On the following morning, being Sunday morning, Linda positively
refused to get up at the usual hour, and declared her intention of
not going to church. She was, she said, so ill that she could not go
to church. Late on the preceding evening Madame Staubach, after she
had left Peter Steinmarc, had spoken to Linda of what she had heard,
and it was not surprising that Linda should have a headache on the
following morning. "Linda," Madame Staubach said, "Peter has told me
that Ludovic Valcarm has been--making love to you. Linda, is this
true?" Linda had been unable to say that it was not true. Her aunt
put the matter to her in a more cunning way than Steinmarc had done,
and Linda felt herself unable to deny the charge. "Then let me tell
you, that of all the young women of whom I ever heard, you are the
most deceitful," continued Madame Staubach.
"Do not say that, aunt Charlotte; pray, do not say that."
"But I do say it. Oh, that it should have come to this between you
and me!"
"I have not deceived you. Indeed I have not. I don't want to see
Ludovic again; never, if you do not wish it. I haven't said a word
to him. Oh, aunt, pray believe me. I have never spoken a word to
him;--in the way of what you mean."
"Will you consent to marry Peter Steinmarc?" Linda hesitated a moment
before she answered. "Tell me, Miss; will you promise to take Peter
Steinmarc as your husband?"
"I cannot promise that, aunt Charlotte."
"Then I will never forgive you,--never. And God will never forgive
you. I did not think it possible that my sister's child should have
been so false to me."
"I have not been false to you," said Linda through her tears.
"And such a terrible young man, too; one who drinks, and gambles,
and is a rebel; one of whom all the world speaks ill; a penniless
spendthrift, to whom no decent girl would betroth herself. But,
perhaps, you are to be his light-of-love!"
"It is a shame,--a great shame,--for you to say--such things," said
Linda, sobbing bitterly. "No, I won't wait, I must go. I would sooner
be dead than hear you say such things to me. So I would. I can't help
it, if it's wicked. You make me say it." Then Linda escaped from the
room, and went up to her bed; and on the next morning she was too ill
either to eat her breakfast or to go to church.
Of course she saw nothing of Peter on that morning; but she heard the
creaking of his shoes as he went forth after his morning meal, and I
fear that her good wishes for his Sunday work did not go with him on
that Sabbath morning. Three or four times her aunt was in her room,
but to her aunt Linda would say no more than that she was sick and
could not leave her bed. Madame Staubach did not renew the revilings
which she had poured forth so freely on the preceding evening, partly
influenced by Linda's headache, and partly, perhaps, by a statement
which had been made to her by Tetchen as to the amount of love-making
which had taken place. "Lord bless you, ma'am, in any other house
than this it would go for nothing. Over at Jacob Heisse's, among his
girls, it wouldn't even have been counted at all,--such a few words
as that. Just the compliments of the day, and no more." Tetchen
could not have heard it all, or she would hardly have talked of the
compliments of the day. When Ludovic had told Linda that she was the
fairest girl in all Nuremberg, and that he never could be happy, not
for an hour, unless he might hope to call her his own, even Tetchen,
whose notions about young men were not over strict, could not have
taken such words as simply meaning the compliments of the day.
But there was Linda sick in bed, and this was Sunday morning, and
nothing further could be said or done on the instant. And, moreover,
such love-making as had taken place did in truth seem to have been
perpetrated altogether on the side of the young man. Therefore it was
that Madame Staubach spoke with a gentle voice as she prescribed to
Linda some pill or potion that might probably be of service, and then
went forth to her church.
Madame Staubach's prayers on a Sunday morning were a long affair. She
usually left the house a little after ten, and did not return till
past two. Soon after she was gone, on the present occasion, Tetchen
came up to Linda's room, and expressed her own desire to go to the
Frauenkirche,--for Tetchen was a Roman Catholic. "That is, if you
mean to get up, miss, I'll go," said Tetchen. Linda, turning in her
bed, thought that her head would be better now that her aunt was
gone, and promised that she would get up. In half an hour she was
alone in the kitchen down-stairs, and Tetchen had started to the
Frauenkirche,--or to whatever other place was more agreeable to her
for the occupation of her Sunday morning.
