It was still early when Hildegarde and Hamilton reached Mayence; so early, that, after lingering over their breakfast an unusually long time, the latter said he would make some inquiries about the Baroness Waldorf, and Hildegarde could go to her at a later hour. After a very short absence he returned, and throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed, “Well, certainly this is the most unaccountable conduct!”

“What is the matter?” asked Hildegarde, turning very pale, “has she left Mayence too?”

“Yes—gone again; and without leaving any message for you!”

“There must be some extraordinary mistake or confusion either on her part or Hortense’s! I could almost agree with Count Zedwitz, and think she was purposely avoiding me, if I had not read the letters which she wrote—her hopes that we should be long together—her regrets that I was not a few years older—her entreaties that Hortense would not let me leave Munich until she had found some person to take charge of me: and now to leave me to wander about after her in this way! So apparently to forget my existence! It is quite incomprehensible!”

“She has gone to Waldorf,” said Hamilton, “and a—Waldorf is not far from Coblentz.”

“You surely would not advise me to pursue her farther!” cried Hildegarde, indignantly.

“Oh, no! I have advised, and still advise you to go home.”

“And yet I shall make one effort more, though most unwillingly,” said Hildegarde; “I should be ashamed to go home after a wild-goose chase of this kind; I must know at least what to say to my relations. Suppose I were to write to the Baroness, and await her answer here? That will—that must explain everything.”

“Write,” said Hamilton, “and we can take it to the post ourselves, when we go out with a valet de place, who must show us everything worth seeing. I dare say we can spend two or three days very pleasantly here.”

“I shall be dreadfully in your debt!” observed Hildegarde, blushing.

“Not at all,” said Hamilton, with the most serious face imaginable. “You have more than enough money for all your expenses here, though perhaps not quite enough to take you home.”

The letter was written, and they sallied forth, preceded by a loquacious valet de place, to whose remarks, after the first five minutes, they did not pay the slightest attention.

When they were returning to the hotel, by a newly-made walk along the banks of the Rhine, Hildegarde stopped to look at a new and beautifully-built steamboat, on which there was a placard hung up to say that she would sail the next morning for Cologne.

“Should you like to see the interior, Hildegarde?”

“Oh, of all things!” and the steamboat was examined with a degree of curiosity, interest, and admiration, of which those accustomed to the sight from infancy can form no idea. The captain of the ship, who happened to be on board, attracted probably by her appearance, had every drawer and cupboard opened for her inspection, and Hamilton was beginning to find his explanations rather long and tiresome, when he suddenly concluded them by hoping that she was to be one of his passengers the next day.

“We have not yet quite decided,” said Hamilton, laughing at her embarrassment; “though I do not,” he added, turning to her, “I do not in fact see what there is to prevent us.”

“We shall have fine weather,” observed the captain, “and shall be in Cologne in good time in the evening.”

“I don’t think we could do better, Hildegarde,” said Hamilton, in a low voice in English.

“I am afraid it would be improper—wrong, without any object but amusement! just consider for a moment.”

“I cannot,” said Hamilton, “see any greater impropriety in your passing a day or two in a crowded steamboat, than at a hotel along with me—rather less, perhaps, but I deny the impropriety altogether, when I take into consideration that I have been one of your family for the last year, and that you have learned so completely to consider me a friend—almost a relation.”

“That is true,” said Hildegarde, “but still——”

“Then,” continued Hamilton, “you cannot have an answer to your letter for three days at least—we shall be back just in time to receive it. Whether we pass to-morrow night at Cologne or Mayence, is quite unimportant, and I should like to show you the Rhine scenery. Let it be hereafter associated in your mind with your recollections of me!”

This last sentence was pronounced half pathetically, half beseechingly, and Hildegarde made no further opposition to a plan which accorded but too well with her own inclinations.

We will spare our readers the description of the impression made on her by the Rheingeau, Johannisberg, the Lurlei, Coblentz, Rolandseck, the Drachenfels, etc., etc., etc.

“What a pretty room!” said Hildegarde to Hamilton, who had followed her up the stairs of the HÔtel Bellevue at Deutz. “What a pretty room! We have a complete view of the Rhine, and quite overlook the garden. I really should like to stay here a week—if I dared.”

