Rex was mistaken in his opinion concerning the letter. Before he died old Greifenstein had actually written it, as he had intended to do, and had directed it to his son. It is not yet time to explain what became of it, but in order to make this history more clear, it is as well to state at once that it was not destroyed, but was actually in existence at the time of Greif’s marriage to Hilda.
It is necessary, however, to consider the development of Rex’s character during the year which followed the wedding, in order to understand the events which afterwards occurred. It had been his intention to undertake a journey to South America, when all was settled, in order to wind up his father’s affairs, and ascertain the extent of the fortune he inherited. He was well aware that he was very rich, but as this was nothing new to him, and as he had always had whatever he wished, he was in no hurry to find out the exact amount of his income. The property was well administered, too, and there was no danger of loss, as Rieseneck had taken pains to provide against every contingency before making his last voyage to Europe. Rex was personally acquainted with the persons to whom his father had confided the management of his wealth, and so soon as they were informed of the latter’s death, they took all the legal steps necessary to secure the inheritance, and remitted large sums of money to the heir at regular intervals and with scrupulous exactness.
At first his situation seemed rather a strange one, and he did not exactly know what to do. Immediately after the marriage he found himself at Greifenstein alone with Hilda’s mother, who submitted to the arrangement readily enough. It was natural, she said, that the young people should wish to be left to themselves for some time. They had declared that when they were ready for society they would drive over from Sigmundskron, and bring back the baroness and Rex. These two, being both exceedingly methodical persons, agreed very well, and they found plenty to talk about in the possibilities of the future. Rex was utterly indifferent to solitude or company, but since the baroness was to be his companion, he took some trouble to make himself agreeable. She, on her part, knew well enough that the days when she could be constantly with Hilda were over, and she was glad that her son-in-law had such a man as Rex for his cousin. For Rex was far too tactful to parade his philosophic views in the presence of a lady whose practical religion he admired and respected, so that the only point upon which the two could have differed seriously was carefully avoided. An odd sort of intimacy sprang up between them, which neither had anticipated. Frau von Sigmundskron was surprised to find in Rex so much ready sympathy with her ideas, for her German soul would have been naturally inclined to find fault with a man who had been brought up in South America, and whose father could not have been supposed capable of teaching him much sound morality. Nor would it have seemed likely that her somewhat narrow, though elevated view of things in general would find a ready appreciation in one whose great breadth of understanding had made him familiar with all manner of heretically modern notions. She did not comprehend his nature, but she was satisfied in his society.
There are, perhaps, no persons more agreeable to live with than those few who have become conservative through excessive and constant change. They bring back with them to the land of stabilities an intimate practical knowledge of what instability really means, which distinguishes them from people who have lived within the shadow of their own steeple through a lifetime of dogged tradition-worship. Rex had tried everything that the world can give, except fame, which was beyond his reach, and, at forty years of age, he had a decided preference for old-fashioned people. His placid disposition liked their quiet ways and abhorred all sorts of trivial excitement; he was a man who was intimately conscious of the inanity of most forms of amusement, and of the emptiness of most kinds of sensations. The cold, still depths of his heart could not be warmed to a pleasurable heat by the small emotions which the world covets, and so eagerly pursues. He sometimes wondered what would happen if he were really roused. He had not often been angry in his life, but he had noticed, with his habit of self-observation, that his anger seldom failed to produce tangible results, even when it was half assumed. It was natural to suppose that if he should ever be goaded to madness, he might turn out to be a very dangerous animal, but such a case appeared to him extremely improbable, because he could scarcely conceive of anything which could affect his temper for more than a few minutes. It is certainly true that persons who do not indulge their passions are less exposed to be assailed by them at every turn, though the capacity for passion itself in extreme cases increases in an opposite ratio.
Rex and Frau von Sigmundskron became intimate, therefore, and grew more fond of each other’s company than they had expected to be. But they were not left long to their solitary state in Greifenstein. At the end of a week, Greif and Hilda appeared, more radiant in their new happiness than before. They proposed that Rex and the baroness should come over to Sigmundskron for a month, after which they announced their intention of travelling for some time.
Hilda had given Rex her hand, which according to German custom she could not do before she was married. He had almost dreaded to touch it when he saw it before him, so strong was still the first impression he had taken so much pains to conquer. Strangely enough, this was the last time he ever felt a return of his old antipathy. It seemed as though the contact of Hilda’s gloved fingers had wrought a change in him. He looked up and saw a smile upon her face.
‘Do you hate me still?’ she asked.
‘No.’ he answered, and there was no mistaking his tone.
He did not hate her any more, it was true, but he felt unaccountably embarrassed by her presence. He was silent, preoccupied, strangely dull and unresponsive. ‘Why do you never talk before Hilda?’ asked Greif, in his straightforward way, when they had all been a week at Sigmundskron together.
‘Men are often silent before nature’s greatest works,’ said Rex quietly, and without looking at Hilda as he spoke.