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—’