“I have no objection,” said Hamilton, laughing, “though I have just heard there are so many princes and serene highnesses in the house that I must sleep on the sofa in this room, if you have no objection; for only this and the bedroom adjoining are to be had.”

The waiter entered the room just at this moment to inquire if M. and Madame would sup there, or at the table d’hÔte.

“Here,” said Hamilton, and he blushed deeply, as he turned to Hildegarde, who was sitting on the window stool, but no longer looking at the Rhine, or into the garden—she had fixed her eyes on the door as the waiter closed it, and with parted lips and slightly contracted brows, seemed expecting to hear more.

“You look quite shocked at that man’s stupid mistake,” said Hamilton, with affected carelessness.

“It was not a stupid mistake; it was a very natural conclusion.”

“You mean on account of the rooms, perhaps? Don’t let that annoy you, for you shall have undisturbed possession of both—I dare say I can get a bed at one of the inns at the other side of the river—indeed, I should have proposed it at once, only I did not like to leave you here alone.”

“I am afraid you will think me very selfish,” said Hildegarde.

“Not at all.”

“Unnecessarily prudish, then?”

“Rather.”

“You are right,” she said with a sigh, “after having gone off with you in this—this very—thoughtless manner, any attempt at prudery is preposterous—ridiculous! There is, in fact, nothing to prevent your sleeping in this room, if you do not fear the sofa being too uncomfortable.”

“There is something to prevent me,” said Hamilton, “and that is, you do not wish it. I will go at once across the bridge, and if there be any room to be had, not quite at the other end of the town, I shall not return until morning.”

“But had you not better wait until after supper?”

“It is scarcely advisable, for at this time of the year there are so many travellers, that nothing in the neighbourhood may be to be had; and you know we start early.” While he spoke, however, the waiter appeared with the tray containing their supper, and half blushing, half laughing, they sat down together, and between talking and eating, in the course of a few minutes, forgot all about the matter.

It was the waiter, the “stupid man,” who was again to remind them of the impropriety of their conduct. He had returned to say that the band of one of the regiments at Cologne would play in the garden—perhaps Madame would like a table and chair to be kept for her?

Hamilton did not venture to look at his companion, as he refused the offered civility, but snatching up his hat, hurried away as fast as he could.

But he returned, and very soon too, and great was his annoyance to find Hildegarde already in her room, and the door closed; he walked backwards and forwards, not very patiently or quietly, for about ten minutes, and then knocked.

“Good night,” said Hildegarde.

“I am sorry to tell you that I have not been able to find a room, excepting in a very out-of-the-way place: as the packet leaves so early, and I am so apt to be late, I thought it better to ask you what I should do?”

“I am very sorry,” began Hildegarde.

“So am I,” said Hamilton, “but as it cannot be helped, I think you might just as well come out here for an hour, and talk over our journey back.”

“I am going to bed; I am tired.”

“Have you any objection to my smoking a cigar, if I open the window?”

“None whatever, you may smoke a dozen if you like.”

He opened the window and leaned out to watch the gay scene which was passing below him. The garden was crowded with guests, and well lit with candles, protected from the wind by glass globes; the murmuring of voices, and gay laughter reached him, and had he not still entertained a faint hope of seeing Hildegarde again, he would have joined the revellers, not in the hope of actual enjoyment, but to banish thoughts which were crowding thick upon him, and producing a state of nervous irritation most unusual to him. He felt so provoked at Hildegarde’s tranquil, friendly manner; it contrasted so painfully with his own state of feverish uncertainty, that the jealous vision of Zedwitz unrepulsed, rose, more and more distinctly before him. Would not the situation of governess be intolerable to one of her proud nature?—and after having tried it, would she not joyfully accept the hand of Zedwitz, who, she said, “loved her better than anyone ever did—better than she deserved?” These thoughts at length became intolerable, and with one bound he was again at her door.

“Hildegarde, the band is beginning to play in the garden; will you not come to listen to it?”

“No, thank you.”

“But you have not yet gone to bed, I hope?”

There was no answer audible.

“You have not yet gone to bed? I want to speak to you—open the door, I beg—I entreat.”

“Whatever you have to say can be said to-morrow just as well as now.”

“I should rather say it now.”

“And I should rather hear it to-morrow.”

