CHAPTER XL.
HOHENFELS.
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.”