Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  And now, after so many years, one stood before her, who craved the right to bear that spotless name, though he had not one drop of old Sigmund’s blood in his veins. She had even offered it to him herself — she wondered how she could have had the courage. What sort of a man was this, who would call himself Sigmundskron, like her dead soldier, and be Sigmundskron in all men’s eyes, and marry Hilda and be the father of many Sigmundskrons to come? She looked at Greif long and wondered what he would turn out to be.

  That he was honourable and true hearted, she knew; that he was brave she had reason to believe; that he loved her daughter well, she knew also. But it was hard. Why did he want the name of her beloved dead? Because his own was stained — not by his fault — but it was darkened and made a reproach. Ay, it is easy for a man with a bad name to desire a good one; it is natural; if he be innocent, it is very pardonable. Greif had a right to ask for it, but would she give it? Would she suffer that which had been so long glorious in itself, that which was made sacred by the shedding of good blood in good cause, that which recalled all she had once worshipped — would she suffer that to be made a mere cloak for the evil deeds of Rieseneck and Greifenstein, murderers and suicides? It was hard to do it.

  And yet she was willing, nay, even glad, that this man should marry her only child, the only daughter of her husband. She loved him in a way, for he was to be her son, the only son she could ever have. Ah, that was it. Greif was to be her son. She gazed into his face and wondered whether, if she had searched the world, she could have found one goodlier and stronger and truer to be a match for her own child, whether if she ever dreamed of what might have been, she saw in her fancy a son more worthy than this. And, after all, he did not ask the boon for his own advantage. He had bravely struggled to give up Hilda rather than let her risk the smallest worldly disadvantage or reproach through him. He asked for this for Hilda’s sake, not for his own, and would it not be a thousand times better that Hilda, and Hilda’s children, should still be Sigmundskron than wear a name black with ill-shed blood? Since she was to have a son given her would she not rather have him Sigmundskron than Greifenstein? Could he ever be a true son to her so long as he was called after those who had treated herself coldly and heartlessly during so many years, and who themselves had come to such an evil end?

  She looked at him once more. Then she put out her hands and took his and drew him close to her so that she could see into his eyes. When she saw what was in them she was glad.

  ‘Will you be a son to me, Greif von Greifenstein?’ she asked solemnly.

  ‘I will indeed, so help me God, and you shall be my mother,’ he answered.

  ‘Then you shall be Sigmundskron,’ she said. ‘You are brave — be as brave as old Sigmund. You are true — be as true as he. You are faithful — be faithful to death, as he was, who was the last of Sigmund’s sons.’

  The white-haired lady rose as she spoke, and drawing him still nearer to her, kissed his smooth young forehead, with the pale lips that had touched no man’s face since her dead husband had gone from her to his death.

  ‘Go and tell Hilda that you will be Sigmundskron to her in deed, and in heart, as well as in name,’ she said.

  As she left the room, erect and with firm step, he saw the bright tears burst from her eyes, and roll down her pallid cheeks, though she would not bend her head nor heed them.

  For many minutes he stood where she had left him, his hand resting upon the edge of the table, his look fixed upon the door, absently and seeing nothing.

  ‘That is what it is to have a spotless name,’ he said, almost aloud.

  He went out softly as though from a hallowed place, and closed the door noiselessly behind him. His small anticipations of what that scene would be like, full of many words and attempts at tactful speech, seemed infinitely pitiful and contemptible now, beside the dignity, the kindness, the noble pride and the grand simplicity of the woman who had given him her name. He walked slowly, and his head was bent in thought as he threaded the well-known passages and stairways to the old rampart where he knew that Hilda was waiting for him.

  She was sitting upon one of the stone projections, hatless in the April sun, her beautiful figure thrown into bold lines and curves as she looked down upon the road, sitting, but half turned upon her seat. She heard the crazy door of the turret creak and rattle, and she moved so that she could see Greif.

  ‘It has not lasted long,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Why do you look so grave?’ she asked quickly as she noticed his face, ‘Has anything happened?’

  He sat down beside her and took her hand.

  ‘Do you know what your mother told me to say to you?’ he asked.

  She shook her head expectantly, and her expression grew bright again.

  ‘She told me to tell you that I would be Sigmundskron to you in deed, and in heart, as well as in name — can I say more?’

  ‘But one thing more,’ she answered, as her arms went round him. ‘But one thing more — that you will be Greif, my Greif, the Greif I love, always and always, whether in my name or yours, until the end!’

  As his own thoughts had dwindled before Frau von Sigmundskron’s earnest dignity, so that in turn grew dim and far away in the presence of Hilda’s love. All had been right in their own way, but Hilda’s speech was the best, and there was the most humanity in it, after all.

  A long time they sat side by side in the sunlight, talking of each other and of themselves as lovers will, and must, if they would talk at all. As they were about to go down, Hilda stopped, just at the entrance of the turret, and swung the broken door gently on its creaking hinges.

