THE CHURCHYARD.
HAMILTON experienced a sort of satisfaction in avoiding both sisters for
some time—the idea that he was endeavouring to cure Crescenz of her too
evident partiality was almost sublime, and would probably have turned
his youthful head had not Hildegarde formed a counterpoise. Her former
dislike to him seemed to have returned with redoubled force. She
scarcely looked at, never spoke to him, and seemed not in the least to
observe that he no longer passed the evenings at home. He had found no
difficulty in disposing of his time; introductions to a few German
families had been followed by general invitations, of which he availed
himself at first with eager pleasure, but soon afterwards with a feeling
of indescribable _ennui_; he missed Hildegarde’s society, and began to
consider in what way he could imperceptibly renew their former intimacy;
but this was more difficult than he had imagined, for the sisters seemed
to have formed an alliance offensive and defensive against him. Crescenz
no longer sang when learning to make pies and puddings in the kitchen;
and if he looked in, she retreated behind the dresser. Hildegarde’s door
was now always shut, perhaps because the weather had become colder, but
Hamilton imagined it was to prevent his leaning against the door-posts,
to watch her giving her brothers instruction until the dinner was
announced. The rarity and shortness of his present intercourse served
but to keep her in his memory, and perpetually renew his regret for
their last most unnecessary quarrel.
One cold fine morning, as he was leaving the house to keep an
appointment with Zedwitz, he perceived her standing with Crescenz and
her father at the passage-window looking into the court. They were
dressed in deep mourning, and held in their hands large wreaths of ivy,
interspersed with clusters of red berries; they contemplated them with
evident satisfaction, while their father spoke so earnestly that
Hamilton’s approach was at first unperceived, and he heard Mr. Rosenberg
say, “You can easily imagine why I prefer going alone, and at some other
time. As long as you were at school, gratitude for my wife’s attention
forced me to accompany her to the churchyard—the task of placing the
wreaths now devolves on you, and I wish you both to thank her as she
deserves. You will not surely find it difficult to comply with my
request.”
“I hope nothing unexpected has occurred——” began Hamilton, looking at
the sable garments of the sisters.
“Nothing whatever,” replied Mr. Rosenberg, smiling. “It is All Saints’
Day, and my girls are going to place wreaths on their mother’s grave. I
suppose you too are on the way to the churchyard, like all the rest of
the world?”
“No,” said Hamilton, “why should I go there?”
“I don’t know, indeed,” replied Mr. Rosenberg, “excepting as a stranger
it might interest you to see the decorated graves.”
“If there be anything to see, I shall certainly ride to the churchyard
after I have kept my appointment with Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, stooping
to examine the wreath which hung on Hildegarde’s arm.
“My wife surprised Hildegarde with this wreath and a bouquet of superb
dahlias this morning, and I have just been telling her that her mother’s
grave has been decorated every year in the same manner.”
“I am fully aware of my step-mother’s kindness,” said Hildegarde, with
some embarrassment, “and am sorry I ever did her injustice.”
“That’s right, Hildegarde,” replied her father. “Now I know you will say
all I wish—to-morrow we can go alone together, but to-day you must
accompany your step-mother.”
Hamilton desired his servant to meet him at the churchyard, and rode off
to the barracks; he had no difficulty in persuading Zedwitz to accompany
him, after having told him Hildegarde was there. “I will go to meet the
living,” he said, “but not to pray for the dead, inasmuch as I not only
doubt the efficacy of my prayers, but the existence of purgatory.”
“Hush!” said Hamilton, laughing; “no good Catholics should entertain a
doubt on the subject. I hope I shall not find you as unbelieving as my
friend Biedermann, who has substituted philosophy for religion, and
talks of the soul resolving itself into the eternal essence after its
separation from the body.”
“No,” said Zedwitz, “I am a good Catholic, and believe more than many
professors of my religion. I go to mass every Sunday and holiday, and my
mother takes care that I confess my sins once a year at least.”
“That same confession must be rather a bore,” observed Hamilton.
“Sometimes—rather,” replied Zedwitz, making his horse dance along the
road.
“It seems as if all Munich had turned out in mourning,” said Hamilton;
“the crowd, too, reminds me of the October fête, but the faces do not
exactly suit the garments. Is it not necessary to look a _little_
sorrowful on such an occasion?”