Hamilton knew her too well to persevere, and returned again to his window, where he remained for more than an hour, unconscious of everything passing beneath him, and merely hearing a confused sound of instruments, which had the effect of producing an almost painful feeling of fatigue. He closed the window, and looked rather despondingly round the room, which, as a dormitory, promised but few comforts, he extinguished the candles, and then threw himself at full length upon the sofa: he had been thinking intensely, and as he lay there in the darkened chamber, he resolved that another night should not find him in his present state of uncertainty; and why should he endure it now? Why not know his fate at once? He would insist on Hildegarde’s listening to him, and answering him too! Starting up, his eyes were instantly rivetted on a line of bright light visible under her door; she was still awake; up perhaps. He knocked, and observed in a low voice, as he leaned against the door, “Hildegarde, I cannot sleep!”

“I am so sorry!” she answered—“the sofa, I suppose——”

“Yes, the sofa,” said Hamilton.

“I wish,” she said, coming toward the door, “I wish I could resign this room to you, but——”

“There is no necessity; give me some of the pillows which you do not want, and I shall be quite comfortable.”

“How stupid of me not to have thought of that before!” she exclaimed, opening the door. “When you were absent I could have arranged everything, but the fact is, I have been for the last two hours thinking—really thinking, more than I have ever done in my life!”

“So have I,” said Hamilton, quite overlooking the pillows she was collecting for him. “Suppose we compare thoughts?”

“Not now, to-morrow.”

“Now, now; this very instant,” he said, seating himself on the sofa, and motioning to her to take the place beside him. She shook her head, and continued standing.

“What on earth do you mean by this reserve—this unusual prudery?” he continued, moving towards the side against which she was leaning.

“Nothing,” she said, drawing back, “I only think it would be better to defer anything you wish to speak about until to-morrow, it is so late—so very late.”

“This is not the first time we have been together at midnight,” said Hamilton, laughing; but as he spoke she blushed so deeply, that he added, seriously, “When there was any impropriety in it, I told you; you may believe me now, when I tell you there is none!”

“You are not quite infallible, I fear,” she said sorrowfully, “for you did not see any impropriety in my travelling alone with you here, and I now both see and feel it, and shall regret it all my life!”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Hamilton. “Have I ever said or done anything——”

“Oh, no, never—never!” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him.

“Then why withdraw your confidence from me, if I have not done anything to forfeit it?”

“I have the same confidence in you I ever had,” she answered, with a sigh; “but I——have unfortunately lost all confidence in myself!”

“How do you mean?”

“I have discovered that it was not a wish to see the Rhine or be in a steamboat which made me leave Mayence with you.”

“And what was it, then?” cried Hamilton, eagerly.

“It was the desire to be with you—to enjoy your society undisturbed for a few days before we parted forever!”

“Not forever,” said Hamilton.

“I am ashamed to think how easily I allowed myself to imagine that I ought to follow this Baroness Waldorf to Mayence, still more so to think how soon I stifled my scruples about coming here—and so effectually, too, that the whole obvious impropriety never struck me until this evening, when the waiter——”

“Was guilty of the horrible supposition that you were my wife! Would that be so dreadful?” asked Hamilton.

“The waiter showed me by this simple remark,” she continued, without noticing his interruption, “that I ought never to have been with you as I have been under any other circumstances, and I felt condemned at once. I must return home to my step-mother.”

“Perhaps for a couple of years, it would be the best thing you could do,” said Hamilton.

“To my step-mother or—to Mademoiselle Hortense?” she said, musingly, as she seated herself on a chair, and unconsciously moved it towards him. “Of course I have given up all idea of going to the Baroness Waldorf.”

“I am glad to hear it. I never liked the plan.”

“And I am so sorry to be obliged to give it up!”

“Do not regret it—it would not have answered. I never saw anyone for whom the situation of governess was less eligible, notwithstanding your excellent education and extraordinary talent for languages.”

“Eligible!” repeated Hildegarde. “You are right. I am no longer eligible—I am no longer fit to direct the education of—of any girl!”

“I hope you will never speak to anyone else in this manner,” said Hamilton, gravely. “You would make people suppose you had been guilty of some serious misdemeanor.”

