follows is a matter of history, well known to many living persons; and that in writing it down I wish it to be understood that I am submitting to the judgment of humanity a strange case which actually occurred within this century, rather than constructing from my own imagination a mere romance for the delectation of such as will take the trouble to read it.
CHAPTER III
‘Oh! Is it not too delightful to see my dear, dear cousins!’ screamed Frau von Greifenstein, throwing herself into the arms of the pale and quiet baroness. ‘And dear Hilda, too! Ach, ist es nicht herzig! Is it not too sweet!’
She was wonderfully arrayed in an exceedingly youthful costume, short enough to display her thin, elderly ankles, and adorned with many flying ribbands and furbelows. An impossibly high garden hat crowned her faded head, allowing certain rather unattached-looking ringlets of colourless blonde hair to stray about her cheeks. She made one think of a butterfly, no longer young, but attempting to keep up the illusions of spring. Hilda and her mother smiled and returned the salutation in their quiet way.
‘And how have you been at Sigmundskron?’ continued the sprightly lady. ‘Do you know? It would be my dream to live at Sigmundskron! So romantic, so solitary, so deliciously poetic! It is no wonder that you look like Cinderella and the fairy godmother! I am sure they both lived at Sigmundskron—and Greif will be the Prince Charmant with his Puss in Boots—quite a Lohengrin in fact—dear me! I am afraid I am mixing them up—those old German myths are so confusing, and I am quite beside myself with the joy of seeing you!’
Greifenstein stood looking on, not a muscle of his face betraying the slightest emotion at his wife’s incoherent speech. But Greif had turned away and appeared to be examining one of the guns that stood in a rack against the wall. The meeting had taken place in the great hall, and he was glad that there was something to look at, for he did not know whether he was most amused by his mother’s chatter, or ashamed of the ridiculous figure she made. The impression was certainly a painful one, and he had not attained to his father’s grim indifference, for he was not obliged to assist daily at such scenes. He could not help comparing Hilda’s mother with his own, and he inwardly determined that when he was married he would take up his abode at Sigmundskron during the greater part of the year.
Hilda looked at her hostess and wondered whether all women of the world were like Frau von Greifenstein. The situation did not last long, however, and half an hour later she found herself sitting beside Greif on a block of stone by the ruined Hunger-Thurm.
‘At last!’ exclaimed Greif, with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Is there anything so tiresome as the sight of affectionate greetings?’
‘Greif—’ Hilda paused, as though reconsidering the question she was about to ask.
‘Yes—what is it, sweetheart?’
‘When we are married, I must love your mother, must I not?’
‘Oh yes—no doubt,’ answered the young man with a puzzled expression. ‘At least, I suppose you must try.’
‘But I mean, if I do not love her as much as my own mother, will it be very wrong?’
‘No, not so much, of course.’
‘Do you love her, Greif?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Greif cheerfully. ‘Not as I love you—’
‘Or your father?’
‘That is different, a man feels more sympathy for his father, because he is a man.’
‘But I am not a man—’
‘No, and you are not my mother either. That is again different, you see.’
‘Greif—you do not love your mother at all!’ exclaimed Hilda, turning her bright eyes to his. But he looked away and his face grew grave.
‘Please do not say that to me, dear,’ he answered quietly. ‘Let us talk of other things.’
‘Does it pain you? I am sorry. I asked you because—well, I wanted to know if it was exactly my duty—because—you see, I do not think I ever could, quite, as I ought to. You are not angry?’
‘No, darling. I quite understand. It will be enough if you behave to her as you do now. Besides, I was going to propose something, if your mother will agree to it. When we are married, we might live at Sigmundskron.’
‘Oh! Greif, are you in earnest?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘You do not know what a place it is!’ exclaimed Hilda with an uneasy laugh. She had visions of her husband discovering the utter desolation of the old castle, but at the same time she felt a sudden wild desire to see it all restored and furnished and kept up as it should be.
‘Yes, I know. But there are many reasons why I should like it. Of course it has gone to ruin, more or less, and there would be something to be done.’
‘Something!’ cried Hilda. ‘Everything! The great rooms are perfectly desolate, no furniture, hardly any glass in the windows. We are so poor, Greif!’
‘But I can put panes into the frames and get some furniture. We need not have so much at first.’
‘But you will have to get everything, everything. You are used to so much here.’
‘I should not need much if I had you,’ answered Greif looking at her, as the colour rose in his own face.
‘I do not know. Perhaps not.’
‘I should be happy with you in a woodman’s hut,’ said Greif earnestly.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Hilda a little doubtfully.
‘There is no “perhaps.” I am quite sure of it.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked the young girl turning suddenly and laying her hands upon his arm. ‘Did not your father say the same—no, forgive me! I will not speak of that. Oh Greif! What is love—really—the meaning of it, the true spirit of it? Why does it sometimes last and sometimes—not? Are all men so different one from another, and women too? Is it not like religion, that when you once believe you always believe? I have thought about it so much, and I cannot understand it. And yet I know I love you. Why can I not understand what I feel? Is it very foolish of me? Am I less clever than other girls?’
‘No, indeed!’ Greif drew her to him, and kissed her cheek. Her colour never changed. With innocent simplicity she turned her face and kissed him in return.
‘Then why is it?’ she asked. ‘And none of my books tell me what it means, though I have read them all. Can you not tell me, you who know so much? What is the use of all your studies and your universities, if you cannot tell me what it is I feel, what love is?’
‘Does love need explanation? What does the meaning matter, when one has it?’
‘Ah,
