It was late on the evening of the ensuing day when Hamilton reached Hohenfels, a moderate-sized, high-roofed dwelling-house, having two dark-coloured massive square towers as wings. It was beautifully situated on the side of a rocky mountain, from which circumstance it probably derived its name. Avenue there was none; the narrow private road which conducted to it (though passing through woods with open glades, which, even without their splendid mountain background, would have successfully rivalled any avenue Hamilton had ever seen in England) was evidently intended to serve equally as an approach to several comfortable peasants’ houses, which, apparently, more than the genius of an engineer, had originally directed its course.

The buildings, at a little distance from Hohenfels, Hamilton now instinctively knew to be a brewery and its appendages, and he examined them with less curiosity, but infinitely more interest, than on a former occasion. If he did not quite consider beer (as some one has not inaptly pronounced it) a fifth element in Bavaria, he had at least so frequently heard its merits, demerits, and price canvassed, that he began to attach considerable importance to the subject, and rather prided himself on being able to talk about it.

On driving into the court, he looked up along the range of windows, and discovered with great pleasure A. Z. standing at one of them. He had not had time to write, or in anyway to announce his visit, therefore her first look of surprise rather amused him; when they met, and she regretted that her husband was on a hunting expedition, and would not be at home until the next day, he was glad that no letter from him had interfered with the arrangement. They supped together under a large chestnut tree, commanding an extensive view of woods, mountains, and a part of the Chiem Lake, now glittering in all the radiance of a magnificent sunset.

“I had no idea,” said Hamilton, “that you were so near home when I met you at Seon last summer. I understand now why you were always on the move, and we saw so little of you. By the by, I should like to hear something of the Zedwitzes; they are relations or intimate friends of yours, I believe?”

“Distant relations, but very near and dear friends,” answered A. Z. “I am sorry I have nothing satisfactory to tell you; the old Count is killing himself as fast as he can with perspiration and cold water; his wife had a fit of apoplexy this summer, from which she is, however, nearly recovered; and Maximilian has, you know, been constantly from home since that unpleasant business with the Rosenberg family. He was with us for a few weeks, and I never in my life saw a man in such a state of desperation; his only consolation was talking to me about this ‘cunningest pattern of excellent nature,’ this Hildegarde, and as I had a great deal to do in my house, and could not always find time to listen to him, he used to wander about, writing sonnets, I should imagine, from the poetical expression of his dear ugly face.”

“So he told you all about it?” said Hamilton.

“Yes, and about you, too; that is, all he knew about you. He seemed to have dreaded you excessively as a rival; indeed, he does so still, for were his father to die, I have not the smallest doubt he would renew his proposal, and perhaps be accepted.”

“I admire his patience and perseverance,” said Hamilton, ironically; “one downright refusal such as he received would have satisfied me.”

“Circumstances might materially alter the state of the case,” said A. Z. “Suppose this flirtation with you quite over—you have left, most probably, without any sort of serious explanation; now I have no doubt you are very charming, but, you know, people do get over hopeless affairs of this kind in the course of time, and in the course of time, too, Maximilian will be at liberty to marry whoever he pleases. I cannot imagine his being refused again, he is so exactly the sort of man most women like.”

“He does not think so himself,” observed Hamilton.

“That is his great charm,” said A. Z. “Diffident enthusiastic men are almost always popular. I have a decided predilection for them.”

“I think, however, you are singular in your taste,” said Hamilton.

“Not at all,” rejoined A. Z.; “the secret may be that such men think less of themselves, and more of the person they wish to please; but in nine cases out of ten, you will find that it is an ugly man who inspires real affection. It is very creditable to our sex, you must allow; one so very seldom hears of a man who loves a really ugly woman.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Hamilton. “My experience has not been great. I only know that I am now very seriously, and, I fear, hopelessly in love with a very young and very beautiful woman.”

“You will get over it,” observed A. Z., laughing. “A few months in London, if it were not so late in the year——”

“You are mistaken,” said Hamilton, gravely; “neither a few months nor a few years either are likely to change my feelings.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said A. Z., thoughtfully; “never will I sign a letter with my initials again.”

“I had quite forgotten that your note was the cause of all this evil,” said Hamilton, smiling, “but there would be no evil at all if Hildegarde liked me.”

“So it is all on your side,” observed A. Z., with some surprise.

“I don’t know, but I am afraid so. If it will not bore you, I should like to explain, and ask your advice——”

“Stay,” cried A. Z., “I don’t at all know this Hildegarde, and I now do know something of you and your family, and shall therefore certainly recommend you to break off the affair, if you can do so with honour; and that you can do so is scarcely to be doubted, if you imagine her indifferent to you.”

“But suppose she had been indifferent only because I said I could not marry.”

