'I only wanted to spare you,' said Berbel humbly.

Hilda looked up quickly and then took the old servant's hand kindly in hers.

'I know,' she said softly. 'But you must think first of him, always--if you love me. Berbel--are you perfectly sure that all this is true and real, that no wicked person is trying to do us some harm?'

'I am as sure as I can be--Wastei said I might ask the Jew, if I pleased.'

'It is true--it is Wastei. Unless he is mistaken himself there can be no doubt, then. But it is all so strange!'

It was stranger still, perhaps, that Wastei's name should be enough to dispel in Hilda's mind all doubts as to the truth of the story, and yet she would have believed the wild, kind-hearted free-shot sooner than many a respectable member of society.

'Put away the coat, Berbel,' she said after a pause. 'He will not need to see it when he has read the letter, and it would hurt him, as it hurts me.'

'Shall I give it back to Wastei?' inquired Berbel, folding it up.

'No, oh no! Put it away carefully where it will be safe, but where no one will ever see it again.'

'Wastei gave twenty marks for it,' observed Berbel. 'It is not fair that he should lose his money.' She could not help speaking a good word for her old friend.

'Give him forty to buy a new one. He has been honest, very honest.'

Hilda sighed, thinking, perhaps, of all the pain that might have been spared, if Wastei had put the letter into the fire, instead of giving it to Berbel.

The good woman carefully folded the coat and hid it away in the recesses of a huge press that filled the end of the room. Then she rolled up the coloured handkerchief and put it into her pocket.

'It is Wastei's,' she said, as her mistress watched her.

The disappearance of the coat recalled to Hilda the duty of acting immediately, and she rose from her seat with a heavy heart. As she was about to leave the room a thought crossed her mind, and she stopped.

'Berbel,' she said, 'my mother must never know that this has been found, or at least, you must never speak of it to her or to any one, and you must tell Wastei to hold his tongue. She has had sorrow enough in her life, and we need not add any more, now that she is so happy.'

'Good,' answered Berbel. 'I will not talk about it, and as for Wastei, I would trust him with anything.'

Hilda slipped the fatal letter into the bosom of her frock and went in search of her husband.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Greif had not found the man who was supposed to be waiting for him, and he himself had sat down to wait for Hilda on the shady side of the great tower. The air was warm and fragrant, even at that height, with the odour of the pines, and the sun was not yet high enough to make it unpleasantly hot. Through the bright, sunlit distance Greif could see many a familiar landmark of the forest, and as he sat there doing nothing, he amused himself half unconsciously with counting the points in the surrounding landscape which he had visited, and those he had never reached, and the number of the former greatly exceeded that of the rest. It was a very peaceful scene, and Greif breathed in the smooth refreshing air with delight, while his eyes wandered lazily up and down the heights and along the feathery green crests of the forest's waves.

For all the firs and pines were still tipped with the green of their new-grown shoots, though the autumn winds and the winter snows would soon stain the newcomers as black as the old boughs on which they grew.

The time is short indeed, during which the Black Forest is not black, but takes a softer hue, and a warmer light. The autumn comes early, the spring comes late, there is but little summer, and the winter has it all to himself during the rest of the time. But though the summer days be few, they are of exquisite beauty, such as are rarely seen elsewhere in Europe. Greif knew, as he sat by his tower, that they were nearly over, and he was the more grateful for the delight of the soft sunshine, of the green treetops, of the fragrance of the forest coming up to his nostrils over the grey ramparts, of the short whistle of the shooting swallows, that seemed to spring up like the spray of a fountain out of the abyss beneath, and after circling the highest pinnacle of the castle fell again with lightning speed into the cool depths below. Greif listened to the rushing noise of their wings, and to their short, clear cry, and he wished that Hilda were beside him, to help him to enjoy the more what already gave him such keen pleasure. To him, indeed, Sigmundskron still had the charm of novelty. Its situation on a high and projecting crag was very different from that of Greifenstein, which latter was but the three-cornered end of a precipitous promontory, cut off from the forest by its single enormous bulwark. Sigmundskron commanded a view of many miles over the landscape below, while Greifenstein lay much lower, and a man standing on the topmost rampart could but just look over the level sea of the treetops to the higher hills in the distance beyond.

Greif was very happy. It seemed to him as though all the possible unhappiness of his life had concentrated itself into a very short time, not extending over more than a few days, from the moment when he had received news of the catastrophe in the hall at the banquet at Schwarzburg, to that in which the delirium of his fever had overtaken him. The rest had been but little troubled by the tragedy which had left him alone in the world. Nothing cuts us off from the past more effectually than a dangerous illness in which we are for the most part unconscious. Greif had felt, when he recovered, that he was completely separated from the former time, and the sensation had itself contributed to his recovery, by deadening the sense of pain that had been with him so constantly before he broke down altogether. Rex had not been ill, and to him the past did not seem so distant; moreover he knew what Greif did not know, and had greater cause for sadness. Greif was happy, and he knew it. It appeared impossible, so far as he could see, that anything should arise out of the gloom of Greifenstein to trouble his serenity in Sigmundskron. Every effort had been made by him and Rex together to discover some clue to the mystery, which for Rex was no mystery any longer, and nothing had been found which could cast the smallest light upon what had happened. Rex suggested the possibility of a sudden madness having overtaken one or more of the party, and Greif was so easily satisfied, and so glad to bury the past, that he accepted the idea without defining it. He reflected, indeed, that under no imaginable circ.u.mstances could his present be touched or disturbed by the true explanation of the tragedy, should it ever be found, and he was content to let the tide of years flow silently over the place those terrible deeds held in his own life.

