'And is it better that my whole life should be a lie from this day forth, than that she should know the truth, and do what she can to meet it?'

'To whom do you owe the truth, Greif? To the woman you have married, to the mother of your child, or to some one else? What good would she get by it? Your money? She does not want money. What is money to her, compared with the memory of him she loved, as I love you, or in comparison with the honour of his name, for which she would give her blood?'

'And if you had left me alone to read that letter--would you have had me keep the truth from you too?'

'Would I have you bear alone anything that we can bear together? If you understand my love so little as to think that such a thing could change it, or weaken it, or make me what I am not--why then, I would not care what you did, nor what became of me!'

'And my shame is nothing to you?'

'Nothing, being what it is, not yours, but of others, thrust upon your innocence.'

'You would not, for your own sake, wish that we had never known of it?'

'For my sake? No. For yours--I would die to wash it out. For my sake, do you say? Oh, Greif, is one hair of your head, one look of your dear eyes less wholly mine, because your mother sinned? Are you not Greif to me, always, and nothing else?'

'And so you love me still--just as you did before?'

'Can I say more than I have said? Can I do more than I have done?

Ah--then love must be too cold a word for what I mean!'

'You would not love me if I lied, and were a coward.'

'You would not be Greif.'

'Nor should I be my miserable self, if I acted this lie before your mother!'

'You would not be Greif, if you could kill her with the vanity of selfish truth-telling.'

'The vanity! Ay, I have thought of that. Perhaps I am vain, after all--I, who have but little left to be proud of.'

His head sank on his breast, and he sighed bitterly, wringing his fingers together. He wished he could shed tears, and cry aloud, and faint, as some women do.

'And yet--you have me--not to be proud of, but to love,' said Hilda gently.

'In spite of all! Is it really true, quite true?' He shook his head doubtfully.

'It is true.'

Hilda had no words left with which to persuade him of her unfaltering love, but perhaps at that moment the simple little phrase, with the accent she gave it, told Greif more than many protestations. It seemed to him that the course of his distress was checked suddenly, and that he felt the strain of the cable upon the firm anchor at last. It was the hour of destiny, when one word decides the future of many lives, for good or evil.

'Thank G.o.d!' Greif exclaimed in a low voice. He put out his hand and took hers. 'I will never ask you again, dear,' he said presently. 'It was hard to believe, it seemed as though I ought not to believe it.'

In spite of all, there was a happy light in his eyes, as he turned them to her and gazed into her face. After all, the terrible things told in the letter had happened long ago, and he was young, in the midst of a glorious present, in the very midst of all that love and happiness could give. It would be many a long year before he could think calmly of the hideous secret, and perhaps his whole life from that day would be more thoughtful and serious than it had been. But it was not in the power of an evil fate to follow him further than that. The curse of the Greifensteins, as people a hundred years ago would have called that strange chain of circ.u.mstances in which his race had been involved, had run its course, and had spent itself in the conflict with a woman's love. Beyond that there was nothing but the smooth haven of rest, which no blast of evil could ruffle, and into which no overwhelming wave of calamity could break.

Greif scarcely knew how it was that the struggle ended, nor why, when it was over, he felt that he had not lost the day. But nevertheless, it was so, and peace descended upon his soul. For a long time neither he nor Hilda spoke. Very gradually, the colour returned to Greif's face, and the light to his eyes; very gradually the luminous veil of his happiness descended between him and the shades of the evil dead, not cutting off the memory of their deeds, but hiding the horror of their presence.

'And so Rex is my brother,' he said at last.

'And mine,' said Hilda.

'He does not know--or does he?'

'How could he?'

'His father wrote to him--was that letter lost too? Is that yet to come?' Greif's heart sank at the thought that all was not over yet.

'But if he had known,' said Hilda, 'could he have hidden it so long? And besides, he came with you. If there had been a letter to him, you would have known of it. Who could have given it to him, without your knowledge?'

'Your mother.'

'She never told me of it, though she often wondered that you had nothing.'

'Rex knows!' exclaimed Greif in a tone of conviction. 'And he received the letter. I have told you how it was that he confessed to me his real name. He was telling the truth then, for I know him well. He would as soon have told me that he was my brother as my cousin--'

'He would have hesitated to do that--'

'No. You do not know him. He does not value his life a straw, and would as soon have taken that opportunity of parting with it as any other.'

'But how could he have concealed it since? Why should my mother have never told us that his father wrote?'

'Because she felt that I should have been pained to think that Rex had received something and I nothing. It is as clear as day. It explains many things. No one but a brother could have acted as he did all through my illness. I have often seen him looking at me strangely, and I never understood what it meant until now. He knew, and I did not. Besides--'

'What?' asked Hilda, as he stopped short.

'Well, it would explain, too, why he was so anxious that you and I should be married. If he knew--and he did, I am sure--he saw that if I persisted he would have to tell me the truth, in order that you should have the fortune. I used to wonder why he pressed me so.' 'Do you think that was it?'

'What else could he do? He must have ruined me, his brother, if the marriage had not taken place.'

'Would he have done that?' asked Hilda.

'Rex believes in nothing but honour,' Greif answered thoughtfully.

'There is nothing in heaven or earth which could keep him from doing what he thinks honourable. He would ruin me or himself with perfect indifference rather than see an injustice done by the fault of either.'

'He is a strange man.'

'He is a grand man, n.o.ble in every part of him, splendidly unselfish, magnificently brave--I wish I were like him.'

'I should not love you. He is cold as stone, though he may be all that you say, and though I am very fond of him.'

'Yes--he is cold. He never loved a woman in his life. But I admire him and respect him, though I never quite understand him. There is always something that escapes me, something beyond my reach. Perhaps that is what they call genius.'

'And yet no one has heard of him. He has never done anything with his talent. It is strange, too, for he is immensely wise. I wonder what the reason can be.'

'He does not believe in anything--not even in greatness.' answered Greif. 'I believe his mind is so large that the greatest things seem little to him. I have heard him talk about almost everything at one time or another. The end of all his arguments is that nothing is worth while.

And there is a reason, too. His father's disgrace has pursued him since he was a child.'

Greif's voice fell suddenly, and his face grew dark.