A week passed by, and Linda Tressel heard nothing of Ludovic, and
began at last to hope that that terrible episode of the young man's
visit to her might be allowed to be as though it had never been. A
week passed by, during every day of which Linda had feared and had
half expected to hear some question from her aunt which would nearly
crush her to the ground. But no such question had been asked, and,
for aught that Linda knew, no one but she and Ludovic were aware
of the wonderful jump that had been made out of the boat on to the
island. And during this week little, almost nothing, was said to
her in reference to the courtship of Peter Steinmarc. Peter himself
spoke never a word; and Madame Staubach had merely said, in reference
to certain pipes of tobacco which were smoked by the town-clerk in
Madame Staubach's parlour, and which would heretofore have been
smoked in the town-clerk's own room, that it was well that Peter
should learn to make himself at home with them. Linda had said
nothing in reply, but had sworn inwardly that she would never make
herself at home with Peter Steinmarc.
In spite of the pipes of tobacco, Linda was beginning to hope that
she might even yet escape from her double peril, and, perhaps, was
beginning to have hope even beyond that, when she was suddenly shaken
in her security by words which were spoken to her by Fanny Heisse.
"Linda," said Fanny, running over to the gate of Madame Staubach's
house, very early on one bright summer morning, "Linda, it is to be
to-morrow! And will you not come?"
"No, dear; we never go out here: we are so sad and solemn that we
know nothing of gaiety."
"You need not be solemn unless you like it."
"I don't know but what I do like it, Fanny; I have become so used to
it that I am as grave as an owl."
"That comes of having an old lover, Linda."
"I have not got an old lover," said Linda, petulantly.
"You have got a young one, at any rate."
"What do you mean, Fanny?"
"What do I mean? Just what I say. You know very well what I mean. Who
was it jumped over the river that Sunday morning, my dear? I know
all about it." Then there came across Linda's face a look of extreme
pain,--a look of anguish; and Fanny Heisse could see that her friend
was greatly moved by what she had said. "You don't suppose that I
shall tell any one," she added.
"I should not mind anything being told if all could be told," said
Linda.
"But he did come,--did he not?" Linda merely nodded her head. "Yes; I
knew that he came when your aunt was at church, and Tetchen was out,
and Herr Steinmarc was out. Is it not a pity that he should be such a
ne'er-do-well?"
"Do you think that I am a ne'er-do-well, Fanny?"
"No indeed; but, Linda, I will tell you what I have always thought
about young men. They are very nice, and all that; and when old
croaking hunkses have told me that I should have nothing to say to
them, I have always answered that I meant to have as much to say to
them as possible; but it is like eating good things;--everybody likes
eating good things, but one feels ashamed of doing it in secret."
This was a terrible blow to poor Linda. "But I don't like doing it,"
she answered. "It wasn't my fault. I did not bid him come."
"One never does bid them to come; I mean not till one has taken up
with a fellow as a lover outright. Then you bid them, and sometimes
they won't come for your bidding."
"I would have given anything in the world to have prevented his doing
what he did. I never mean to speak to him again,--if I can help it."
"Oh, Linda!"
"I suppose you think I expected him, because I stayed at home alone?"
"Well,--I did think that possibly you expected something."
"I would have gone to church with my aunt though my head was
splitting had I thought that Herr Valcarm would have come here while
she was away."
"Mind I have not blamed you. It is a great shame to give a girl an
old lover like Peter Steinmarc, and ask her to marry him. I wouldn't
have married Peter Steinmarc for all the uncles and all the aunts in
creation; nor yet for father,--though father would never have thought
of such a thing. I think a girl should choose a lover for herself,
though how she is to do so if she is to be kept moping at home
always, I cannot tell. If I were treated as you are I think I should
ask somebody to jump over the river to me."
"I have asked nobody. But, Fanny, how did you know it?"
"A little bird saw him."
"But, Fanny, do tell me."
"Max saw him get across the river with his own eyes." Max Bogen was
the happy man who on the morrow was to make Fanny Heisse his wife.
"Heavens and earth!"
"But, Linda, you need not be afraid of Max. Of all men in the world
he is the very last to tell tales."
"Fanny, if ever you whisper a word of this to any one, I will never
speak to you again."
"Of course, I shall not whisper it."
"I cannot explain to you all about it,--how it would ruin me. I think
I should kill myself outright if my aunt were to know it; and yet I
did nothing wrong. I would not encourage a man to come to me in that
way for all the world; but I could not help his coming. I got myself
into the kitchen; but when I found that he was in the house I thought
it would be better to open the door and speak to him."
"Very much better. I would have slapped his face. A lover should know
when to come and when to stay away."
"I was ashamed to think that I did not dare to speak to him, and so I
opened the door. I was very angry with him."
"But still, perhaps, you like him,--just a little; is not that true,
Linda?"
"I do not know; but this I know, I do not want ever to see him
again."
"Come, Linda; never is a long time."
"Let it be ever so long, what I say is true."