“How can you be so unreasonable!” exclaimed Zedwitz; “many of these
persons are about to visit the graves of relations who have been dead a
dozen years! For my part, I find something respectable, almost
praiseworthy, in the dedication of one day in the year to the memory of
the dead, even though tearlessly spent.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Hamilton, “and the idea of praying for
their souls is poetical in the extreme. Had I been a Catholic, that is
one of the tenets I should most tenaciously have believed. But,” he
resumed after a long pause, “it seems odd that All Saints’ Day instead
of All Souls’ Day, should be chosen—can you tell me why?”
“No,” replied Zedwitz, “you must ask someone better informed on these
subjects than I am; all I know is, that the observance itself was
instituted by one of the popes about twelve hundred years ago.”
“But I should have thought that as none of the relatives of these people
have been saints—to-morrow, being All Souls’ Day, would be the proper
day to choose.”
“Very likely,” answered Zedwitz, laughing. “I have never thought about
the matter, but I suppose the first of November is what you would in
England call the most fashionable day. Ask my mother the first time you
see her, and she will tell you everything about it. By-the-by, when do
you intend to visit us?”
“As soon as I have a second horse and a sledge. I enjoy the idea of
sledging so much that I wish with all my heart it would begin to snow
to-morrow. But here we are, and I hope Hildegarde may prove a very
loadstone to you, otherwise we shall scarcely find her among all these
people.”
The crowd was immense, and they made their way slowly through it, but
Hamilton was interested in the novelty of the scene; his companion’s
eyes wandered toward the different groups of dark moving figures, who
occasionally stopped to sprinkle the graves of departed friends with
water placed near for the purpose. Hamilton was occupied with the
tombstones and crosses, which were variously and tastefully decorated
with wreaths, festoons, bouquets of flowers, and coloured lamps. Even
the graves of the poorest were strewn with charcoal, and ornamented with
red berries and moss, while tearful groups surrounding those newly made,
gave an additional shade of solemnity to a religious rite which Hamilton
had been taught to consider superfluous.
The attempt to find the Rosenbergs, or rather Hildegarde, among the
moving multitude, was long fruitless, and might have proved altogether
so, had not they met the Hoffmanns and Raimund, who led them at once to
the object of their search. Madame Rosenberg was preparing to depart,
and held in her hand a brush dipped in water, which she shook over the
grave. Hildegarde and Crescenz followed her example, before they spoke
to Zedwitz or Hamilton; but directly they laid it aside, the two boys,
finding themselves unwatched, began a contest for it, which became so
loud, that their mother, turning quickly towards them, and perceiving
their irreverent conduct, seized the subject of dispute, and bestowing a
thump upon each, shoved them on before her, while she exclaimed: “I
ought to have left you at home, you tiresome children; you have never
ceased plaguing me since we came out. Only imagine,” she said,
addressing Hamilton; “Gustle was twice nearly run over, and Peppy fell
so often, that the Major was at last obliged to carry him!”
Zedwitz and Raimund had immediately joined Hildegarde. Raimund, whose
mouth had been distended by a frightful yawn when they had met him, was
now smiling radiantly, and evidently endeavouring to monopolise his
cousin, who, however, seemed rather indisposed to listen to him, and
bestowed her attentions almost exclusively on Zedwitz. Raimund at length
rejoined his betrothed, saying, loud enough for Hamilton to hear,
“Hildegarde knows what she is about; when Zedwitz is present she has
neither word nor look for her poor cousin!”
“You get words and looks enough from her every evening when she is with
us,” observed Madame de Hoffmann, with some bitterness.
Hamilton turned round, and saw Mademoiselle de Hoffmann’s glance of
reproach towards her mother, and Raimund’s confusion. The words “every
evening” grated on his ear, and before he could arrange the unpleasant
ideas which had at once entered his mind, they had reached the
churchyard gate, and Zedwitz, approaching him, whispered hurriedly, “I
would not lose this walk home for any consideration. Your advice about
Hildegarde was excellent, and I am determined to follow it. Pray let
your servant take charge of my horse.”
“My advice!” repeated Hamilton, with a forced smile, but Zedwitz had
left him, and the crowd had closed between them. Murmuring some
directions to his servant, Hamilton sprang upon his horse—the animal,
always restive, no sooner felt his impetuous spring than he plunged
violently, and on receiving an angry check, reared—lost his balance—and
fell backwards—rolling over his rider to the horror of all the
bystanders.
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