It is no wonder that he was happy now, since all his hopes were attained and all his desires satisfied. Being also of a faithful and persistent nature, his satisfaction was solid and permanent. Apart from the one dark spot which was so rapidly fading into the dim distance, he had no regrets; no dreams of what might have been sent rays of false light through his present, no images of disappointed desires haunted him in the silent night, no shadows of a lost joy, still madly antic.i.p.ated in the distorted anachronisms of a wounded heart, came between him and Hilda's glorious beauty. That misery of humanity was unknown to him, in which the soul still looks forward with a beating, throbbing hope to what the memory knows is buried in the depth and dust of twenty years.

All was real, present, glorious, happy and complete. If any one had asked him what he most dreaded, he would have said that he dreaded death alone, death for Hilda, death for the st.u.r.dy little child that was to bear the name now his, death for himself, though for himself the fear was less than for the other two. That anything but death could bring back those days and nights of agony through which he had once pa.s.sed, he did not and he could not believe. Even as he sat beneath the shadow of the tower on that summer's morning he asked himself the question, and the answer was the same as ever. Why, indeed, should he not be left in peace? Why should he even expect the possibility of evil? Evil might come, a.s.suredly, but it must come in some sudden, violent and unexpected shape out of the present, by accident, by illness, by death. The terrors of the past were with the past, and Greif was too strong, and young, and happy to expect misfortune in the present. He sat there, peacefully gazing at the green feathers of the firs and at the circling swallows, and almost laughing to scorn the possibility of a pain that was already near him, that was with him now, as Hilda's graceful figure emerged from the door of the tower and stood beside him.

Her face was still a little pale, but she looked almost supernaturally beautiful in her gravity. It is possible that if she had been transported into the midst of the world, of that company of half-morbid, half-enthusiastic beings which we define commonly as society, she might not have pleased those tired critics altogether as well as one of themselves, though she would a.s.suredly have surprised them exceedingly, and perhaps when she began to grow old they would remember that they had never seen anything like her. But here, in her natural surroundings, she was magnificent. She was dressed all in white, and the delicate shades of her colouring did not suffer by the contrast, but seemed more perfect and harmonious, blended as all the tints were by the all-pervading light of the clear mountain air in the thin, vapoury blue shadows of the old tower. And the rough grey stone was a harmonious background for her beauty and its rugged surface showed more completely the exquisite outlines of her face and figure. Greif saw her beside him, and could not repress his admiration.

'Hilda--how beautiful you are!' he exclaimed, springing to his feet and putting his arms about her.

It seemed as though her perfection had suddenly become visible out of the dream of his cloudless happiness. She smiled faintly as she kissed him, so faintly that he was surprised and drew back, looking into her face.

'Has anything happened, sweetheart?' he asked anxiously. 'Is anything the matter? You are pale, darling, tell me--'

'Something has happened, Greif, and I will tell you,' she said, sitting down upon the long stone seat that ran round the base of the tower, and touching the spot beside her with the palm of her hand, as though bidding him do likewise.

His face grew grave as he took his place at her side, still looking into her eyes.

'It is something that pains you, dear--is it not?' he asked tenderly.

'Because it will pain you,' she answered. 'You must listen to my story patiently, Greif, for it is not easy to tell, and it is not easy to hear. But I will do my best, for it is best to tell it all quite plainly from beginning to end, is it not?'

'Yes,' answered Greif nervously. 'Please tell me all quite frankly.'

'It is about your father, Greif--about all that happened on that dreadful night at Greifenstein. Yes, darling, I will try and be quick.

You know when--after they were dead, my mother went over, and did what she could until you came. You know, too, that the house was full of servants, whom your father was always changing--you sent them all away last year. Well, one of those wretches stole--had the heart to steal at that fearful time--a coat--one that belonged to your father--indeed--'

she hesitated.

'And you have found it,' asked Greif, whose face relaxed suddenly. He thought it was but a common theft, and was immensely relieved.

'Yes, we have found it,' continued Hilda. 'But it was not a common coat, dear--it was the very one in which--the one he had on, I mean, when--'

'I understand,' Greif said in a low voice.

Hilda looked away, and clasped her hands upon her knee, making an effort to tell her story connectedly. She knew that it would be far better that Greif should be prepared by the knowledge of the details which it would be hard to communicate to him afterwards.

'Yes,' she continued, 'and the wretched servant took it to a Jew and sold it, and the Jew hid it--I suppose because he knew it was stolen--and long afterwards, only a very few days ago, he sold it to Wastei--and Wastei gave it to Berbel, and Berbel showed it to me.'

'Is it safe?' asked Greif, almost under his breath.

'Yes--quite safe.'

'Then I do not want to see it--'

'I have not told you all, dear. There is more. If it had been only that--but there is something else. The coat was torn inside, above the pocket, so that something that had been meant for the pocket had slipped down inside. It was very strange!'

'Something of his?'

'Of his--for you. Oh, Greif--it is the letter you searched for so long and could never find!'

Greif's face turned white and his voice was thick and indistinct.

'Give it to me,' he tried to say, and he held out his hand to receive it.

Without another word Hilda drew the sealed envelope from the bosom of her frock and gave it to him, not daring to look at him. Then she rose and would have left him alone, but with one hand he caught hers and held her back.