A CHANGE.
HAMILTON was wakened about three o’clock in the morning by Hildegarde
rushing into his room, and exclaiming, “For heaven’s sake, get up—get
up, and come to my father—I am afraid he has got the cholera. You have
seen people ill, and know the symptoms. Oh, come—we do not know what to
do!”
“Send for the Doctor,” cried Hamilton. “I shall be with you in a
moment.”
On entering Mr. Rosenberg’s room, Hamilton found Hildegarde standing
beside his bed, while Madame Rosenberg was walking up and down the room,
gesticulating like a person in a state of mental derangement.
“Oh, Mr. Hamilton,” she exclaimed, the moment she perceived him, “tell
me, only tell me that Franz has not got the cholera, and I shall be
grateful as long as I live! It would be too hard were he to have it now,
when people say there is nothing more to fear. Last week, only one
man—quite a decrepit old man, died of it? I am sure Franz has only eaten
too much supper yesterday evening. Don’t you think so? Say that he has
not got the cholera, and I shall believe you implicitly.”
But Hamilton could not say so, nor unfortunately Doctor Berger either;
the case was at once pronounced a bad one, and, in a fearfully short
time, quite hopeless. Consternation and dismay pervaded the whole
household, when, on the morning of the third day, poor Mr. Rosenberg was
no more. Completely overpowered by the suddenness of her own
bereavement, Madame Rosenberg retired to her room, unable to speak to
anyone.
Major Stultz immediately undertook the necessary arrangements for the
funeral, and gave directions for the printing of circular letters to
announce the death to distant relations and friends, a custom which
saves the mourning family the performance of a most painful duty.
Hamilton took the two little boys to their sister Crescenz. Her married
life had begun in anxiety and sorrow, and Hamilton felt some natural
trepidation at seeing her again, under such painful circumstances; but
her grief was of the most tranquil description, the tears flowed
unrestrained over her round rosy cheeks, and when they ceased left not a
trace behind. Although but a few days had elapsed since she had left her
family, a not quite willing bride, she had already begun to repeat her
husband’s words as oracles. Hamilton half smiled as he heard her: “Thank
goodness, that she at least was provided for, and had a home! She hoped
poor dear Hildegarde would not now begin to repent having refused such a
man as Major Stultz, the more so, as that refusal precluded the
possibility of her ever residing with them!”
Poor Hildegarde! She had not bestowed one thought, much less a regret,
on Major Stultz. Hamilton, on his return, found her sitting in her room,
perfectly motionless, with parched lips, and eyes devoid of tears. He
hoped she had at length begun to think of herself—recommended her to try
to eat something, and go to bed. She looked at him as if his words had
not conveyed the slightest sense to her mind—walked uneasily up and down
the room for a few minutes, and then said, with a shudder, “I am so
afraid of his being buried alive! Do you think he was quite—quite dead?
If I could only see him once more.”
“And who could be so cruel as to prevent you?” exclaimed Hamilton. “If
it be any relief to your mind, I will remain in his room to-night?”
“In his room!” she cried, clasping her hands convulsively: “he is no
longer there—they have taken him away to the deadhouse.”
“The deadhouse! Where is that?”
“In the burying-ground. They have watches there, I believe, but still he
is among all the frightful corpses, and should he come to
himself—imagine how horrible! You will go with me—you will let me see
him once more? I cannot else believe that he is really dead!”
“I will go with you there, or anywhere you please,” said Hamilton,
completely overcome by her evident wretchedness.
