He read the words carefully many times. Then he leaned back in his chair and gazed long through the open window at the distant forest. At last he rose and lit a candle. It might be best that he should die now, but if so, this secret must die with him. He had only preserved the writing in case Greif refused to marry Hilda, and now they were not only married, but there was an heir born to them. He held the letter in the midst of the flame, and then the envelope till both were consumed to ashes, and the summer breeze that blew into the room wafted the black remains, light as threads of gossamer, from the table to the floor, and away into dark corners to crumble into dust.

No one could ever guess the secret now, thought Rex, not dreaming that by a strange train of circ.u.mstances another letter had been stored away beneath the same roof but yesterday in the safe keeping of honest Berbel. Greif was safe, thought Rex, as he laid his hand upon the drawer again, to take the other thing from its place. He, Rex, would leave no tell-tale letters behind. It should be sharp, short, complete and decisive. There would be some regrets for the lonely man who was gone, and they would never dream how he had purchased their security with his life. He laid the weapon upon the table before him.

Their security? Surely, that was but a theatrical phrase, with no meaning, spoken to make his miserable death seem grand, or at least worthy. Security implied danger, and what danger could his wretched life bring to Hilda or her husband? The thought that Hilda could ever love him was monstrous, the suggestion that he could ever speak loving words to her he loved, since he knew who she was, stung him like a blow on the mouth. That splendid angel could no more stoop from her superb purity, than he, Rex, could have flung a handful of mud in her divine face--no more than he could have entertained for one horrible instant the thought of sullying what G.o.d had made so white. He had a bitter scorn of that word security, so soon as it had flashed unspoken through his mind; he cursed his own soul for the contemptible thought. And in his self-abas.e.m.e.nt, he was heroic, unconsciously, as heroes are. He was to die, but it was for honour's sake, and not for any foul wrong done to man or woman.

He could say that, with a clear conscience. From the moment when he had felt the truth, and had known that he loved his brother's wife, he had been tortured almost past endurance. Not one sweet thought of Hilda had entered his heart, there was nothing there but the stabbing pain of his own folly, and the scaring consciousness that his folly had ended in the most appalling of all truths. There was nothing in his mind but a relentless hatred of himself, a stunning and sudden comprehension of what he had allowed himself to dream. Even, if there had been no other reason, he deserved to die, he judged himself worthy of death. It was for honour's sake--how could he live and face them all, knowing what he was, even if they did not know? There must be an end, and there could be but one end to his sufferings. He put out his hand and drew the weapon into his grasp.

What was honour, that he should die for it? He had believed in very little beyond himself during forty years, but he believed in honour and had been reckoned a most honourable man among those who had known him.

He had risked his life for it many a time, but now, for its sake, he was to take his own life without risk, deliberately, as he would have shot a wild beast, as he would have crushed a poisonous reptile under his heel.

What was this thing? Was it a fact, a shadow, an idea, a breath, a G.o.d or a devil? What was it, for which such deeds had been done, for which old Greifenstein and Rieseneck had slain his mother and laid down their lives in such stern haste? A man might well ask what he was to die for, thought Rex. Why did it seem base in him to live, even though every moment of his existence were to be spent in rooting out what he so hated, in burning out what had defiled his soul; and why did it seem n.o.ble and brave to die? To die was easy as drawing a breath, to live was a hard and fearful thing. Yet honour said, Die and be satisfied that you are doing right. Did honour always command what was easiest for a man to do? Again, what was it? He had but a few moments left to live, and in a lifetime he had served honour scrupulously. What if it were but a myth, but a legend of fools, a destroying idol worshipped by brave and brainless visionaries, who had more courage than intelligence, more desire to do right than discernment to sift right from wrong? Pity that so many daring, honest men should have been spitted on rapiers, cloven with sabres, riddled with bullet-holes, for the sake of a vain breath, emptier than the gla.s.s he had raised to his lips last night! And yet--he might search, and deny, and argue, and scoff--honour remained a fact.

No, not a fact, a law. A law having rules, and conditions and penalties and rewards all defined in the human heart, all equally beyond the range of the human intelligence. His brain could not imagine a question in which honour was concerned, to which his heart did not give the right answer instantaneously, quicker than the brain itself could have solved the problem. And what the heart told him was right, indubitably and indisputably right. Then he was to die for something he felt but could not understand, for the decision of some power within him, wiser and swifter and surer than the cool head to which he had trusted so long.