“I have been guilty of a misdemeanor,” said Hildegarde, despondingly, “and one which I should think it necessary to confess to the Baroness Waldorf before I entered her house; having done so, I conclude she would refuse to resign her daughter to my care. To avoid the merited mortification, I shall go home, tell everything to Hortense, and be guided by her advice for the next year or two. And now,” she added, “I have only one thing more to observe, and that is, that we ought to repair our thoughtlessness as well as we can, or, rather, avoid a continuation of it, by separating at once. I shall return to Mayence to-morrow, and you must go on to England.”

“I will go to—Scotland, if you will go with me, Hildegarde,” said Hamilton. “Don’t be angry, I am not joking. I have listened to the subject of your two hours’ meditation, and now I expect you to listen to mine.” And he entered into a long and, all things considered, not very prejudiced exposition of the state of his affairs—informed her of the £5,000 pounds which he should inherit in two years, and after hoping that they could contrive to buy something and live somewhere with that sum, ended, as he had begun, by proposing her going with him to Scotland, and then returning to her mother until he could claim her altogether.

She listened in silence, the expression of deep attention changing by degrees into surprise and perplexity. It was the first time that the idea of a marriage with him had entered her mind; she had taught herself to consider it so completely an impossibility that his occasional outbursts of passion or tenderness had ceased to make any impression on her. Ashamed of the confession which she had so ingenuously made to him just before, and not prepared for the sudden change of feelings which his words produced, she turned away, and when he paused for an answer, did not even make an attempt to speak.

As Hamilton waited in vain for an answer, his former doubts became certainties—she liked, but did not love him. With a difficulty in utterance, in strong contrast to his former fluency, he now stammered out his hopes that he had not deceived himself as to the nature of her feelings towards him.

“No—oh no,” answered Hildegarde, but without turning round.

“And you do or will try to love me sufficiently to——”

“Why force me to make unnecessary confessions,” she said, with a deep blush; “rather let me ask you when you heard that you would inherit this fortune which makes you independent. In Frankfort, perhaps?”

“No,” replied Hamilton, “I knew it when I was a child, and considered it then, though not quite a fortune, certainly a very large sum of money.”

“And is it not a very large sum of money?”

“For a boy to buy playthings and ponies, yes; but for a man to live upon——” he paused; there was too much intelligence in her eager glance.

“For a man,” she said, “brought up as you have been, it is probably too little—nothing!”

“Not so,” cried Hamilton, quickly. “With my present ideas and feelings it is a competence—it is all I require—all I wish.”

“You could then have married Crescenz if you had desired it?” she said, slowly.

“I could never have loved her well enough to induce me to make the sacrifice——”

“The sacrifice! And it is great—very great, perhaps?”

“It ceases to be one when made for you.”

“And you have only lately—only very lately, perhaps, been able to resolve on this sacrifice?”

“Let me use your own words, Hildegarde. Do not force me to make unnecessary confessions,” said Hamilton, blushing more deeply than she herself had done.

She leaned on the table, and bent her head over her hands. Hamilton felt very uncomfortable. “I expected,” he said, at length, with some irritation, “I expected that this explanation would have been differently received.”

“I wish,” she answered, “it had never been made. I would rather have remembered you as I thought you—dependent on your father’s will—having no option.”

“This is too much!” cried Hamilton, starting from the sofa, and striding up and down the room. “I have fallen in your esteem when—but you do not understand.”

“Probably not quite, but this is evident to me, the sacrifice must be something enormous—beyond what I can imagine—or you would not have hesitated so long, for—I think—yes—I am sure you—love me.”

Hamilton stopped opposite to her, and exclaimed, “Oh, Hildegarde, how can you torture me in this manner!”

“I would rather torture myself,” she said, “but,” and she looked at him steadily, “but I must nevertheless tell you that I cannot, will not, accept your sacrifice!”

“Then, Hildegarde, you do not love me,” he cried impetuously.

“Do I not? Can you not see that I am giving the greatest proof of it of which I am capable? Can you not believe that I, too, can make a sacrifice?”

“I understand and appreciate your motives better than you have done mine,” he answered. “Wounded pride is assisting your magnanimity. You are mortified at my having hesitated—deliberated—it was prudent, perhaps, but I am heartily sorry for it now. I see it has made you so control your thoughts and inclinations that friendship, and not love, is all I have obtained for an affection deserving something more—if you knew but all——” he paused; but as Hildegarde made no attempt to speak, he continued, “I thought, when we met at Aschaffenburg, I hoped, from what you said just now—that—Hildegarde!” he cried vehemently, “you require too much from me; spoiled by adulation, you expect me, without a struggle, to change my nature, my habits, and my manners! I cannot rave like your cousin——”

Hildegarde became deadly pale, she tried to speak, and moved her lips, but no sound issued from them.

