‘Dearest mother,’ he said at last, ‘I am so sorry for you! If you would only tell me—’
‘Ah Greif-my son—if I thought you loved me—a little—I should be less unhappy!’
‘But I do. Oh, forgive me, if I have never shown you that I do!’ He was in great distress, for he was really moved, and a great wave of repentance for all his past coldness suddenly overwhelmed his conscience.
‘If it were only true!’ sobbed the poor lady. ‘But it is all my fault—oh, Greif, Greif—my boy—promise that you will not forsake me, whatever happens to me!’
‘Indeed, I promise,’ answered Greif in great surprise. ‘But what can happen? What is it that you fear, mother?’
‘Oh, I am very foolish,’ she replied with a hysterical attempt at a laugh. ‘Perhaps it is nothing, after all.’
Her tears burst out afresh. Greif attempted in vain to soothe her, calling her by endearing names he had never used to her before, and feeling vaguely surprised at the expressions of affection that fell from his lips. All at once, with a passionate movement, she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. Then, pushing him aside, she rose quickly and fled to the next room before he could regain his feet.
For some moments he stood looking at the closed door. Then his instinct told him that she would not return, and he slowly left the room, pondering deeply on what he had seen and heard.
The next time they met she made no reference to what had passed, and Greif’s natural delicacy warned him not to approach the subject. Had there been such previous intimacy between the two as might be expected to exist between mother and son, an explanation could scarcely have been avoided. As it was, however, both felt that it was better to leave the matter alone. The bond between them was stronger than before, and that was enough for Clara. She experienced a sense of comfort in Greif’s mere existence which somewhat lightened the intolerable burthen of her secret. As for Greif himself, the situation appeared to him more mysterious than ever, and the air of the house more oppressive. It seemed to him that every one was watching every one else, and that at the same time each member of the household was concealing something from the others. He felt that it would be a relief to return to the thoughtless life of the University, even at the expense of a separation from Hilda.
Hilda had not failed to notice what was so apparent to every one else, and had asked her mother questions concerning the evident depression that reigned in the household. But the good baroness had only answered that, whatever might be the matter, it was no concern of Hilda’s nor of her own; and that when disagreeable things occurred in other people’s houses it was a duty not to see them. Hilda’s ideas about ill health were exceedingly vague, and she contented herself with supposing that Frau von Greifenstein was ill, and that sick persons probably always behaved as she did. At last the time came for Greif’s departure.