To call that power the heart was nonsense, as absurd as to call it a function of the brain. It was distinct from both, it had a being of its own, independent, dominating, tremendous in its effects. In danger the head said, stop; the heart said, go on. And honour, then, was the spontaneous reasoning of this superior power, whatever it might be. But, if it reasoned, so unfailingly and so surely about some things, why had it nothing to say about others? Why could this faultless judge decide of nothing save right and wrong? From habit, doubtless, because we refer no other questions to him. No, for when we ask a question of ourselves, or when one is asked of us by another, we do not always know beforehand which part of ourselves will answer. Mystery of mysteries, to be solved only by a.s.suming that man has an immortal soul. Idle waste of time, thought Rex, looking at the cartridge in his revolver and then slowly setting back the hammer. An idle waste of time, to think of such matters. Honour or no honour, heart or no heart, the mysterious power within him bade him die. Die, then, and be done with it. He held the weapon in his hand, ready to do the deed. One second, and all would be over. At one end of that polished dark blue barrel was life, with all its dishonour, with all its sufferings, with all the monstrous blackness of evil it held, the life of an honest man who loved his brother's wife in spite of himself, and loathed the thought. At the other end was death, swift, sharp, sure, the answer to all questions, the solution of all ills, the medicine for all earthly woe. Rex laid the revolver down, and drew back a little from the table. Was it possible that he was killing himself merely to escape suffering, to rid himself of pain, to desist from a contest too bitter for his endurance? If that were it, Rex was a miserable coward, and not the honourable man he had thought himself. With the instinct that prompts many men to do the same at such moments, he rose from his chair and went to the mirror. He started when he saw himself in it. It was as though the marvellous look of youth that had clung to him so long, had fallen from his face, and left an old man's features behind. His skin was livid, his eyes were sunken, the flesh was drawn and white about his nostrils and brows and temples. His hair and beard, matted with cold sweat, hung in wild disorder about his head and face. It was strange that the bright summer's morning should even seem to change their colour--or was it a defect in the gla.s.s? He looked nearer, and he scarcely dared to believe his eyes. There were grey hairs, whole locks of grey, in the soft brown ma.s.ses. He had heard of such quick changes but had never believed them real. He gazed in silence at the reflexion of himself for some minutes.

'I am an old man,' he said softly, and turned away, forgetting what he had come to see--whether he were a coward or not.

He went back to the table and sat down, supporting his head in his two hands. He realised what he had suffered, and the question returned to his agonised brain. Was he killing himself to escape torture, or out of his love of honour? He wondered bitterly whether any pain could be worse in the future than what he had borne during this night, and during the hours since the dawn had broken in upon him. It seemed impossible.

Then on a sudden, the bright image of Hilda burst upon his sight as he pressed his closed lids with the palms of his hands. Hilda was there before him in all her splendour, he could see every line of her face, every shade of its glorious colouring, every twist of her yellow hair.

The light streamed upon him from the whole vision, and he was looking into the bright depths of her eyes. It was exquisite delight, and yet he felt overwhelmed with shame that he should dare to look and love. It was like him to fight to the utmost. With a supreme effort he opened his eyes, and suffered himself to be dazzled by the violent daylight. The vision was gone, but he understood what he must bear, without a sign of pain, if he were to look upon the reality. And yet he knew his own strength. Face to face with Hilda he could have forced his stony eyes to dulness and his features to an indifferent calm. He could do that and not fail. The clear memory of her he had received in that moment told him how much he was able to resist, but showed him also what that resistance would cost; above all it had exhibited to him in all beauty and clearness of detail that upon which he was never to look again. The pain had been sharp and quick, and was scarcely distinguished from the momentary, involuntary happiness. But he could bear it, and worse. It was not to escape it that he had determined to end his life. Nor would he do the fatal deed if he were sure that he were impelled to it merely in the hope of escaping a little suffering, or much. Whatever his faults might be, he was brave still; braver now, perhaps, than he had ever been. There had been a time when all human action, or inaction, had seemed to him so indifferent in itself and in its consequences, that he had almost scoffed at the idea of contrasting courage with cowardice.

But he had not then been put to the test as he was now.