“It would prove that she is as prudent as she is pretty, and that is saying a great deal,” answered A. Z., gayly; “and as you can not marry, the least said about the matter the better.”

“You do not quite understand the state of the case,” began Hamilton. “You see I have a grand uncle——”

“Called Jack,” observed A. Z.

“Exactly,” said Hamilton; “and this Uncle Jack made a fortune in India, in those times when fortunes were to be made there, and added to this fortune by speculations in the funds at the end of the last war; we have consequently a great respect for him.”

“Of course,” said A. Z.; “people always have a respect for rich uncles, both in books and real life. I never had one, but I can imagine the thing.”

“As he had no children,” continued Hamilton, “my father prudently chose him as godfather to his eldest son, who was accordingly afflicted with the name of John, but even in his earliest youth it was found that the name would not cover the multitude of his sins, poor fellow, and while I was still a mere child my uncle declared that John would inherit from his father more than he would ever deserve, and that I, and I alone, should be his heir. He defrayed all the expenses of my education, gave me ponies, and pocket money, and would have paid my debts, I do believe, without hesitation, if I had had any at Cambridge. Since I have been here, too, he has sent me large remittances through my father, and latterly, I suspect, forbidden the words of wisdom which usually accompanied them. The first letter I ever received from him was the day before yesterday; he had heard—more than was necessary, more than was true—of Hildegarde, and you can imagine his proposing to send me money to buy off—to pay—to satisfy—pshaw! where is the letter? You must read it, or you will never understand——”

“He does not understand, that is very evident,” observed A. Z. “You need not show me the letter, but go on.”

“When I told Hildegarde that I must return home, she recommended my leaving directly; she had, indeed, advised me to do so before the letter arrived.”

“And did she give you this advice without any apparent effort?”

“Without apparent effort, yes; but she is not to be judged from appearances. She has been educated by a Mademoiselle Hortense, who has given her the idea that, besides controlling her temper, which is naturally hasty, she should endeavour to conceal all her feelings, and, if possible, stifle them altogether. If Hildegarde had not been naturally warm-hearted, hot-tempered, and intellectual, such an education would have completely spoiled her.”

“But,” said A. Z., “after having lived nearly a year in the same house, if you can have any doubts about her caring for you——”

“Stay,” cried Hamilton, interrupting her, “you are not, perhaps, aware that I proclaimed myself a younger son, and said I could not marry, even before I entered the Rosenbergs’ house, and, as, until very lately, I never seriously thought of sacrificing my really brilliant prospects, Hildegarde is still unconscious that even, with the best intentions, I could have acted otherwise than as I have done. I have been more calculating and worldly-minded than befits such an attachment, but latterly, as the time drew near when I knew we must part, I was ready to brave all my family and be disinherited by my uncle if she had only said one word, given me one look, from which I could have felt certain that she loved me.”

“I suppose,” said A. Z., rising, and walking towards the house, “I suppose, from what you have just said, that you have some fortune independent of your family—enough, at least, to buy bread and butter?”

“I have five thousand pounds. A legacy left me by a distant relation, but it is not at my disposal for two years. This would not be enough for England; but I think here, as you say, it would perhaps buy bread and butter——”

“Oh, yes!” said A. Z., laughing, “and roast veal and pudding into the bargain, but that is not all that is to be considered. You ought not to make so great a sacrifice without considering long and carefully both sides of the question.”

“Oh, I have considered only too long,” answered Hamilton, “but I see you cannot understand me, or know Hildegarde without reading my journal. I had some intention of leaving it under your care, at all events, and I shall only beg of you never to refer to that part of it which relates to Count Oscar Raimund.”

“I think I already know,” said A. Z., “his father showed me the letter he had written the day he had shot himself. Does Mademoiselle Rosenberg know that she was the cause?”

“But too well, as you will perceive from my journal,” answered Hamilton; “you really seem to know everybody and everything, which, however, no longer surprises me, as I am myself willing on so short an acquaintance to confide in you. I suppose other people have done the same.”

“Not exactly,” answered A. Z., “but as I know the Zedwitzes, the Raimunds, the Bergers, and even Mr. Biedermann, and as you, from the peculiarity of the commencement of our acquaintance, rather interested me, I have thought it worth while to listen, and remember all I have heard about you.”

“How very kind!” said Hamilton.

“You say that thoughtlessly,” observed A. Z., laughing, “but it really was kind of me, for I greatly prefer talking to listening on most occasions.”

“Will reading my journal bore you?”

“Not in the least. I shall be curious to know the impression made on you by all you must have seen of the domestic manners you were so anxious to become acquainted with last year. Have you given up all idea of writing a book on the subject?”

“I have been a much too greatly interested actor to have thought of anything of the kind, as you will see.”