The weather was unusually inclement; a storm of falling sleet almost
blinded them as they waded through the half-melted snow which lay on the
road outside the town; but Hildegarde seemed unconscious of all these
impediments, hurried on silently until she reached the churchyard, where
she turned to a building, which had escaped Hamilton’s observation on a
former occasion, and walked directly up to a row of glass doors, and
stood as if transfixed with horror. Hamilton was in a moment at her
side, and it must be confessed that to those who were not inured to the
various aspects of death, the scene which presented itself was shocking
in the extreme. On tables in the interior a long row of open coffins
were arranged, their ghastly tenants dressed with a care that seemed to
mock the solemnity of death and interment. A young officer was in
uniform, as if about to appear on parade—an elderly gentleman dressed
for a ball—a young girl whose half-open mouth and eyes showed the
struggle with which soul and body had parted, was crowned with flowers,
and a long white veil lay in white folds over her bare arms and white
dress, reaching almost to the satin shoes which covered the stiff, cold
feet as they protruded beyond the coffin in hideous rigidity.
Mr. Rosenberg was now scarcely recognisable; his livid features were
contracted, and not a trace remained of that beauty for which he had
been so remarkable. Hamilton turned away, but again his eyes encountered
death. Another and lighter room was filled with the corpses of poorer
persons and children; the latter indeed seemed to sleep, and on them the
wreaths of flowers did not appear misplaced.
Hildegarde seemed unable to tear herself from the spot, nor did Hamilton
feel disposed to disturb her until he perceived a number of persons
hurrying to and fro, and torches glimmering in the churchyard; he then
asked a woman, who appeared with a bunch of keys in her hand, if there
was to be a funeral.
“I believe the Countess Raimund is to be buried this evening,” she
answered.
“Not one of these?” cried Hamilton, pointing to the place where
Hildegarde stood.
“Yes; just there beside the gentleman who died of cholera—that old lady
in black satin with her mouth wide open—it was shameful negligence of
those about her not to close it before the jaw stiffened.”
“Hildegarde,” said Hamilton, drawing her arm within his, “you must now
leave this place. There is to be a funeral.”
“I know—I heard,” she said, allowing herself to be led away, with her
head still turned towards the chamber of death. “The only precedence
which the Countess Raimund can now claim of my father,” she added,
bitterly, “is that of first descending into the grave! How absurd all
pride appears when standing at the threshold of a charnel-house!”
“Very true,” said Hamilton, “but how seldom the proud—how seldom anyone
thinks of such a place. Where are you going now?”
“To my mother’s grave.”
He made no opposition, for he hoped that some sudden recollection would
put an end to the unnatural calmness of her manner, and was, for this
reason, not sorry to perceive that the grave-digger had already been at
work; the place was measured, and some shovelfuls of earth had been
thrown over the grave she came to visit.
She seemed for a few minutes to pray, and then sat down beside the stone
cross, and began assiduously to arrange the leaves of the still green,
though withered, ivy wreaths which she had placed on it in November.
“I am trying your patience unpardonably,” she observed at length, rising
from her cheerless occupation, “and it is all to no purpose.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hamilton.
“I expected to feel something like sorrow for my father’s loss. You will
be shocked when I tell you that I cannot feel anything resembling it.
Before I came here I thought my odious apathy was caused by doubts of
the reality of his death—those doubts are all removed—I know that he is
dead; that in a few hours he will be in the grave, and moulder beside my
mother’s skeleton, and I do not, cannot feel anything like grief!”
“You are too much stunned by the suddenness,” began Hamilton.
“Not so,” said Hildegarde, quietly, “I assure you I never felt more
perfectly contented than at this moment; were it not that I shudder at
my total want of sensibility.”
“If it be insensibility,” said Hamilton; “but you have so much decision,
so much firmness of character, that——”
“No, no,” she cried, hastily interrupting him; “this is not firmness. Do
not imagine that I feel emotion which I am endeavouring to conceal, or
suppressing tears ready to flow; I only feel an almost irresistible
inclination to walk or run without stopping!”
“I am surprised that you do not find yourself completely exhausted,”
said Hamilton. “It would certainly be more natural, when one takes into
consideration that you have not slept for three nights, or eaten
anything for nearly three days!”
“And you also have passed three sleepless nights,” said Hildegarde, “and
without the hopes and fears which made the want of rest imperceptible to
me. I ought to have remembered that sooner.”
“I was not thinking of myself,” cried Hamilton. “And your hopes and
fears,” he added, in a lower voice, “I have most truly participated.