It was not the fear of what he must bear that drove him from existence.

He was sure of that. He resolutely set himself to think of what life would be in the future, if he chose it, and if he stayed where he was.

It was clear that he could live, if he pleased, and meet Hilda, and Greif, and Hilda's mother, and keep a calm face and a steady voice when he was with them. If it were a question of courage, that would be the least courageous course. It would be easier to suffer anything than to put himself beyond the possibility of ever seeing Hilda again. He owned, in bitter self-contempt, that this was absolutely true. The sting of death was there, in the choice of total extinction, in the act of leaving all that he loved, as well as in the extermination of that self which held the power to love. But for one thought, life would still be sweet. All the torment of an existence made dreadful by the hopelessness of an unquenchable pa.s.sion would be nothing, as compared with the hourly joy of seeing Hilda and of hearing her voice. That would compensate for all things, no matter how horrible, except one; but that one outweighed the rest. The certainty that his whole life hereafter must be one long act of treachery to Greif must overbalance everything else.

That was the point of honour he had sought to explain. He thought he had been mistaken, and that his self-hatred and self-contempt had really but little to do with his decision. It was neither for his own sake, nor for Hilda's that he must leave the world so suddenly, but for Greif's. Greif was his trusted friend, Greif was his cousin, Greif was his brother. To feel what he felt for that brother's wife was treachery, no matter how he should hide his feelings or fight against them. The time would a.s.suredly come when he must hate this man, as he now loved him, and his jealousy would take some active shape, and do Greif some real injury.

At any cost, such a catastrophe must be warded off. To leave the two in their happiness and to go away, plunging again into the old existence he hated, would be of no avail. Rex knew human nature well, and was wise enough to include himself in what he knew. He was sure that, sooner or later, his resolution to keep away from Sigmundskron would break down, as much through the insistance of Greif and Hilda, as on account of his own inclinations. Here, too, the humanity of the man showed itself, as well as the weakest points in his self-knowledge and reasoning.

Rex might and could have left Sigmundskron then, and his courage would a.s.suredly have kept him away longer than he suspected, even long enough, perhaps, to cool the heat of his pa.s.sion and make his return both possible and safe. Had he been called upon to decide the case for another he would in all probability have advised such a course, for he would then have taken into consideration the value of life as a factor in the question. But, for his own part, he held his existence as of little worth, and it would not have needed half of what he now suffered to prompt him to part with it. At any time during the last ten years, a severe shock to his feelings, or a fit of unconquerable melancholy, would have been enough to suggest to him the advisability of making a precipitate exit from the stage on which he found himself. Death had long possessed attractions for him, and it was long since life had offered him anything for the enjoyment of which he would have taken the trouble to undergo any annoyance whatsoever. Life seemed to him such a very trivial matter that he felt no hesitation in abandoning it, and he only put off the doing so for a few minutes now, out of curiosity to understand more fully the motives of his action.

It was so very simple to pull the trigger of a pistol, and so very complicated to begin a new existence, just when he had believed that his wanderings were over. The future was inexpressibly dismal, lonely and painful, and death was such a natural and easy escape from it. These reflexions were a.s.suredly present, unknown to himself, in the midst of the many thoughts that crowded his brain in that supreme hour, and they must have influenced him in forming his ultimate decision, though he did not guess that they were at work. He saw only the alternative possibilities of an ign.o.ble life or of an honourable death, and he chose the more pleasant, the easier, the quicker. In the twinkling of an eye it would be done, and here would be no more Rex. Those left behind would think kindly of him; they would suppose he had been mad, and in due time they would congratulate themselves that he had not lived to be a burthen to them. Rex had not any great belief in human sympathy, nor in the regret people felt for the dead. The fact that he could not place credence in the existence of a future life could be traced to his indifference about the present, and in its turn made him sceptical concerning the beliefs of others. Protestations of friendship or affection could mean but little to a man who had scarcely ever expressed either, except from a desire not to seem brutal or unfeeling. It was true that he was profoundly attached to Greif, but his instinct told him that his attachment was only half reciprocated. He loved Hilda in a way of his own, as men have seldom loved, but he knew that Hilda's thoughts of him did not go farther than a vague half-friendly, half-cousinly regard. It was not likely that he should expect of either a pa.s.sionate grief over his end, or any exaggerated mourning for his death. The idea that the fact of the suicide, independently of his own personality, would add a deeper shadow to the memories of Greifenstein troubled him very little. He had seen how Greif had forgotten the horror of the tragedy in his love of Hilda, and since Hilda would still be at hand, she would help him to forget this also. With the coolness of a man of his age, he calculated the extent of Greif's possible distress and reckoned it insignificant. With the generosity of his exceptional nature, he admitted that his fondness for his brother did not depend upon any principle of reciprocity. If he had chosen, eighteen months earlier, to remain alive instead of following the example of his unhappy father, it had been for Greif's sake that he had lived, though Greif had never known it; if now, knowing the thing that was in his heart, he chose to die, it was for Greif's sake still.

