects in some way with my face and the sound of my voice. That is all. It is not like what I feel for you, or you for me. He would not be sorry if I died. It would make it easier for him. He would build temples to me, and kneel before a picture of me, and be quite as happy as he is now. One sees that. And yet it is all so real, and he suffers so fearfully, that his hair has turned white. Poor fellow, and I am so very fond of him!'

'What makes you think all you say, Hilda?' asked Greif, growing interested in her strange view of the case.

'The whole thing. He is as fond of you as ever, and more so, just as you are of him. Now if it were our sort of love, you two would instinctively go and cut each other's throats, and that would be the natural ending.

Instead of that, you love each other like brothers as you are. Do you not see that it must be a different kind of love from ours?'

'Yes. You are right. But it is not less real.'

'Less real? No! It seems more real to him than ours could ever seem, if he were capable of it. That is the reason why he is so grand, and true and n.o.ble--being placed as he is. If he loved me as you have always loved me, I should hate him, even if I pitied him; I should want him to go away, so that I might never see him again, nor hear of him. I should be miserable so long as he were under the roof. And instead of that--I feel that he is a dear brother and a true friend.'

'So do I.'