Will you never believe that your joys are my joys, your sorrows my
sorrows?”
He waited in vain for an answer; Hildegarde leaned heavily on his arm,
and breathed quickly; he at length caught a glimpse of her face, and was
so shocked at the convulsive workings of her features that he beckoned
to one of the numerous hackney coachmen returning from the churchyard,
and silently placed his unresisting companion in the carriage. She
sighed so deeply, and then gasped so fearfully for breath, that he let
down all the windows, and experienced the most heart-felt pleasure when
at length she burst into a passion of tears.
She wept unrestrainedly until they reached home, but, even on the stairs
as they ascended, Hamilton perceived a return of her former unnaturally
composed manner.
During the next day Madame Rosenberg was almost constantly surrounded by
her friends and acquaintance. Towards evening Crescenz drew her sister
aside, and whispered: “Oh, my dear Hildegarde, this is an irreparable
loss for you!”
“Irreparable indeed!” said Hildegarde, moving her head dejectedly; “I
wish it had pleased God to let me die instead of my father—few would
have mourned for me!”
“I’m sure, dear, I don’t know what is to become of you now! I can’t bear
to think of it, but I suppose you will have to apply to Mademoiselle
Hortense to get you a situation as governess; you know she promised to
do so whenever you wished it——”
“I know,” said Hildegarde, rubbing her forehead with her hand, and
biting her under lip with an expression of great distress. “Let us talk
about that some other time—I cannot _think_ yet.”
“It was Lina Berger who talked about it; she said she was sure that
mamma would not propose your remaining with her, and Major Stultz says
that——”
“Crescenz,” said Hildegarde with some impatience, “say what you please
to me from yourself, I am ready to hear you; but do not torture me now
with the opinions of either Lina Berger or Major Stultz.”
“Well, to be sure! And how often have you said that you considered him a
sensible man!”
“I have not changed my opinion, but as I know he can feel no sort of
interest in anything that concerns me, I do not wish to hear what he has
said.”
“Ah, I see Mr. Hamilton has been telling you—he smiled so strangely when
I was speaking to him yesterday, that I was sure he would tell you
everything—but indeed I wished to have had you with me directly; it was
my first thought, but Blazius said that what occurred at—at Seon—you
know, made it quite impossible!”
“Mr. Hamilton told me nothing of all this,” said Hildegarde. “I thank
you for your kind intentions, dear Crescenz; I can imagine that Major
Stultz’s refusal to comply with your wishes has pained you; but you may
set your mind at rest, for I feel even more intensely than he can, the
impossibility of my ever becoming an inmate of his house.”
“Well,” said Crescenz, apparently greatly relieved; “I’m sure I am glad
to hear you say so, for though he talked very sensibly, and all that,
this morning, I could not help crying, and was quite uncomfortable at
the idea of speaking to you about it; I was afraid you might think that
now I am married, I love you less.”
“Four days is too short a time to work such a change, I hope,” said
Hildegarde, with a melancholy smile; then suddenly seizing her sister’s
hands, she exclaimed, “Oh, Crescenz, love me! Love me still—as much as
you can—think how I shall miss my father’s affection!”
“Very true, indeed, as Blazius says; my father bestowed his whole
affection on you, and quite overlooked me!”
Hildegarde gazed at her sister for a moment in silence, and then turned
away with tearful eyes. She saw that Crescenz would soon be lost to her
forever. Major Stultz already directed her thoughts and words, as
completely as she herself had done when they were at school together.
She watched her returning to their step-mother’s room, and then walked
slowly towards the door leading to the passage. Hamilton was standing at
the stove—had heard the sisters’ conversation, and filled with
compassion for her deserted position, he seized her hand as she passed,
and passionately pressed it to his lips without speaking. When she
raised her heavy eyelids to look at him, she saw that his eyes were
suffused with tears.
“I—thank you—for your sympathy,” she murmured with trembling lips, as
she withdrew her hand, and hurried out of the room.
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