He was glad that he was not doing such a deed merely to escape suffering himself. The thought would have stayed his hand, preserving him to undergo the most terrible ordeal he could imagine; whereas, in its absence he could spare himself that, at least, without a pang, while ridding Greif of the presence of a traitor.

The word was too strong, but Rex could not see that it was so. It seemed to him that by all the wild indulgence of his imagination he had fostered that growth of which he had so suddenly been made aware. He could no longer separate the intention from the fact, and he believed himself guilty of both alike, though he was in reality but the victim of circ.u.mstances and the sport of a cruel destiny. Everything combined to bring about the unavoidable result, the fatal tendency to suicide that existed in his blood, the excessive emotion of a heart unused to feel, the despair of an absolutely hopeless love, the horror of a self that seemed all at once blackened by the most hideous treachery, even the const.i.tutional fearlessness of a man to whom the moment of death offered no terrors; everything was present which could drive Rex over the brink, and everything was absent which might have held him back.

He rose once more from his chair and made a few steps in the room, with downcast eyes and folded arms. Methodical and rational to the end, he collected his thoughts for the last time and reviewed the result of his melancholy reflexions, forcing himself to state the facts with the utmost plainness and conciseness, as though he were summing up the case before the jury of his faculties, upon whom depended the final verdict.

Too wise to die in vain, too brave to die for a selfish motive, too n.o.ble to be influenced by any fear of death itself, he was determined that the deed should be done calmly, in the fullest consciousness of its importance to himself and others, to the fullest satisfaction of his own enlightened reasoning.

That his present condition was wholly intolerable, he refused to believe, for he would not admit that there could be anything too hard for him to endure if his own inclinations were alone considered. It was possible that his strength might break down if he were exposed to such an ordeal as life with Hilda and his brother during many years; but he should certainly be aware, in such a case, of the failing of his powers, and he would be able to keep his own secret until the end, or, if not, to do a year hence what he meant to do now. He was far too old, and far too wise, to take his life from romantic and scarcely defined motives, seeking nothing but relief from a half hysteric pain, asking of death nothing but the forgetfulness of life and love.

One watching him might have seen as much, from his face and manner.

Being about to die, he looked more like a strong man humiliated by the shame of his own deeds than like a boy in a fit of despair. The look of compact strength that belonged to him was not gone, and his step was firm and even. His face was haggard, pale and drawn, but its expression was calm and determined, full of the dignity of a man superior to all hasty impulses, and very far removed from the influence of all base motives. And his outward appearance represented very truly the moral position he had taken and held with such tenacity. A wise man might have differed from him, but could not have despised him; a religious person would have been sorry for him, but could not have condemned his profound determination to do what was just according to his light, in perfect sacrifice of himself, to the atonement for an involuntary wrong; a weak man would have envied his strength, a strong man might well have admired his calm power of reasoning in the face of death, and a man of heart would have felt for him.

He stood still before the table and looked out through the open window into the bright summer air. Presently he spoke to himself in a low, distinct voice.

'It is best,' he said decisively. 'I, Horst von Rieseneck, stand here to die, because I love my brother's wife. I die of my own free will. I die because I will not live and feel such a thing in my heart, because I will not be dishonoured in my own estimation. I obey no man, I fear no man, I am influenced by no man. It is my own decision, and I have a right to it. It is my own life and I have a right to take it. It is my own love and I have a right to kill it. I do not die to escape suffering, but the inward conviction of dishonour, which no honest man is called upon to bear. I die in the full possession of all my senses and faculties, and if any of them were disturbed I would wait, in order to judge more calmly. That is all I have to say, I believe.'

