She did not finish the sentence, but stood looking at him with an expression of serious doubt upon her lovely face that made Greif laugh again.
"Because if that were it," she said gravely, "Rex might go, and I should be glad of it--"
"Hilda! How can you have such ideas!" cried Greif at last. Her innocence was so astounding that he could not find words to answer her at once.
"There might be just a possibility--"
"That you, in your heart of hearts, are not satisfied with me alone, but want to make a conquest of Rex besides! Poor Rex! How he would laugh at the idea--Hilda, you must not think such things!"
"Is it wrong?" she asked, turning her clear eyes upon him.
"Wrong? No. It is not wrong to any one but yourself, and it is really very wrong to believe that you could be capable of a contemptible, silly vanity like that."
"You do not think I should be--what do they call it--a coquette--if you took me into the world?"
"You? Never!" And Greif laughed again, as he well might.
In a woman differently brought up it would have been impossible not to suppose that such words were spoken out of sheer affectation, but Greif knew too well how Hilda had lived, to suspect such a thing. Her innocence was such that she did not understand the commonest feelings of women in the world, not even the most harmless.
"I hope not," she said. "I do not mean to be bad, though I believe it is very easy, and one does not always know it, when one is."
"I should think one would know it oneself sooner than any one else,"
answered Greif. "But if I find out that you are bad, Hilda, I promise to tell you so."
"Seriously?"
"I do not run any risk. What children we are, Hilda! And how pleasant it is to be children together, on a day like this, in a year like this, with such a creature as you, sweetheart!"
"We cannot always be children," she answered. "Will it be very different then, I wonder? Will there be any change, except the good change of loving more than now?"
"I do not see why there should be. Even if that never came, would it not be enough, as it is?"
"Love must grow, Greif. I feel that. A love that does not grow is already beginning to die."
"Who told you so many things of love, Hilda?"
"Who told me?" she repeated, as the quick fire flashed in her eyes. "Do I need to be told, to know? Ah, Greif, if you felt what I feel--here--"
she pressed her hand to her side, "you would understand that I need no telling, nor ever shall. You are there, dear, there in the midst of my heart, more really even than you are before my eyes."
"You are more eloquent than I, sweetheart," said Greif. "You leave me nothing to say, except always to repeat what you have said."
"If I said little--" She stopped and laughed.
"It is not words only, nor the tones of them that make things true. If I had the skill I could say better what would please you to hear, but having none, I make your speeches my own, to be enough for both of us."
"Do you never feel as though you must speak, or your heart would burst?"
"No--I wish I could, for then the words would come. I think that the more I feel the less I am able to say."
"You talked very badly when you were trying to persuade me that we ought not to marry," said Hilda, with a side glance at his happy face.
"And you talked well--too well--"
"Which of us two felt the more, I wonder?"
"What I felt was almost too much. I came near never speaking again. I do not know how I got home that day."
"And I--do you know? When you were gone, I did not shed a tear, I did not try to run after you, though I thought of it. I went quietly into the house and sat down and told my mother what I had said. Was it heartless, do you think? Was it because I felt nothing? It is true, I did not believe you were really ill, since you had the strength to go away on foot."
"What was it then?" Greif looked wonderingly into her face.
"It was victory, and I knew it. For one moment I was frightened, and then I saw it all. I saw you come back, as you have come to-day, to say what you have said. I felt as though my hand were still on your shoulder, as though you could not escape me, do what you might. I never doubted, until that dreadful day when Wastei came over and told my mother that you were very ill. He did not say you were dying, but he told us that your carriage was on the way to fetch us, and that they were sending relays of horses along the road so that we should lose no time--and she would have left me behind. But I knew the truth. I knew that if I could see you, you were saved; and then, when I pushed my mother aside and went in, it seemed too late. If I could die at all, being so strong, I should have died in that moment, when your head fell back upon my arm and your eyes closed--and then, a minute later, they told me you were saved, for when I knew you were still alive I knew you would be well again--and then--and then--oh, Greif!"
The tears that pain or sorrow could not have wrung from her, broke forth abundantly in the memory of that overwhelming joy. If Hilda had not been Hilda, the only woman of her kind, Greif would have kissed the tears away as they started from her eyes. But being Hilda, he could not.
It was over in a minute, but he had become a little pale and his arm trembled under the light pressure of hers. She brushed the drops away, and saw his altered face.
"What is the matter, dear?" she asked. "It is only happiness--they do not hurt."
"Sometimes you are so beautiful that I do not dare to touch you," he said softly.
She turned her golden head quickly with a bright smile, and a crystal drop that lingered on her lashes fell upon her soft cheek. It was as though his words had been the breath of the south wind gently shaking the last drop of a summer shower from the petals of a perfect rose.
"How shall I not be vain, if you say such things!" she exclaimed.
"How can I see you so, and not say them?" he asked.
"It is time to go down," she said. "We meant to go, when I began to speak of Rex, ever so long ago."
"I had forgotten Rex."
"Do not forget him. He is a good friend."
So at last they descended the broken stair and disappeared into the house. When Greif was ready to go, and the carriage was before the door, Frau von Sigmundskron led him away from Hilda.
"Let it be done soon," she said, earnestly.
"The marriage?" asked Greif in surprise.
"No--the name. Let it be changed as soon as the lawyers can do it."
"I will see to it at once," he answered, wondering at her haste.
She saw the look of inquiry in his eyes and paused a moment, holding his hand in hers.
"I have lived long without a son--give me one--and Sigmundskron has had no lord these eighteen years."
"I will not lose a day," he said. "And once more--I thank you with all my heart."
He kissed her thin hand, and turned away to bid farewell to Hilda. A moment later the light carriage was whirling out through the castle gate. The two ladies watched until it was out of sight.