“Before I read your journal,” said A. Z., “that is before I feel any interest in this Hildegarde, you must allow me to point out to you all the disadvantages of the step you propose taking, and remind you that the sacrifice of parents, relations, the friends of your youth, your country, and your native language, ought not to be lightly made. I speak from experience.”

“But you told me,” said Hamilton, “that you felt quite naturalised—that you had become a very Bavarian! I know, too, you are more than contented; you are happy. The Countess Zedwitz told me so.”

“Very true,” answered A. Z., “but I am a woman, and that alters the case materially; both our nature and education induce us to conform to the habits of those about us—we have no profession, no career in life to give up, we have only to learn to enlarge or contract our sphere of action, according to the circumstances in which we may be placed. For instance, Mademoiselle Rosenberg would most probably, without hesitation, go with you to England were your uncle to consent to your marriage.”

“I cannot help thinking that—perhaps—she would,” answered Hamilton.

“And if she did, she would never have any cause to regret having done so, for besides being united to the person she loved, she would only have to learn to live luxuriously, and habits of that kind are easily acquired; but after having so lived, frugality is more difficult of acquirement—and that would be your task.”

“But I have tried it,” cried Hamilton, eagerly; “I have made the trial this last year. I see that riches are not necessary to my happiness—I am convinced, that with Hildegarde and a cottage——”

“So you would live in the country?”

“Of course.”

“And in the mountains?”

“Here, in your neighbourhood, if possible.”

“You are bribing me,” cried A. Z., “more than you know. I am in want of such neighbours, and although it is getting cool,” she added, drawing her shawl around her, “still, as it is not yet dark, we may as well return to the chestnut tree, and perhaps walk to the beech-wood, which you saw from it.”

On ascending a slight acclivity, a more extensive view of the Chiem Lake became visible, and a peasant’s house, with its over-hanging roof and long balcony, stood before them—it was built almost in the mountain, at least it appeared so at a little distance; a noisy stream rushed out of the rocks beside it, and formed a series of cascades, while endeavouring to reach the green fields, and dark wood beneath. Under the numerous fruit trees which surrounded the house, with their overloaded branches bending to the ground, were several wooden benches; on one of these A. Z. seated herself, while Hamilton, attracted by the light from some windows on the ground-floor, seemed disposed to inspect the premises more closely. A loud chorus of voices made him hesitate.

“They are at their evening prayers,” observed A. Z., “it is better not to disturb them. Come here, and listen to me. You have not often seen a house more beautifully situated than this, most probably!”

“Never.”

“The mountain peasants know how to choose a site! You have no idea how highly they value a view of this kind, or how they feel the beauty of their scenery; their eyes and minds are from infancy accustomed to grand and striking forms—the want of them causes the ennui and listlessness called Maladie du pays, Nostalgie or Heimweh, from which all mountaineers suffer, more or less, when in a town or distant from their mountains. I can understand it, as I have actually felt this maladie, for which, by the by, we have no English name, when I was obliged to remain in Munich for some time, about two years ago. The peasant to whom that house and all those fruitful fields below us belong, is about deliberately to die of this most lingering and melancholy disease; he intends to emigrate to America!”

“Oh, what a fool!” cried Hamilton.

“I have said as much to him, but in rather more civil terms,” answered A. Z.; “but all to no purpose; perhaps, when you know his motives, you may think differently, though I cannot. The extreme cheapness of education in Bavaria is a great temptation to the peasants, when their sons distinguish themselves at the German schools, to let them continue their education, learn Latin, and afterwards study at the University. It is a common thing for them to rise to eminence in the learned professions, and the eldest son of my friend Felsenbauer here would most probably have done so, had it not chanced that when he had nearly completed his studies, that revolutionary attempt of the students took place in the year 1830, of which you may, perhaps, have heard. Whether or not he was implicated, is unknown; but after having concealed himself for some time, and found that all his most intimate friends had been imprisoned, he wrote to his father for money, and went off to America. He has married an American, and is so advantageously placed at Cincinnati, that he is most desirous to have his family near him, and his letters are from year to year more pressing. The old man is now only waiting to find a purchaser for his house and grounds!”

“I understand,” said Hamilton, laughing; “you think that house, with a few alterations, might be made as comfortable as it is pretty. What price does he demand?”

“About twelve hundred pounds; but he will not get more than a thousand for it; and is therefore likely to have to wait for a year or two before he finds a purchaser; so you have plenty of time either to buy it, or change your mind, which I suspect you will do after your return home. At all events I recommend your inspecting it some day with Herrmann, who understands such things perfectly—it will not be uninteresting to you to know the financial position of a peasant of this kind, and if he have the smallest hopes of your ever being a purchaser, he will unreservedly show you all his accounts.”

While they were speaking, the peasant and his wife, followed by their second son and daughter, came out of the house, and a long conversation ensued. It was so dark when A. Z. proposed leaving, that the old man insisted on accompanying her home with a lantern.