Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.8 #198 (24 Apr 1852).
In an old castle on the banks of the Rhine, there lived in retirement the Count von Hazel with his wife, and an only daughter named Clothilde. They were still mourning the loss of the twin sister of Clothilde, a lovely girl of seventeen, who had died a year before. The two sisters were so exactly resembling each other, that even their parents were sometimes unable to distinguish one from the other. Both of equal beauty, of equal amiability and sweetness of disposition, they were united by the strongest bonds of affection. The wish of the one found an echo in the breast of the other. None would have imagined that one sister could have survived the other; so the death of Ernestina was a double grief to the parents--the affliction caused by the loss of one child, and the more afflicting apprehension of the loss of the other.
They were in this state of mind, when the son of an old friend, who had left the neighbourhood a mere child some twenty years previously, visited the castle. Otho, who was a young man of prepossessing appearance, was received by the family at the castle with the greatest cordiality. He had not been there many days, when a change was visible in the manners and spirits of its inmates. While by his eloquence and talent in relating stories of his travels and adventures in foreign countries, he succeeded in exhilarating the heart of the count his host, he at the same time, by his chivalrous address and frank, open manners, quite won the heart of Clothilde. And when he began to talk of their childhood, and to call to her mind the numerous little incidents which had occurred at that period--how she had become his affianced child-bride--how they had played at the ceremony of betrothment--and how afterwards he was always confounding the two sisters, never knowing to which he had been betrothed---her interest in him became deeper and her attachment quite confirmed.
The count and countess saw with the greatest pleasure that a new affection was springing up in the bosom of Clothilde, and that she gradually ceased to speak of her lost sister. The room which the departed Ernestina used to occupy, and which had always been kept in the same order as when she was living, became quite deserted; Clothilde had discontinued her accustomed evening visit for the purpose of devotion, and spent her time in listening to young Lord Otho's tales of love. To allow the departure of a guest who had removed the griefs and apprehensions of the family became impossible to all; he himself appeared loth to leave; and at last, emboldened by the kindness of the count and countess, he asked for the hand of Clothilde in marriage.
On the evening after the ceremony of betrothal they were all sitting round the table, listening, as usual, to the interesting accounts of Otho, who had just been telling them that one year before he had made up his mind to pass his life in travelling. The count was surprised, and expressed a wish to know what had occurred to induce him to alter this resolution.
"At that time," resumed Otho, "I was in Milan; and one day I wandered into the Church of Sancta Maria. A lady was standing intently gazing on the beautiful altar-piece, and as soon as my eyes had fallen from the exquisite representation of the Madonna to the living representative of angelic beauty standing before the painting, I forgot the art in my admiration of the nature. Quite absorbed in the contemplation of her who was contemplating the Madonna, I remained for some moments without moving. At length she turned to leave the church, followed by a servant who had been standing at some distance from her. I hastened to accost the servant, and no sooner had the name of the lady escaped his lips, than the recollections of my childhood burst upon my memory, and I quickened my pace to overtake her; but she had suddenly disappeared; and when I turned to look for the servant, he had disappeared also."
"And what was the name of the lady?" asked Clothilde impatiently.
"The name of the lady!" replied Otho. "Can you ask me such a question? 'Tis you whom I have just been describing!"
"I! I have never been in Milan. The servant must have imposed upon you."
At the same moment the count assured Otho that his daughter had never been out of their own country; and the countess added that at the time when he met with the lady, Clothilde was deeply mourning the death of her sister Ernestina.
The young Lord Otho became meditative. "That is the face I saw--those are the eyes I saw--the figure--all the same," murmured he abstractedly. "Did you part with one of your servants just before that time?" he asked aloud.
He was told that the domestics of the castle had not been changed for ten years.
A general silence ensued. Each member of the circle was busied in reflection, endeavouring to find out some clue to the mysterious rencontre.
All at once Otho, as if struck by some sudden recollection, turned to the count and said, that as the lady was standing gazing on the altar-piece she had suffered her mantilla to fall a little from her shoulders, and he had perceived on the neck of alabaster purity a red mark resembling a cherry.
A feeling of awe ran through the whole family.
"That is the mark which my child Ernestina has taken with her to the grave," said the count.
"And it was only by that mark that we could distinguish one from the other when children," added the countess.
Clothilde became pale, and sunk back in her chair, unable to utter a word.
The remainder of the evening was passed in gloomy and painful reflections. For the first time since the stay of Otho at the castle, the memory of the lost one had been revived; and Clothilde, when passing the door of her sister's room, on retiring to rest felt a strange shuddering sensation which she had never before experienced. From this evening, as by mute and mutual consent, the family abstained from speaking of the singular meeting in the church at Milan; but some days elapsed before they regained their cheerfulness. At last, in the preparations which were being made for the approaching marriage, all thoughts of Ernestina and the cherry-mark were lost.
One evening, the old castle, usually so quietly reposing in its still and solemn grandeur, exhibited signs of mirth and revelry. Every window was brilliantly illuminated, and the numberless lights reflected in the clear still waters of the Rhine, gave to the whole the appearance of enchantment. Within the walls music was resounding and enticing the company to the dance: it was evident that the marriage of Clothilde and Lord Otho was being celebrated.
The happy couple abandoned themselves to the blissful ideas of the moment. Suddenly, in the midst of the most animated dance, Clothilde stopped, a gloom passed across her features, and with her eyes filled with tears, she tore herself from her partner and ran out of the room. The music was commanded to stop, and some of the bridesmaids were about to be despatched in search of her, when she appeared again in the room all radiant with smiles, and more mirthful than before. At that moment the clock struck twelve. The music again commenced its animating strains; the dancing again began with fresh spirit and vivacity, and Clothilde with Otho whirled round and round the saloon in the most fantastic waltz.
The company were dispersing; Otho had led his bride away, and none remained but the count and countess in the saloon, which was already becoming dark from the extinguishing of the lights. Suddenly Clothilde reappeared, still in her bridal-dress.
"All gone?" she exclaimed, quite astonished. "Where is Otho?"
"Did he not go with you a few minutes ago?" asked her mother.
"With me? a few minutes ago?" she exclaimed in wild bewilderment.
"With you! a few minutes ago," reiterated her mother.
"I left the room at twelve o'clock," returned Clothilde.
"Yes, my child; but a few moments afterwards you re-entered, and from that time you did not cease dancing.
"From that time, my mother, I did not cease praying in the room of my sister," she replied, in a solemn voice. "It was past twelve when, in the midst of the dance, a thought of Ernestina crossed my mind; I tore myself away from Otho, went into her room, and asked the forgiveness of her spirit. She was the child-bride of Otho, and I have taken her place."
"Heavens!" interjected the countess. "Then it was the dead Ernestina who took your place in the dance."
The walls of the castle resounded with the name of Otho: but no response was given to the call. The whole castle was searched, but no Otho was to be found. Clothilde, in despair, rushed out of the castle; her father followed her footsteps to the churchyard; he saw her descend to the family vault; and when he arrived there, he found the bodies of both Clothilde and Otho lying dead beside the coffin of Ernestina!