"The worst of Ludovic is that he is a ne'er-do-well. He spends more
money than he earns, and he is one of those wild spirits who are
always making up some plan of politics--who live with one foot inside
the State prison, as it were. I like a lover to be gay, and all that;
but it is not well to have one's young man carried off and locked up
by the burgomasters. But, Linda, do not be unhappy. Be sure that I
shall not tell; and as for Max Bogen, his tongue is not his own. I
should like to hear him say a word about such a thing when I tell him
to be silent."
Linda believed her friend, but still it was a great trouble to her
that any one should know what Ludovic Valcarm had done on that Sunday
morning. As she thought of it all, it seemed to her to be almost
impossible that a secret should remain a secret that was known to
three persons,--for she was sure that Tetchen knew it,--to three
persons besides those immediately concerned. She thought of her
aunt's words to her, when Madame Staubach had cautioned her against
deceit, "I do not think that you would willingly be false to me,
because the sin against the Lord would be so great." Linda had
understood well how much had been meant by this caution. Her aunt had
groaned over her in spirit once, when she found it to be a fact that
Ludovic Valcarm had been allowed to speak to her,--had been allowed
to speak though it were but a dozen words. The dozen words had been
spoken and had not been revealed, and Madame Staubach having heard of
this sin, had groaned in the spirit heavily. How much deeper would be
her groans if she should come to know that Ludovic had been received
in her absence, had been received on a Sabbath morning, when her
niece was feigning to be ill! Linda still fancied that her aunt might
believe her if she were to tell her own story, but she was certain
that her aunt would never believe her if the story were to be told
by another. In that case there would be nothing for her, Linda,
but perpetual war; and, as she thought, perpetual disgrace. As her
aunt would in such circumstances range her forces on the side of
propriety, so must she range hers on the side of impropriety. It
would become necessary that she should surrender herself, as it were,
to Satan; that she should make up her mind for an evil life; that she
should cut altogether the cord which bound her to the rigid practices
of her present mode of living. Her aunt had once asked her if she
meant to be the light-of-love of this young man. Linda had well
known what her aunt had meant, and had felt deep offence; but yet
she now thought that she could foresee a state of things in which,
though that degradation might yet be impossible, the infamy of such
degradation would belong to her. She did not know how to protect
herself from all this, unless she did so by telling her aunt of the
young man's visit.
But were she to do so she must accompany her tale by the strongest
assurance that no possible consideration would induce her to marry
Peter Steinmarc. There must then be a compact, as has before been
said, that the name neither of one man nor the other should ever
again be mentioned as that of Linda's future husband. But would her
aunt agree to such a compact? Would she not rather so use the story
that would be told to her, as to draw from it additional reasons
for pressing Peter's suit? The odious man still smoked his pipes of
tobacco in Madame Staubach's parlour, gradually learning to make
himself at home there. Linda, as she thought of this, became grave,
settled, and almost ferocious in the working of her mind. Anything
would be better than this,--even the degradation to be feared from
hard tongues, and from the evil report of virtuous women. As she
pictured to herself Peter Steinmarc with his big feet, and his
straggling hairs, and his old hat, and his constant pipe, almost any
lot in life seemed to her to be better than that. Any lot in death
would certainly be better than that. No! If she told her story there
must be a compact. And if her aunt would consent to no compact,
then,--then she must give herself over to the Evil One. In that case
there would be no possible friend for her, no ally available to her
in her difficulties, but that one. In that case, even though Ludovic
should have both feet within the State prison, he must be all in all
to her, and she,--if possible,--all in all to him.
Then she was driven to ask herself some questions as to her feelings
towards Ludovic Valcarm. Hitherto she had endeavoured to comfort
herself with the reflection that she had in no degree committed
herself. She had not even confessed to herself that she loved the
man. She had never spoken,--she thought that she had never spoken a
word, that could be taken by him as encouragement. But yet, as things
were going with her now, she passed no waking hour without thinking
of him; and in her sleeping hours he came to her in her dreams. Ah,
how often he leaped over that river, beautifully, like an angel, and,
running to her in her difficulties, dispersed all her troubles by the
beauty of his presence. But then the scene would change, and he would
become a fiend instead of a god, or a fallen angel; and at these
moments it would become her fate to be carried off with him into
uttermost darkness. But even in her saddest dreams she was never
inclined to stand before the table in the church and vow that she
would be the loving wife of Peter Steinmarc. Whenever in her dreams
such a vow was made, the promise was always given to that
ne'er-do-well.
Of course she loved the man. She came to know it as a fact, to be
quite sure that she loved him, without reaching any moment in which
she first made the confession openly to herself. She knew that she
loved him. Had she not loved him, would she have so easily forgiven
him,--so easily have told him that he was forgiven? Had she not loved
him, would not her aunt have heard the whole story from her on that
Sunday evening, even though the two chapters of Isaiah had been left
unread in order that she might tell it? Perhaps, after all, the
compact of which she had been thinking might be more difficult to her
than she had imagined. If the story of Ludovic's coming could be kept
from her aunt's ears, it might even yet be possible to her to keep
Steinmarc at a distance without any compact. One thing was certain
to her. He should be kept at a distance, either with or without a
compact.