It was by no means an uncommon occurrence that Linda should be
left alone in the house on some part of the Sunday, and she would
naturally have seated herself with a book at the parlour window as
soon as she had completed what little there might be to be done in
the kitchen. But on this occasion there came upon her a feeling of
desolateness as she thought of her present condition. Not only was
she alone now, but she must be alone for ever. She had no friend
left. Her aunt was estranged from her. Peter Steinmarc was her
bitterest enemy. And she did not dare even to think of Ludovic
Valcarm. She had sauntered now into the parlour, and, as she was
telling herself that she did not dare to think of the young man, she
looked across the river, and there he was standing on the water's
edge.
She retreated back in the room,--so far back that it was impossible
that he should see her. She felt quite sure that he had not seen her
as yet, for his back had been turned to her during the single moment
that she had stood at the window. What should she do now? She was
quite certain that he could not see her, as she stood far back in
the room, within the gloom of the dark walls. And then there was the
river between him and her. So she stood and watched, as one might
watch a coming enemy, or a lover who was too bold. There was a little
punt or raft moored against the bank just opposite to the gateway of
the warehouse, which often lay there, and which, as Linda knew, was
used in the affairs of the brewery. Now, as she stood watching him,
Ludovic stepped into the punt without unfastening it from the ring,
and pushed the loose end of it across the river as far as the shallow
bottom would allow him. But still there was a considerable distance
between him and the garden of the red house, a distance so great that
Linda felt that the water made her safe. But there was a pole in the
boat, and Linda saw the young man take up the pole and prepare for a
spring, and in a moment he was standing in the narrow garden. As he
landed, he flung the pole back into the punt, which remained stranded
in the middle of the river. Was ever such a leap seen before? Then
she thought how safe she would have been from Peter Steinmarc, had
Peter Steinmarc been in the boat.
What would Ludovic Valcarm do next? He might remain there all day
before she would go to him. He was now standing under the front of
the centre gable, and was out of Linda's sight. There was a low
window close to him where he stood, which opened from the passage
that ran through the middle of the house. On the other side of this
passage, opposite to the parlour which Madame Staubach occupied, was
a large room not now used, and filled with lumber. Linda, as soon
as she was aware that Ludovic was in the island, within a few feet
of her, and that something must be done, retreated from the parlour
back into the kitchen, and, as she went, thoughtfully drew the bolt
of the front door. But she had not thought of the low window into
the passage, which in these summer days was always opened, nor, if
she had thought of it, could she have taken any precaution in that
direction. To have attempted to close the window would have been to
throw herself into the young man's arms. But there was a bolt inside
the kitchen door, and that she drew. Then she stood in the middle of
the room listening. Had this been a thief who had come when she was
left in charge of the house, is it thus she would have protected her
own property and her aunt's? It was no thief. But why should she run
from this man whom she knew,--whom she knew and would have trusted
had she been left to her own judgment of him? She was no coward.
Were she to face the man, she would fear no personal danger from
him. He would offer her no insult, and she thought that she could
protect herself, even were he to insult her. It was not that that
she feared,--but that her aunt should be able to say that she had
received her lover in secret on this Sunday morning, when she had
pretended that she was too ill to go to church!
She was all ears, and could hear that he was within the house. She
had thought of the window the moment that she had barred the kitchen
door, and knew that he would be within the house. She could hear him
knock at the parlour door, and then enter the parlour. But he did
not stay there a moment. Then she heard him at the foot of the stair,
and with a low voice he called to her by her name. "Linda, are you
there?" But, of course, she did not answer him. It might be that
he would fancy that she was not within the house and would retreat.
He would hardly intrude into their bedrooms; but it might be that
he would go as far as his cousin's apartments. "Linda," he said
again,--"Linda, I know that you are in the house." That wicked
Tetchen! It could not be but that Tetchen had been a traitor.