  ‘You must not let your cousin hate me, Greif,’ she said, as though the thought troubled the cloudless joy of the future. ‘It would not be right. We must all be one, now and when we two are married. He saved your life by his care — why should he dislike me?’

  ‘He does not, dearest — you are mistaken,’ protested Greif, who was much embarrassed by the question. Hilda faced him at once, laying her hand upon his arm.

  ‘He does, and you must see it. Why does he never come here? Why is he so cold when we go to Greifenstein? I do not care a straw for his like or dislike, except because he is your cousin, and because I think we should all live harmoniously together. The strange thing is that he would give his life for you, and I am sure he is honest, though I cannot see into his eyes as I can into yours. What is the reason? You must know.’

  ‘I do not. I can see that he is very reserved with you and does not like to come here. I asked him only yesterday why he always stayed behind.’

  ‘And what did he say?’ asked Hilda eagerly.

  ‘Nothing to the point. He said he could not be of any use if he did come — which, after all, is absolutely true.’

  ‘You must find out. He dislikes me now, when we are married it will be worse, a year hence he will detest me altogether and tell you so, perhaps.’

  ‘Do you think he would tell me?’ asked Greif with a quiet smile, that did not agree with the sudden glittering of his eyes.

  ‘No,’ laughed Hilda. ‘That is an exaggeration. But he will make us both feel it.’

  ‘In that case we will not ask him to stay with us,’ answered Greif, half carelessly, half in anger at Rex’s imaginary future rudeness.

  He saw that Hilda was annoyed by his cousin’s conduct, for it was the second time she had spoken of it during the visit, and he determined that he would put the matter very plainly to Rex as soon as he reached Greifenstein, the more so as he himself had noticed it and had already asked Rex for an explanation.

  Hilda’s face grew grave. She knew how devoted Rex was to Greif, and she felt as though her future husband were to lose his best friend for a meaningless whim of the latter, in which she was involved against her will.

  ‘That must never be,’ she answered. ‘Next to me, no one loves you as Rex does. I would not have you quarrel for all the world — and it is mere jealousy, Greif, I know—’

  ‘Then h
e must be a very contemptible character,’ said Greif indignantly.

  ‘Because he is so much attached to you that it pains him to see his place taken by another, even by woman? No, sweetheart. That is not contemptible. But you must change it. Tell him to be reasonable—’

  ‘Could I say that you are offended with him?’ asked Greif. ‘Can I go to Rex and tell him that he must not only be civil but must be a friend to you?’

  ‘You are jesting,’ she answered. ‘But it is just what I would do in earnest — what I will do, if you will let me. He would understand that. I would say to him, Herr Rex, you are Greif’s only relation besides ourselves. It is absolutely necessary for his happiness that we should be on good terms, you and I. Is it my fault? He would answer that it was not, for he is honest. Then it is yours, I would say, and the sooner you turn yourself into a friend of mine, the better it will be for Greif, who is the only person you care for in the world. Is not that common sense?’

  ‘Do you mean to say that?’ asked Greif rather anxiously.

  ‘If you will let me, I will,’ answered Hilda, returning to her occupation and swinging the old door slowly between her two hands.

  ‘If I will let you!’ repeated Greif. ‘Do you think I would try to prevent you from saying what you please, darling—’

  ‘You ought to, if you think it would be a mistake — at least, after we are married.’

  ‘I am not sure that I could,’ he answered with a laugh.

  ‘No one else could,’ said Hilda, looking up at him with flashing eyes. ‘If I meant to do a thing, I would do it, of course. Did I not say that I would not let you go?’

  ‘Indeed you did. And you kept your word.’

  ‘And I love you — you know it?’

  ‘It is all I know, or care to know.’

  ‘Well, I will tell you something more. Because I love you, I want to do what you like, and not what I like, and I always will, so long as you love me.’

  Greif drew her to him and held her close, and whispered a tender word into her ear.

  ‘But you must understand,’ she said. ‘It is not because you are to be my husband, that I mean to submit to you. I do not submit at all, and never shall. I am just as strong as you are, and you could not make me yield a hair’s-breadth. But I will always do everything you wish me to do, because I love you, and because you love me, not for any other reason. Do you understand?’

  ‘I would not have it otherwise, my darling — and I will do the same—’

  ‘You cannot quite — you cannot feel as I do, Greif. Perhaps, some day — when you and I are old, Greif — then you will love me as I love you now, but then, you see, I shall have learnt how to love you more, and you will still be hindmost in love’s race — for women are made to love and men to fight, in this world, and though I could fight not badly, if need were, for you, yet I know better how to do the sweeter thing, than you can ever know. Do you not believe me?’

  ‘Since you would have me—’

  ‘You do not — but you will, some day,’ she answered, shaking her beautiful head a little, and tapping the door with her fingers. ‘And now, dear,’ she added, laying her hand in his and beginning to walk up and down the old battlement, ‘and now, shall I tell Rex, or will you?’

