‘My mother! Would you break her heart by telling her that she has given my father’s name to—’
Hilda stopped short in her speech.
‘To me!’ exclaimed Greif in the bitterest self-reproach. ‘Oh, the shame of it, Hilda, the shame of it all! You are right in that—to think that she has given the name she loves to one who has no right to any name—it would break her heart—’
‘Then let her never know it, nor guess it, nor dream that it is possible, never, never, so long as she lives!’
‘It is not for her only—it is for you, Hilda! That is the worst to bear—the shame, the shame!’
‘For me?’ The two words came slowly and distinctly from her lips, as though she were trying to make clear to him the enormity of his speech. Then she drew herself up proudly to her full height, and a wonderful smile illuminated her face.
‘Not for me, Greif,’ she said. ‘There is no shame for me. In your love, I am above all earthly shame.’
There was something in her manner and in the accent of her speech that affected Greif very suddenly. He was gradually growing more calm and better able to reason, as well as to realise the splendid depth of his wife’s love. There was a ring in her voice that told him more than her words could tell. He came to her, and took her hand, and kissed it, almost devotionally.
‘You are above all earthly women,’ he said simply.
‘I? No. Any woman would do as much, and it is so little. If you would only think, dear, it is so very little—and it is for myself, too. Could I do anything else? Could any woman do less, even the most selfish?’