For yours--I would die to wash it out. For my sake,
do you say? Oh, Greif, is one hair of your head, one look of your dear
eyes less wholly mine, because your mother sinned? Are you not Greif to
me, always, and nothing else?'
'And so you love me still--just as you did before?'
'Can I say more than I have said? Can I do more than I have done? Ah--
then love must be too cold a word for what I mean!'
'You would not love me if I lied, and were a coward.'
'You would not be Greif.'
'Nor should I be my miserable self, if I acted this lie before your
mother!'
'You would not be Greif, if you could kill her with the vanity of
selfish truth-telling.'
'The vanity! Ay, I have thought of that. Perhaps I am vain, after all
--I, who have but little left to be proud of.'
His head sank on his breast, and he sighed bitterly, wringing his
fingers together. He wished he could shed tears, and cry aloud, and
faint, as some women do.
'And yet--you have me--not to be proud of, but to love,' said Hilda
gently.
'In spite of all! Is it really true, quite true?' He shook his head
doubtfully.
'It is true.'
Hilda had no words left with which to persuade him of her unfaltering
love, but perhaps at that moment the simple little phrase, with the
accent she gave it, told Greif more than many protestations. It seemed
to him that the course of his distress was checked suddenly, and that
he felt the strain of the cable upon the firm anchor at last.
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