“Nor,” he continued, still more vehemently; “nor can I bear repulses, like Zedwitz!”

Hamilton heard her murmur the words “ungenerous—unjust.”

“Forgive me, Hildegarde; I spoke in anger, and am sorry for it—I ought not to have named your cousin—can you forgive me?”

She held out her hand in silence.

“Now,” he said, seating himself beside her, “don’t let us ask each other any more questions, or talk any more of sacrifices; but, like a dear love, you will promise to go to England with me to-morrow! won’t you?”

She remained silent, her eyes cast down, while she slowly shook her head.

“You will not?”

“I dare not,” she answered, gently; but observing him again about to start up, she laid her hand on his arm, and continued, “Do not ask me to do what may cause us both unhappiness hereafter. I will enter into an engagement with you on reasonable terms.”

“Oh—on reasonable terms!” he repeated ironically.

“I cannot go on—you are too unkind,” she said, while the tears started to her eyes.

A long and painful pause ensued. Hamilton broke it by saying, “Well, what are your terms—anything is better than nothing—name them—I agree to everything provided I may claim you in two years.”

“Even if you do not,” said Hildegarde, “I promise to forgive you.”

“And forget me too, perhaps,” said Hamilton, with a forced smile.

“That I—cannot promise; but it is of little consequence what concerns me. You must return home for these two years, weigh well this sacrifice which you must make; it will not be altogether a pecuniary one, for I suppose there is not the slightest chance of obtaining the consent of your family to our marriage; and as you spoke of residing in Germany, I conclude you must give up all your relations and your country too?”

“Go on,” said Hamilton, without moving, or looking at her.

“I shall consider myself bound by a promise, which I now freely make, to await your decision—you are free.”

“Go on,” he again repeated, as he had done before.

“What can you desire more?”

“Why, nothing, though I almost expected you to propose committing to paper, in due form, this most rational ‘engagement on reasonable terms,’” and he drew some paper towards him as he spoke, and took up a pen; directly, however, throwing it down, he exclaimed passionately, “Oh, Hildegarde, this will never do! Much as I admire your decision of character, and freedom from the usual weaknesses of your sex, I—I did hope—I do wish that for once you would be like a girl of your age! I am ready, without regret, to leave all my relations and friends, give up all my hopes of fame or success in life—expatriate myself forever——”

“I see, I understand now,” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him. “A man has hopes of fame, expectations of success in life. We have nothing of that kind, and, therefore, our love is perfectly exclusive, all-absorbing.”

“Not yours,” said Hamilton, “though I confess I expected something of the kind from you, some little enthusiasm at least; however, our contract is made, irrevocably—even though I see and feel that your love is of the very coldest description, in fact, scarcely deserving the name.”

“Oh, why,” cried Hildegarde, with all her natural vehemence of manner, “why is there no sacrifice that I can make to convince you that you are mistaken! There is none I would not make, provided it were not injurious to you.”

Hamilton shook his head and turned away.

“You do not believe me? Try me—ask any proof—anything.”

He started from his seat, walked to the window, threw it wide open, and leaned as far out as he could in the night air.

All this was too much for Hildegarde, her efforts had been great to conceal her feelings, and she perceived she had been misunderstood; her sincere desire to act magnanimously had been treated with contempt; Hamilton, whom she had learned to trust without reserve or examination, was displeased, angry with her, perhaps. Perplexed, worried, and wearied, she did at length, what it would have been better had she done half an hour before: she covered her face with her handkerchief, and burst into tears.

The moment Hamilton turned round and perceived that she was crying as heartily as could be desired of any girl of her age, he forgot his anger at her unexpected opposition to his wishes, and rushing towards her, commenced an incoherent succession of excuses, entreaties, and explanations. It would have been difficult for a third person to have known what he meant; Hildegarde, however, seemed to understand him perfectly. In a short time she began to look up, and smile again, and in about a quarter of an hour they were discussing their future plans in the most amicable manner imaginable. Once more Hamilton had recourse to the pen and paper, but this time it was to make a sketch of the peasant’s house near Hohenfels, which was to be their home two years hence. He would write to the Z—s about it directly, or go to them; that would be better still!

