“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?”