He grew anxious, however, as he watched her, for it was now clear that
unless something occurred to revive her vital energy and her spirits,
she must soon become an invalid altogether, even if she did not die of
her sufferings. More than once, Greifenstein proposed to go away, to
travel, to spend the winter in a southern climate, but she refused to
leave her home, with a firmness that surprised him. There was Greif,
she said, and Greif must be considered. When he was married they might
go away and leave the castle to the young couple. Until then she would
not move. Greifenstein could not but see the wisdom of this course.
Meanwhile he attempted to induce his wife to live more in the open air,
to ride, to drive, to do anything. But she confessed that she was too
weak to face the inclement weather.
Greifenstein was a kind-hearted man in his own peculiar way, and he
began to be sorry for her. She no longer distressed his sense of
fitness, as formerly, by her inopportune interruptions, her wild
smiles, her hysterical laughter, her pitifully flippant talk. He said
to himself that she must be ill indeed, to be so serious and quiet.
Perhaps she needed amusement. His ideas of diversion were not of a very
gay nature, and since she would neither leave the house nor the country
he did not quite see what he could do to amuse her. But the thought
that it was necessary for her health grew until he felt that it was his
duty to do something. Then he hesitated no longer and made a desperate
attempt, involving a considerable sacrifice to his own inclinations.
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