No; Hildegarde thought it would be wiser to wait until he could purchase.

“We shall have cows, and calves, and all those sort of things, I suppose?” said Hamilton.

“I should think so,” replied Hildegarde, very gravely.

“I wonder shall we be able to keep a pair of horses?” said Hamilton.

“Cart-horses? Perhaps we may,” answered Hildegarde, merrily.

“No; but seriously, Hildegarde, I should like to know how many servants we shall have!”

“Very few, I suspect,” said Hildegarde, “and therefore, directly I return to my mother, I shall endeavour to learn to be really useful.”

“But,” said Hamilton, “but these domestic details, which were so disgusting to you—these vulgar cares——”

“All, all will now be full of interest,” said Hildegarde, laughing; “I really feel as if I could even learn to cook!”

“No, no; I do not wish that, we shall certainly have a cook! A. Z. seemed to think we could get on quite comfortably if we lived in the country! I shall not at all mind going out with the plough if it be necessary, and you—you can spin, you know; nothing I admire so much as a graceful figure at a spinning-wheel; you shall have one made of ebony, and—but can you spin?”

“Not yet, but I can easily learn, and in time, I dare say, we shall have a whole press full of linen.”

“Oh, I am sure we shall get on famously; the Z—s are not at all rich—rather poor, I believe, and they are so happy, and really live so respectably—they will be our neighbours, and I am sure you will like them.”

“I remember, I rather liked her at Seon, because she lent me books,” observed Hildegarde.

“They will be society for us—that is, if we ever want any. Baron Z— is very cheerful, and his wife is really a very sensible woman. She understands housekeeping, and soap-making, and all that sort of thing, and will be of great use to you, I am sure. Then I shall rent half their alp, and send up our cows there in summer, and then we shall go to look after them, and make little parties with the Z—s. I must tell you all about that.”

And he did tell her all about that, and so many other things too, that the night wore away—the candles burnt down, and as at length the flame extinguished itself in the melted wax, they looked at each other in the grey, cold light of breaking day!

The two days which Hamilton and Hildegarde passed in the Rhine steamboat, on their return to Mayence, were the happiest of their still so youthful lives. As they sat together, watching the beautiful windings of the river, or glancing up the sides of the wooded mountains, the most perfect confidence was established between them. The events of the last year were discussed with a minuteness which proved either that their memories were exceedingly retentive, or that the most trifling circumstances of that period had been full of unusual interest to both. Their confessions and explanations were not ended even when they reached Mayence, where Hildegarde found a letter from the Baroness Waldorf. As she gave it to Hamilton, she observed: “After what you told me this morning, I can pardon, though I cannot approve of her conduct—she says, however, that she wrote to Hortense to prevent my leaving Munich, and I am glad of it, as it will save me from all explanations, and I can show both my mother and Hortense this letter too; so everything has ended just as we could have wished.”

“Yes,” said Hamilton, “and we will endeavour to believe all the Baroness’s excuses—I dare say she has changed all her plans—and perhaps, she may not engage a governess for her daughter for a year or two; we will also consent to her marriage with Zedwitz—to whom she is as attached as such a person can be—though she is not likely to rise in his estimation by the proof which she has given of her jealousy—but what do you mean to do with this order on her banker at Frankfort—this peace-offering which she so diffidently calls her debt?”

“I—should like very much—to return it,” said Hildegarde, hesitatingly.

“I thought so,” said Hamilton, “and in the meanwhile I can write to A. Z., to let her know that if we are all alive in two years we shall be together, and to request Baron Z— to enter into negotiations with that Felsenbauer, the peasant on the rocks, as he is called. I shall tell A. Z. to send you my journal: it may amuse you to read it, and in the margin you must write whatever is necessary in explanation, or, in short, whatever you think likely to interest us when we look it over at the end of ten or twelve years. A journal, you know, like mine, is marvellously improved by age!”

Hamilton accompanied Hildegarde on her way home as far as she would allow him—the last day’s journey she chose to be alone, and at Ingolstadt they parted. For two years? Or for ever?