‘But you, Greif—what will become of you?’
‘It matters little enough, so that I do no harm to those I love,’ he answered.
‘It does matter,’ said the baroness gently. ‘It is not right or just that an innocent man should suffer for the deeds of others.’
‘It is right that he should suffer anything, rather than injure those who are not only innocent but free from inherited reproach.’
There was a sudden energy in his manner which surprised his companion. His white face was illuminated by a sort of radiance from within, his voice was full and firm, the glance of his eyes piercing and determined.
‘It is right,’ he continued, ‘and I will do it, come what may. Indeed I must, for in spite of your kind heart and words you would not give her to me. But even if you would, I would not take her, I would not make her the mother of more Greifensteins. Ay—you look at me—I love her too much. That is the reason. If I loved her less—oh, then, I would take her. I would take my beautiful Hilda for my own sake, and in her love I would try and forget the horrors of my younger years. I would forget, for my own sake, that my father was a murderer and a suicide, my father’s brother a shameful traitor, myself a man clothed in the infamy of others, until the world can hardly distinguish between my innocence and their guilt. I could live with Hilda, somewhere in this lonely forest, and with her I might bury memory and talk lightly of love beside its very grave. And Hilda would be willing, too, and if I did not love her as I do, I would take her—whether you would let her go or not—no, forgive me—I should not speak so to you, who are the best of women—but you would consent, for you are so kind. But the thing is impossible. She would remember, and I should remember also, when our sons grew up and had to meet the world with the brand of our name upon their faces. Look at Rex. He is my best friend. Yesterday I learnt that he is my cousin. Even he has hidden his father’s deeds under a common, meaningless name. How much more should I hide my head! How much less right have I, than he had yesterday, to make an innocent girl, or any woman, the wife of a Greifenstein! No—go to Hilda, tell her the truth, let me see her once, and I will rid you of myself when I have said good-bye. You are her mother, and you alone can tell her all—all except the last word, and when I have spoken that word, I will go away, Rex and I together, and you will not hear of me any more.’
Greif ceased speaking. He had risen from his chair to pace the room while he spoke and he now stood with folded arms before the baroness, his eyes fixed on hers as though waiting for her answer. He was very young, and it was perhaps the first time in his life that he had spoken out before any one. He was too much excited to think whether his speech would sound theatrical and exaggerated or not. He meant every word of what he had said, and that was enough for him. He meant to do what was right and honourable, and that is enough for any man.
Frau von Sigmundskron’s gentle eyes fell before his fixed gaze. Feeling as she did, and remembering what she had felt when she had come to him, she was ashamed to meet his earnest glance. There were few better women in the world, few whose goodness showed itself so clearly both in deeds and intentions, and yet she was conscious, rightly or wrongly, that Greif was outdoing her in generosity. To her the words he had spoken had a ring of heroism in them, and he himself seemed to grow in dignity and strength as he stood before her. She hesitated, the speech came to her lips, failed, took courage and came again. Once more she raised her head and looked into his eyes.
‘Greif—you are a brave man, and you will understand me,’ she said. ‘When I came here, I felt all that you have said. I felt it in the long night, before you were in the house. I meant to tell you what you have told me, as kindly as I could, not now, but later. It would have been hard, for I am more than fond of you.’
‘It would have been your duty, and it would have been right,’ answered Greif calmly.