He went three or four steps up the stairs, and then, bethinking
himself of the locality, came down again and knocked at once at the
kitchen door. "Linda," he said, when he found that the door was
barred,--"Linda, I know that you are here."
"Go away," said Linda. "Why have you come here? You know that you
should not be here."
"Open the door for one moment, that you may listen to me. Open the
door, and I will tell you all. I will go instantly when I have spoken
to you, Linda; I will indeed."
Then she opened the door. Why should she be a barred-up prisoner
in her own house? What was there that she need fear? She had done
nothing that was wrong, and would do nothing wrong. Of course, she
would tell her aunt. If the man would force his way into the house,
climbing in through an open window, how could she help it? If her
aunt chose to misbelieve her, let it be so. There was need now that
she should call upon herself for strength. All heaven and earth
together should not make her marry Peter Steinmarc. Nor should earth
and the evil one combined make her give herself to a young man after
any fashion that should disgrace her mother's memory or her father's
name. If her aunt doubted her, the sorrow would be great, but she
must bear it. "You have no right here," she said as soon as she was
confronted with the young man. "You know that you should not be here.
Go away."
"Linda, I love you."
"I don't want your love."
"And now they tell me that my cousin Peter is to be your husband."
"No, no. He will never be my husband."
"You will promise that?"
"He will never be my husband."
"Thanks, dearest; a thousand thanks for that. But your aunt is his
friend. Is it not true?"
"Of course she is his friend."
"And would give you to him?"
"I am not hers to give. I am not to be given away at all. I choose
to stay as I am. You know that you are very wicked to be here; but I
believe you want to get me into trouble."
"Oh, Linda!"
"Then go. If you wish me to forgive you, go instantly."
"Say that you love me, and I will be gone at once."
"I will not say it."
"And do you not love me,--a little? Oh, Linda, you are so dear to
me!"
"Why do you not go? They tell me evil things of you, and now I
believe them. If you were not very wicked you would not come upon me
here, in this way, when I am alone, doing all that you possibly can
to make me wretched."
"I would give all the world to make you happy."
"I have never believed what they said of you. I always thought that
they were ill-natured and prejudiced, and that they spoke falsehoods.
But now I shall believe them. Now I know that you are very wicked.
You have no right to stand here. Why do you not go when I bid you?"
"But you forgive me?"
"Yes, if you go now,--at once."
Then he seized her hand and kissed it. "Dearest Linda, remember that
I shall always love you; always be thinking of you; always hoping
that you will some day love me a little. Now I am gone."
"But which way?" said Linda--"you cannot jump back to the boat. The
pole is gone. At the door they will see you from the windows."
"Nobody shall see me. God bless you, Linda." Then he again took her
hand, though he did not, on this occasion, succeed in raising it as
far as his lips. After that he ran down the passage, and, having
glanced each way from the window, in half a minute was again in the
garden. Linda, of course, hurried into the parlour, that she might
watch him. In another half minute he was down over the little wall,
into the river, and in three strides had gained the punt. The water,
in truth, on that side was not much over his knees; but Linda thought
he must be very wet. Then she looked round, to see if there were any
eyes watching him. As far as she could see, there were no eyes.
Linda, when she was alone, was by no means contented with herself;
and yet there was a sort of joy at her heart which she could not
explain to herself, and of which, being keenly alive to it, she felt
in great dread. What could be more wicked, more full of sin, than
receiving, on a Sunday morning, a clandestine visit from a young man,
and such a young man as Ludovic Valcarm? Her aunt had often spoken
to her, with fear and trembling, of the mode of life in which their
neighbours opposite lived. The daughters of Jacob Heisse were allowed
to dance, and talk, and flirt, and, according to Madame Staubach,
were living in fearful peril. For how much would such a man as Jacob
Heisse, who thought of nothing but working hard, in order that his
four girls might always have fine dresses,--for how much would he be
called upon to answer in the last day? Of what comfort would it be
to him then that his girls, in this foolish vain world, had hovered
about him, bringing him his pipe and slippers, filling his glass
stoup for him, and kissing his forehead as they stood over his
easy-chair in the evening? Jacob Heisse and his daughters had ever
been used as an example of worldly living by Madame Staubach. But
none of Jacob Heisse's girls would ever have done such a thing as
this. They flirted, indeed; but they did it openly, under their
father's nose. And Linda had often heard the old man joke with his
daughters about their lovers. Could Linda joke with any one touching
this visit from Ludovic Valcarm?
