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.