On that morning the ground had been covered with snow, and a bitter wind that cut like a knife had been blowing across the road. It was even yet not spring, but the snow was all gone, and the frost was thawing out of the ground under the warm sun. In a few days the white thorn would begin to bud, and fresh green violet leaves would come out along the borders of the woods. A few birds were already circling in the air above the fir-tops as though expecting to find the flies there already. The warmth and the moisture of everything brought out the sweet smell of the forest and blew it into Greif's face at every turn of the drive.

For the twentieth time since he had been well enough to go out, he watched the st.u.r.dy horses' backs as they drew the light carriage up the last steep ascent. For the twentieth time he looked up as he reached the point whence the lower battlements of the half-ruined castle were visible. As often happened, he descried Hilda's tall figure against the sky, and then immediately the gleam of something white, waved high to welcome him. He wondered how she always knew when he was coming. But Hilda had found that when he came he naturally started always at the same hour, so that every morning she went up, and stood on the rampart for twenty minutes, scanning every bit of the winding road that was in sight. At the end of that time, if she had not seen the carriage, she knew that he was not coming, and descended again into the interior, her face less bright and her eyes less glad than when she had gone up the steps.

There she was to-day, in her accustomed place, and a moment later the sun caught the white handkerchief she waved. As he flourished his in return, Greif wondered how he could ever have come over that same road with the fixed purpose of bidding farewell for ever to her who awaited him, and he was amazed at his own courage in having executed his intention, for he felt that he could not do as much now. But there was little time left him for reflexion. Five minutes later the carriage rattled through the gate into the wide paved court, swung round upon its wheels and stopped before the hall door. Out of the dim shadow Hilda came quickly forward and took his hands, and they were together once more, as they had been so often during the last month and a half.

'I have not come to see you,' said Greif, with a laugh that only half concealed his embarra.s.sment. 'I have to request the honour of an interview with your mother to-day.'

Hilda looked at him a moment and then laughed, too.

'Has it come to this, Greif!' she exclaimed.

'It has come to this,' he answered, his mirth subsiding at the prospect of what was before him.

'And what are you going to say?' she asked. 'That you have changed your mind? That you yield to pressure? That you are the lawful prey of one Hilda von Sigmundskron and cannot escape your fate? Or that you were very ill and never meant it, and are very sorry, and will never do so again? Why did you not bring Rex to talk to me while you are explaining everything to my mother?'

'Rex would not come to-day. He sends his homage--'

'He always does--I believe you invent it--the message I mean. Rex hates me, Greif. Do you know why? Because he is jealous. He thinks you do not care for his society any longer--'

'That is absurd--you must not say such foolish things!'

They reached the door of the sitting-room as he spoke. Greif entered and found himself with the baroness. Hilda closed the door when he had gone in and went away, leaving the two together.

CHAPTER XXII

Frau von Sigmundskron was somewhat surprised when she saw Greif enter the room without Hilda. Greif went up to her with the determination of a man who means to lose no time in getting through an unpleasant business.

'Aunt Therese,' he said--he called his father's cousin 'aunt,' after the German manner--'I told Hilda that I wanted to speak with you alone--do you mind?'

'On the contrary,' answered the baroness. 'Sit down. I will work while you talk. It will help me to understand you.'

'The matter is very simple,' said Greif, seating himself. 'I want to ask whether you are still of the same opinion in regard to my marriage with Hilda, as before I was taken ill.'

'Of course I am--' She looked up, in some surprise.

'Because I am not,' said Greif, delighted with himself at having found a way to make his aunt state her case first.

'Not of my opinion, or not of your own former opinion?' she inquired, rather puzzled.

'I mean to say that I now once more ask for Hilda's hand--'

Frau von Sigmundskron laughed, and laid down her work, to look at his face. She had not expected that he would express himself in such a way.

Then all at once she saw that he had meant to act in the most loyal manner possible, and she grew grave, being pleased with him as she almost always was.

'Do you think you need my consent again, Greif? You have it, with all my heart. You need hardly have asked it, for you knew the answer too well.'

'It is this,' said Greif, coming to the point. 'In the first place, I knew very well what you would say, though I thank you all the same; but it was necessary to come to a clear understanding, because there is another point to be settled upon which much must depend. What I said three months ago holds good to-day. As Greifenstein I cannot marry Hilda. As Greif, I cannot any longer forego the happiness you and she have pressed upon me. But I must have another name--'

'Is it really necessary?' asked the baroness gravely.

'It seems so to me. The papers have been full of our story, and I have received many letters of condolence, and some full of curiosity. It is a tale which no one will forget for many years. Few people could help a.s.sociating disgrace with so much crime. I wish to marry Hilda under a name by which we may become known if we choose to go into the world hereafter, and which may be free from all disagreeable a.s.sociations. You yourself suggested that I should take yours, she has suggested it and so has Rex. If you consent, it seems best that it should be so.'

'Sigmundskron--' She p.r.o.nounced the syllables slowly, almost lovingly, and her eyes were fixed on Greif with a look he did not understand.

He could not know all that the name meant to her. She had married the last man who had borne it by his own right, the gallant young soldier, who was to restore the fallen fortunes of his race, in the only way in which they had ever been restored before, by the faithful service of his country. She remembered how firmly she had believed that he was to be great and famous, how confidently she had hoped to bear him strong, bright-eyed sons worthy of him and like him, who should in their turn do great deeds, of which he should live to be proud. The dream had vanished. Brave Sigmundskron had been shot down like many another, a mere lieutenant, with all his hopes and grand visions of the future, and his wife had been left alone with a widow's pension and her little child. A girl, too--it had seemed as though nothing were to be spared her. If she had had a boy to bring up, another Sigmundskron to grow to better fortunes than his father, and perhaps to realise all his father had dreamed of for himself, it would have been easier then--but a girl!

The name was ended, never to be spoken again, as it had been so many times, in the rollcalls of honour. She had brought him home and laid him beside his fathers, and she herself had broken the shield upon his tomb with her own hands, for he was the last of his race. In him ended the line of ancient Sigmund, as it had begun, in the strife and fury of battle. It had been a glorious line, take it all in all; though its last warrior had been but a poor lieutenant, he had been worthy of his fathers and had died the worthy death. If only Hilda could have been a man!

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 G.o.d, 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 antic.i.p.ations 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sages 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?'