The following day Cornelia awoke with the first glimmer of dawn. The vague expectation excited by Heinrich's ambiguous words had kept her long awake, and now drove her from her couch earlier than usual. She made a hasty toilet and hurried out into the autumn morning. It was damp and gloomy; a thick fog made earth and sky vanish in a gray cloud; the withered leaves fell from the wet bushes with a low rustle as her garments brushed against them. She did not heed it. Spring was in her heart, and the warm life in her breast seemed to glow through the chilling scene around her. Mechanically she entered the path she was most accustomed to follow. It led to the churchyard. She walked through the long rows of graves, apparently the only living creature in the broad place of death; but as she approached the well she suddenly saw, at a few paces' distance, two grave-diggers lowering a little coffin into the earth. She approached and asked, "Whose child is this you are burying so entirely alone?"
"It is illegitimate," said one of the men, dryly.
Cornelia shuddered. "Oh, how terrible!"
"Yes, it's a pity for silly girls to allow themselves to be so blinded. If they thought more of their honor, they wouldn't meet with misfortune. And the poor children always have to suffer for it. This one was put out to board with strangers, who neglected it so that it fell sick and died. The girl to whom it belonged was obliged to go out to service again because her lover deserted her before the child was born, so she couldn't trouble herself about it, and was obliged to leave it to die."
"Poor, poor child!" thought Cornelia, looking at the grave with tearful eyes. "Usually when a child is born it is received with joy and love; but shame stood beside your cradle, shame hovers over your lonely grave. No happy father took you in his arms, no gladsome mother's eyes answered your first trusting smile; nobody wanted you, and the only one who loved you was obliged to deny you until God had compassion upon you and took you to himself. Now your forsaken mother may perhaps be stretching out her arms despairingly to grasp the empty air, and must conceal her anguish as deeply as her darling has just been buried in the earth. Terrible fate! May God protect every loving woman from it!" Tears flowed more and more quickly down her cheeks; she turned away and wept out the emotion that had seized upon her on the graves of Veronica and Reinhold. As she went home she noticed for the first time that it was misty and dreary, and entered the house in a graver mood than she had left it.
"Marie," she said to her chambermaid, "while I was at the churchyard it occurred to me that this is Veronica's birthday. Order some wreaths for her grave; I wish to have it adorned on such anniversaries."
The hours dragged slowly away. Ottmar did not appear at the usual time; but instead the evening paper announced his appointment as minister. That was why he had been so absent-minded yesterday, why his words had contained a vague promise of a speedy decision of her fate; so this was the secret. Surely the turning-point in her life must now be reached; he had obtained what he desired, and might dare to marry. Her heart beat more and more violently. Quarter of an hour after quarter of an hour passed away. He could not come today: he probably had too much to do; and yet she longed so anxiously to see him.
Her servants asked whether they should carry the wreaths the gardener had just skillfully arranged to the grave. "Yes, go," said Cornelia, absently; "no one will come to-day now." But scarcely had the maids left the house when the bell was impatiently pulled. Cornelia opened the door with trembling expectation, and sank upon Ottmar's breast.
Henri had just met the two servants in the street. Had Cornelia ventured to send them away when she knew he was coming? or was she preparing to leave the house? He could form no conclusion, but explained the incident in his own favor; knew himself to be alone with Cornelia, and gave himself up entirely to his own excited feelings.
"You are a minister," she began. "You have now obtained that for which you struggled. It will afford you no greater happiness than your present position; but I perceive this throws too heavy a weight into the scale not to outbalance my counsels."