And yet there was something in it that was a joy to her,--a joy which
she could not define. Since her aunt had been so cruel to her, and
since Peter had appeared before her as her suitor, she had told
herself that she had no friend. Heretofore she had acknowledged Peter
as her friend, in spite of his creaking shoes and objectionable hat.
There was old custom in his favour, and he had not been unkind to
her as an inmate of the same house with him. Her aunt she had loved
dearly; but now her aunt's cruelty was so great that she shuddered
as she thought of it. She had felt herself to be friendless. Then
this young man had come to her; and though she had said to him all
the hard things of which she could think because of his coming,
yet--yet--yet she liked him because he had come. Was any other young
man in Nuremberg so handsome? Would any other young man have taken
that leap, or have gone through the river, that he might speak
one word to her, even though he were to have nothing in return
for the word so spoken? He had asked her to love him, and she had
refused;--of course she had refused;--of course he had known that she
would refuse. She would sooner have died than have told him that she
loved him. But she thought she did love him--a little. She did not so
love him but what she would give him up,--but what she would swear
never to set eyes upon him again, if, as part of such an agreement,
she might be set free from Peter Steinmarc's solicitations. That was
a matter of course, because, without reference to Peter, she quite
acknowledged that she was not free to have a lover of her own choice,
without her aunt's consent. To give up Ludovic would be a duty,--a
duty which she thought she could perform. But she would not perform
it unless as part of a compact. No; let them look to it. If duty was
expected from her, let duty be done to her. Then she sat thinking,
and as she thought she kissed her own hand where Ludovic had kissed
it.
The object of her thoughts was this;--what should she do now, when
her aunt came home? Were she at once to tell her aunt all that had
occurred, that comparison which she had made between herself and
the Heisse girls, so much to her own disfavour, would not be a true
comparison. In that case she would have received no clandestine young
man. It could not be imputed to her as a fault,--at any rate not
imputed by the justice of heaven,--that Ludovic Valcarm had jumped
out of a boat and got in at the window. She could put herself right,
at any rate, before any just tribunal, simply by telling the story
truly and immediately. "Aunt Charlotte, Ludovic Valcarm has been
here. He jumped out of a boat, and got in at the window, and followed
me into the kitchen, and kissed my hand, and swore he loved me, and
then he scrambled back through the river. I couldn't help it;--and
now you know all about it." The telling of such a tale as that would,
she thought, be the only way of making herself quite right before
a just tribunal. But she felt, as she tried the telling of it to
herself, that the task would be very difficult. And then her aunt
would only half believe her, and would turn the facts, joined, as
they would be, with her own unbelief, into additional grounds for
urging on this marriage with Peter Steinmarc. How can one plead one's
cause justly before a tribunal which is manifestly unjust,--which is
determined to do injustice?
Moreover, was she not bound to secrecy? Had not secrecy been implied
in that forgiveness which she had promised to Ludovic as the
condition of his going? He had accepted the condition and gone. After
that, would she not be treacherous to betray him? Why was it that at
this moment it seemed to her that treachery to him,--to him who had
treated her with such arrogant audacity,--would be of all guilt the
most guilty? It was true that she could not put herself right without
telling of him; and not to put herself right in this extremity would
be to fall into so deep a depth of wrong! But any injury to herself
would now be better than treachery to him. Had he not risked much in
order that he might speak to her that one word of love? But, for all
that, she did not make up her mind for a time. She must be governed
by things as they went.