  ‘I will tell him,’ said Greif firmly.

  ‘Then promise me not to be angry, Greif. I could do it so well — but it is better so. Promise me that you will say it in such a way as shall make you feel afterwards that you have done the best — even long afterwards; in such a way as to show him how you value his friendship. He saved your life, by his care—’

  ‘And you called me back from death with your eyes—’

  ‘Do not think of my eyes, when you are talking to him,’ interrupted Hilda gravely. ‘Think of all he has done for you, and of what such a noble friendship deserves in return. Think that he is a lonely man, and not so young as you, and that he needs a little affection very much. Think that all I want is that we may be able to live happily together, you and I, and he, when he cares to be with us. But do not think of me — or if you do, think that if you and Rex were parted I should not forgive myself. Do I not owe him your life, as you do? If you had died, because he was not there to tend you — I cannot speak of it — but you owe him much, for it is your life, and I more, for I owe him our two lives together. Will you tell him that?’

  ‘I will try — he will not understand it all.’

  ‘Then, if he has not understood, if you cannot make him see it, then it will be my turn. But you can, Greif dear, I know you can. And it is not a small matter either, though it may seem so now. It is not a small matter to part with such a man as that, nor is it an insignificant evil, that I should have his dislike at the very beginning, before we are married. You must do your best, you must do all you can, and you will succeed — and by and by we will work together. Greif—’ she stopped suddenly and looked at him.

  ‘What is it, dear?’ he asked.

  ‘Greif, do you think I have any other reason for wanting Rex to like me? Do you think I am a vain woman?’

  Greif stared at her a moment and then laughed aloud.

  ‘Why do you laugh?’ she asked, quietly. ‘Perhaps I am right. I have read of girls who were so vain that they wanted every man they saw to like them — and I have never seen any man — young, I mean, but you, until I saw Rex — and so I thought — perhaps—’

  She did not finish the sentence, but stood looking at him with an expression of serious doubt upon her lovely face that made Greif laugh again.

  ‘Because if that were it,’ she said gravely, ‘Rex might go, and I should be glad of it—’

  ‘Hilda! How can you have such ideas!’ cried Greif at last. Her innocence was so astounding that he could not find words to answer her at once.

  ‘There might be just a possibility—’

  ‘That you, in your heart of hearts, are not satisfied with me alone, but want to make a conquest of Rex besides! Poor Rex! How he would laugh at the idea — Hilda, you must not think such things!’

  ‘Is it wrong?’ she asked, turning her clear eyes upon him.

  ‘Wrong? No. It is not wrong to any one but yourself, and it is really very wrong to believe that you could be capable of a contemptible, silly vanity like that.’

  ‘You do not think I should be — what do they call it — a coquette — if you took me into the world?’

  ‘You? Never!’ And Greif laughed again, as he well might.

  In a woman differently brought up it would have been impossible not to suppose that such words were spoken out of sheer affectation, but Greif knew too well how Hilda had lived, to suspect such a thing. Her innocence was such that she did not understand the commonest feelings of women in the world, not even the most harmless.

  ‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘I do not mean to be bad, though I believe it is very easy, and one does not always know it, when one is.’

  ‘I should think one would know it oneself sooner than any one else,’ answered Greif. ‘But if I find out that you are bad, Hilda, I promise to tell you so.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I do not run any risk. What children we are, Hilda! And how pleasant it is to be children together, on a day like this, in a year like this, with such a creature as you, sweetheart!’

  ‘We cannot always be children,’ she answered. ‘Will it be very different then, I wonder? Will there be any change, except the good change of loving more than now?’

  ‘I do not see why there should be. Even if that never came, would it not be enough, as it is?’

  ‘Love must grow, Greif. I feel that. A love that does not grow is already beginning to die.’

  ‘Who told you so many things of love, Hilda?’

  ‘Who told me?’ she repeated, as the quick fire flashed in her eyes. ‘Do I need to be told, to know? Ah, Greif, if you felt what I feel — here—’ she pressed her hand to her side, ‘you would understand that I need no telling, nor ever shall. You are there, dear, the
re in the midst of my heart, more really even than you are before my eyes.’

  ‘You are more eloquent than I, sweetheart,’ said Greif. ‘You leave me nothing to say, except always to repeat what you have said.’

  ‘If I said little—’ She stopped and laughed.

  ‘It is not words only, nor the tones of them that make things true. If I had the skill I could say better what would please you to hear, but having none, I make your speeches my own, to be enough for both of us.’

  ‘Do you never feel as though you must speak, or your heart would burst?’

  ‘No — I wish I could, for then the words would come. I think that the more I feel the less I am able to say.’

  ‘You talked very badly when you were trying to persuade me that we ought not to marry,’ said Hilda, with a side glance at his happy face.

  ‘And you talked well — too well—’

  ‘Which of us two felt the more, I wonder?’