It was the last satisfaction Rex could give himself in the world he was about to leave. His intelligence demanded of him that his end should be calm, determined and yet unprejudiced, and that to the very last he should remain open to the conviction of error should any sufficient reason or reasons occur to him within a reasonable time. But no reason why he should hold his hand presented itself, and he was aware that he had reached the supreme moment. He was glad that he had not done in haste what he was now going to do upon mature consideration, for he had always loved to be justified in his actions. But since the result of so much thought had only strengthened his first intention, there was no object in delaying the end any longer.

Having made up his mind definitely, he crossed the room and unlocked the door, reflecting that, since he was to be found dead in a few minutes, there was no use in making a mystery of the fact nor in obliging people to break the door. Keen, cool and practical to the end, the action was characteristic of him. He came back to the table a last time and took the revolver in his hand. He examined the lock, raised the weapon steadily and planted the cold muzzle firmly against his temple. Then he turned his eyes towards the open window and pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell with an inoffensive snap, and Rex frowned. But he had not the slightest intention of relinquishing his purpose. With incredible coolness, he went to a corner of the room and took a box of perfectly fresh cartridges from the drawer where he kept his ammunition; after carefully removing the charges from the revolver, he reloaded the chambers, one by one, raised the hammer and resumed his position. Some moments elapsed before he again lifted the weapon to his head. The incident had shaken his nerves, and he was determined to die in full consciousness and appreciation of his act.

'I wish I could flatter myself that it is for Hilda's sake,' he thought.

'But as I cannot, let this be the end.'

The castle clock began to toll the hour of noon, as he raised the revolver a second time.

CHAPTER XXVII

When Berbel had hidden the precious letter among her possessions, she had firmly intended to keep it for some time, before giving it to its owner, but she had not excluded from her calculations the possibility of consulting Hilda upon the matter. In the hurry and confusion of the christening day it had seemed to the good woman that she might wait an indefinite time, leaving Greif in ignorance of the writing, while he grew daily better able to bear such a sudden and vivid quickening of past horrors, as must be brought about in his mind when he should read his father's message. It appeared to Berbel both wiser and kinder to hide the letter for a long time.

The day had pa.s.sed off to the satisfaction of every one, and Berbel certainly deserved a share in the success of the christening. She had been indefatigable, wise and provident in all things, just as she had been in the old times when a penny meant more than a gold piece now.

She had superintended everything and everybody, from the baby Sigmund to Greif himself, from the christening cake to the potato dumplings of the labourers' feast. Nothing had escaped her quick eyes, or her ready memory, and all had gone well to the end.

But when all was over Berbel was tired, and she was fain to acknowledge that she was not the woman she had been twenty years before. She was tired with the long day's work and slept, instead of meditating upon the letter, as she had meant to do. Moreover sleep brought a wiser judgment to her refreshed brain, and when she awoke in the morning she resolved to consult Hilda without delay. Once more she opened her treasure safe and took out the sealed envelope, and looked at it attentively; not that she meant to run the risk of carrying it about with her, but because she wished to fix its appearance in her mind, in order to describe it to Hilda. There was nothing remarkable about the outward look of the letter except, perhaps, the superscription, in which Wastei had detected something of old Greifenstein's roughness. But Berbel thought it quite natural that he should have addressed it simply, 'To my son Greif,' as he had done. To her mind it was more affectionate, and looked better than if he had written 'Seiner Hochwohlgeboren Herrn Greif von Greifenstein.' She looked closely at the thing, turning it over and examining it with the utmost attention. But there was nothing worth noticing beyond what she saw at first. The writing was large, heavy and clear, and the envelope was sealed with wax bearing the impress of the Greifenstein arms. There could not be more than one sheet of paper inside, for the letter was very thin. Berbel was somewhat surprised to find it in such good condition, considering that it had lain between the linings of a coat for more than a year and a half, but she reflected that during that time it had been carefully preserved, most probably in a chest or drawer in the recesses of the Jew's shop, and that, after all, there was no particular reason why it should be torn, or stained, or otherwise injured, as though it had been handed about from one person to another ever since it had been written. The pristine freshness of the paper was certainly a little tarnished, and there were a few insignificant creases on its smooth surface; but, on the whole, the letter looked as though it might have been written but a few weeks before it had fallen into Berbel's hands. It struck the good woman that Hilda would certainly wish to hear the whole story of Wastei's discovery, which was strange enough, indeed; and that when she had heard it, that would not be all, for if they decided to give Greif the letter at once, he also must know whence it came.