Tetchen came home first, and to Tetchen, Linda was determined that
she would say not a word. That Tetchen was in communication with
young Valcarm she did not doubt, but she would not tell the servant
what had been the result of her wickedness. When Tetchen came in,
Linda was in the kitchen, but she went at once into the parlour, and
there awaited her aunt. Tetchen had bustled in, in high good-humour,
and had at once gone to work to prepare for the Sunday dinner. "Mr.
Peter is to dine with you to-day, Linda," she had said; "your aunt
thinks there is nothing like making one family of it." Linda had left
the kitchen without speaking a word, but she had fully understood the
importance of the domestic arrangement which Tetchen had announced.
No stranger ever dined at her aunt's table; and certainly her aunt
would have asked no guest to do so on a Sunday but one whom she
intended to regard as a part of her own household. Peter Steinmarc
was to be one of them, and therefore might be allowed to eat his
dinner with them even on the Sabbath.
Between two and three her aunt came in, and Peter was with her. As
was usual on Sundays, Madame Staubach was very weary, and, till the
dinner was served, was unable to do much in the way of talking. Peter
went up into his own room to put away his hat and umbrella, and
then, if ever, would have been the moment for Linda to have told her
story. But she did not tell it then. Her aunt was leaning back in
her accustomed chair, with her eyes closed, as was often her wont,
and Linda knew that her thoughts were far away, wandering in another
world, of which she was ever thinking, living in a dream of bliss
with singing angels,--but not all happy, not all sure, because of the
danger that must intervene. Linda could not break in, at such a time
as this, with her story of the young man and his wild leap from the
boat.
And certainly she would not tell her story before Peter Steinmarc. It
should go untold to her dying day before she would whisper a word of
it in his presence. When they sat round the table, the aunt was very
kind in her manner to Linda. She had asked after her headache, as
though nothing doubting the fact of the ailment; and when Linda had
said that she had been able to rise almost as soon as her aunt had
left the house, Madame Staubach expressed no displeasure. When the
dinner was over, Peter was allowed to light his pipe, and Madame
Staubach either slept or appeared to sleep. Linda seated herself
in the furthest corner of the room, and kept her eyes fixed upon a
book. Peter sat and smoked with his eyes closed, and his great big
shoes stuck out before him. In this way they remained for an hour.
Then Peter got up, and expressed his intention of going out for a
stroll in the Nonnen Garten. Now the Nonnen Garten was close to
the house,--to be reached by a bridge across the river, not fifty
yards from Jacob Heisse's door. Would Linda go with him? But Linda
declined.
"You had better, my dear," said Madame Staubach, seeming to awake
from her sleep. "The air will do you good."
"Do, Linda," said Peter; and then he intended to be very gracious in
what he added. "I will not say a word to tease you, but just take you
out, and bring you back again."
"I am sure, it being the Sabbath, he would say nothing of his hopes
to-day," said Madame Staubach.
"Not a word," said Peter, lifting up one hand in token of his
positive assurance.
But, even so assured, Linda would not go with him, and the town-clerk
went off alone. Now, again, had come the time in which Linda could
tell the tale. It must certainly be told now or never. Were she to
tell it now she could easily explain why she had been silent so
long; but were she not to tell it now, such explanation would ever
afterwards be impossible. "Linda, dear, will you read to me," said
her aunt. Then Linda took up the great Bible. "Turn to the eighth and
ninth chapters of Isaiah, my child." Linda did as she was bidden, and
read the two chapters indicated. After that, there was silence for a
few minutes, and then the aunt spoke. "Linda, my child."
"Yes, aunt Charlotte."
"I do not think you would willingly be false to me." Then Linda
turned away her face, and was silent. "It is not that the offence
to me would be great, who am, as we all are, a poor weak misguided
creature; but that the sin against the Lord is so great, seeing that
He has placed me here as your guide and protector." Linda made no
promise in answer to this, but even then she did not tell the tale.
How could she have told it at such a moment? But the tale must now go
untold for ever!