Greifenstein | Page 9

while poor Berbel was childless. Then Berbel refused to go
away, once and for ever, and the officer's widow accepted the lifelong
devotion offered her, and the three cast in their lot together, to keep
themselves alive as best they could beneath the only roof that was left
to them.
Frau von Sigmundskron had been very much surprised when, on a
sunny June morning, three years before the time of which I write,
Greifenstein had appeared alone, arrayed in the most correct manner,
instead of being clad in the shooting coat he usually wore. She had
been still more astonished when he formally proposed to her an
engagement by which Greif should marry Hilda so soon as he had
finished his studies at the University. He told her frankly why he
desired the alliance. She knew of Rieseneck's disgrace, and she would
understand that the story was an injury to Greif. On the other hand he,
Greif's father, had never done anything to be ashamed of, and the lad
himself was growing up to be a very fine fellow and would be
rich--Greifenstein did not state the amount of his fortune. He
apprehended that his cousin would consider Greif a good match from a
worldly point of view. Furthermore, though barely twenty, the young
man was deeply attached to Hilda, who was just fifteen, The attachment
was evidently likely to turn into love when both should be three or four
years older. If Frau von Sigmundskron would consent, a preliminary,
verbal agreement might be made, subject to the will of the two children
when the right time should come, it being essentially necessary, as
Greifenstein remarked in his stiffest manner, that two young people
should love each other sincerely if they meant to marry.
The baroness opened her clear blue eyes very wide, as though she had

seen a coach and four laden with sacks of gold driving through the old
gates of the castle. But she was far too well bred to burst into tears, or
to exhibit any embarrassment, or even an improper amount of
satisfaction. She replied that she was much obliged; that she was poor,
and that Hilda would inherit nothing whatsoever except Sigmundskron,
a fact which her cousin must please to understand from the first; that, if
the absence of any dower were not an obstacle, it was not for her to
create difficulties; and, finally, that she believed Hilda to be quite as
much attached to Greif, as Greif to her. Thereupon Berbel was sent to
fetch a bottle of wine--there had been half a dozen bottles in the cellar
thirteen years ago, and this was the first that had been opened-- and
Greifenstein refreshed himself therewith and departed, as stiffly,
courteously and kindly as he had come.
Greif had come over as often as he pleased during his vacations, and
had written whenever he liked during his terms. Never having seen any
one at home or abroad whom he considered comparable with Hilda, he
had grown up to love her as naturally as he loved the pine-scented air
of his home, the warm soft sun, or the still beauty of the forest. Hilda
was an essential part of his life and being, without which he could
imagine no future. Year by year it grew harder to say good-bye, and the
happiness of meeting grew deeper and more real. There was a pride in
the knowledge that she was for him only, which played upon the
unconscious selfishness of his young nature and gave him the most
profound and exquisite delight. At three and twenty he was old enough
to understand the world about him, he had accomplished his year of
obligatory service in the army, and had come into contact with all sorts
of men, things and ideas. He was himself a man, and had outgrown
most boyish fallacies and illusions, but he had not outgrown Hilda. She
was there, in the heart of the forest, in the towers of Sigmundskron,
away from the world he had seen, and maidenly ignorant of all it
contained, waiting for him, the incarnation of all that was lovely, and
young, and fair, and spotless. He pitied his fellow-students, who loved
vulgarly whatever came into their way. He could not imagine what life
would be without Hilda. It was a strange sort of love, too, for there had
been no wooing; they had grown up for each other as naturally as the
song-bird for its mate. There had been no hindrances, no jealousies, no

alternate hopes and fears, none of those vicissitudes to which love is
heir. Nothing but the calamity of death could interfere with the
fulfilment of their happiness, and perhaps no two beings ever loved
each other from whom death seemed so far.
Hilda was happy,