For a moment Berbel conceived it possible that it might not, after all, contain a farewell communication, since there was nothing to show that it had really been written on the fatal night, but the idea would not bear examination, and when she laid the envelope once more in its place in her box she was firmly persuaded that it contained old Greifenstein's last words to his son. The longer she thought of this, the more she wondered how on the previous day she could have meditated keeping it from Greif for any length of time. Her motive had a.s.suredly been to save him pain if possible, but at present she saw the whole matter in a different light. At the most, she thought, he might be saddened for a day or two by this message from another world, but it was better that he should suffer a little at present than that he should continue to fancy that his father had forgotten him in his last moments. Berbel was by no means without her share of the national military instinct, which will face annoyance in any shape, or impose it upon others rather than allow a duty of any kind to be eluded, or the execution of its mandates postponed. Better for Greif, she thought, that the matter should be settled at once, better for herself, better for everybody. Delay might be fatal. She herself might die suddenly, and the letter would be found among her belongings. What would be thought of her by her beloved mistress if it were discovered that she had concealed so precious a doc.u.ment? Or Greif might die, without ever knowing that his father had written--a hundred misfortunes might occur to prevent the letter reaching the hands for which it was destined. There was no time like the present, thought the st.u.r.dy Berbel, and no day like to-day for doing unpleasant things which could not be avoided.

It was necessary to find an opportunity of speaking with Hilda alone, without danger of interruption, and as soon as possible. It was yet early morning, and Hilda was in all probability still asleep, dreaming of the festivities of the previous day, but it would be important to know whether Greif was up or not, and whether he intended to leave the castle during the morning. Berbel left her room and went down to the court. The men were sure to know if Greif had meant to go into the forest or to stay at home, as he would certainly have given orders for some one to accompany him. He was not like his father, who had loved to tramp all day alone, wearying himself out, and coming home late in the evening, in the perpetual attempt to make the days seem short. Greif was by nature gregarious, and was not satisfied with the society of his dogs, but usually took a couple of men with him, when he could not prevail upon Rex to join in his expeditions.

Berbel went into the court and asked a few questions, carelessly enough.

It was a warm morning and the men seemed sleepy after the carousal of the previous night. None of them had received any orders for the day, and those who had anything to do went about their occupations in a leisurely fashion, slowly and deliberately, while those who had no work sat together in a shady corner smoking their porcelain pipes, and discussing the festive reminiscences of the christening, enjoying their idleness as very strong men can, who habitually work hard and say little. It was evident that nothing would be done on that day, and it was probable that Greif would stay at home. Berbel turned away and went towards the entrance of the hall. She was about to go in when she heard footsteps behind her, and on looking round saw Wastei striding up with his long, greyhound step.

'G.o.d greet you, Frau Berbel,' he said, coming nearer.

He was no longer arrayed in his magnificent velvet coat as on the previous day. Such finery was only for the greatest festivities, and at present he wore no jacket at all, but a rough waistcoat with metal b.u.t.tons, which hung loose and open over his shirt, and he had a bundle under his arm.

'Good morning, Wastei,' answered Berbel, fixing her sharp eyes upon him with a look of inquiry. She wondered why he had come.

'I have brought you something,' he remarked, standing still before her, and tapping the bundle he carried with one hand.

'More trout?' inquired Berbel with a twitching smile. 'There is no gold to be picked up to-day, Master Wastei.'

'Unfortunately,' he answered. 'But then one can never know,' he added reflectively.

'Out with it!' exclaimed Berbel who was not in a humour for long conversations.

'Out with it is soon said,' returned the other. 'It is a serious matter.

Do you think I can chatter like a magpie without thinking of what I am to say?'

'Then think, and be quick about it, or I shall go in.'

'Oh, if you are in a hurry, you may take the bundle without any explanation,' replied Wastei, holding it out towards her. Berbel took it, and felt it, as though trying to guess what it contained.

'What is it?' she asked at length, as her imagination failed to suggest the nature of the contents.