Intelligent and keen as she was, for a woman of
her class, it nevertheless did not occur to her that she was putting
into her pocket the key to the mystery of eighteen months ago. The
baroness had never spoken to her familiarly about the tragedy, and she
took it for granted that the catastrophe was fully understood by the
survivors, though they chose to keep its cause a secret among
themselves. Hilda had indeed told her that poor Greif had received no
message from his father, but as the baroness had never mentioned the
letter to Rex, she supposed that both were in the same position.
Berbel carried the paper to her own room and put it into a strong
wooden box with her own most sacred belongings, the few relics of her
husband which she possessed, a dozen letters written to her during the
war, an old button from his uniform, a faded bit of ribband which had
carried the medal for the war of 1866, and which she had once replaced
with a new one, a pair of his old soldier's gloves and a lock of his
hair. It was all she had left of him, for he had fallen among hundreds
and had been buried in the common trench. She envied her mistress
nothing in the world except the two swords and the leathern helmet that
had been Sigmundskron's--poor woman! Her husband had fought as bravely
and had fallen on the same honourable field as his master, but she had
nothing of his, but a little hair, a bit of ribband, a tarnished button
and a pair of worn-out gloves. The rough-browed, hard-faced woman
kissed each of her poor relics in turn before she closed the box, and
the tears were in her eyes as she hid the key away.
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