Days went on, and Fanny Heisse was married, and all probability of
telling the story was at an end. Madame Staubach had asked her niece
why she did not go to her friend's wedding, but Linda had made no
answer,--had shaken her head as though in anger. What business had
her aunt to ask her why she did not make one of a gay assemblage,
while everything was being done to banish all feeling of gaiety from
her life? How could there be any pleasant thought in her mind while
Peter Steinmarc still smoked his pipes in their front parlour? Her
aunt understood this, and did not press the question of the wedding
party. But, after so long an interval, she did find it necessary to
press that other question of Peter's courtship. It was now nearly a
month since the matter had first been opened to Linda, and Madame
Staubach was resolved that the thing should be settled before the
autumn was over. "Linda," she said one day, "has Peter Steinmarc
spoken to you lately?"
"Has he spoken to me, aunt Charlotte?"
"You know what I mean, Linda."
"No, he has not--spoken to me. I do not mean that he should--speak
to me." Linda, as she made this answer, put on a hard stubborn look,
such as her aunt did not know that she had ever before seen upon her
countenance. But if Linda was resolved, so also was Madame Staubach.
"My dear," said the aunt, "I do not know what to think of such
an answer. Herr Steinmarc has a right to speak if he pleases,
and certainly so when that which he says is said with my full
concurrence."
"I can't allow you to think that I shall ever be his wife. That is
all."
After this there was silence for some minutes, and then Madame
Staubach spoke again. "My dear, have you thought at all
about--marriage?"
"Not much, aunt Charlotte."
"I daresay not, Linda; and yet it is a subject on which a young woman
should think much before she either accepts or rejects a proposed
husband."
"It is enough to know that one doesn't like a man."
"No, that is not enough. You should examine the causes of your
dislike. And as far as mere dislike goes, you should get over it,
if it be unjust. You ought to do that, whoever may be the person in
question."
"But it is not mere dislike."
"What do you mean, Linda?"
"It is disgust."
"Linda, that is very wicked. You should not allow yourself to feel
what you call disgust at any of God's creatures. Have you ever
thought who made Herr Steinmarc?"
"God made Judas Iscariot, aunt Charlotte."
"Linda, that is profane,--very profane." Then there was silence
between them again; and Linda would have remained silent had her aunt
permitted it. She had been called profane, but she disregarded that,
having, as she thought, got the better of her aunt in the argument as
to disgust felt for any of God's creatures. But Madame Staubach had
still much to say. "I was asking you whether you had thought at all
about marriage, and you told me that you had not."
"I have thought that I could not possibly--under any
circumstances--marry Peter Steinmarc."
"Linda, will you let me speak? Marriage is a very solemn thing."
"Very solemn indeed, aunt Charlotte."
"In the first place, it is the manner in which the all-wise Creator
has thought fit to make the weaker vessel subject to the stronger
one." Linda said nothing, but thought that that old town-clerk was
not a vessel strong enough to hold her in subjection. "It is this
which a woman should bring home to herself, Linda, when she first
thinks of marriage."
"Of course I should think of it, if I were going to be married."
"Young women too often allow themselves to imagine that wedlock
should mean pleasure and diversion. Instead of that it is simply the
entering into that state of life in which a woman can best do her
duty here below. All life here must be painful, full of toil, and
moistened with many tears." Linda was partly prepared to acknowledge
the truth of this teaching; but she thought that there was a great
difference in the bitterness of tears. Were she to marry Ludovic
Valcarm, her tears with him would doubtless be very bitter, but no
tears could be so bitter as those which she would be called upon to
shed as the wife of Peter Steinmarc. "Of course," continued Madame
Staubach, "a wife should love her husband."
"But I could not love Peter Steinmarc."
"Will you listen to me? How can you understand me if you will not
listen to me? A wife should love her husband. But young women, such
as I see them to be, because they have been so instructed, want to
have something soft and delicate; a creature without a single serious
thought, who is chosen because his cheek is red and his hair is soft;
because he can dance, and speak vain, meaningless words; because
he makes love, as the foolish parlance of the world goes. And we
see what comes of such lovemaking. Oh, Linda! God forbid that you
should fall into that snare! If you will think of it, what is it but
harlotry?"
"Aunt Charlotte, do not say such horrible things."
"A woman when she becomes a man's wife should see, above all things,
that she is not tempted by the devil after this fashion. Remember,
Linda, how he goeth about,--ever after our souls,--like a roaring
lion. And it is in this way specially that he goeth about after the
souls of young women."
"But why do you say those things to me?"
"It is to you only that I can say them. I would so speak to all young
women, if it were given me to speak to more than to one. You talk of
love."
"No, aunt; never. I do not talk--of love."
"Young women do, and think of it, not knowing what love for their
husband should mean. A woman should revere her husband and obey him,
and be subject to him in everything." Was it supposed, Linda thought,
that she should revere such a being as Peter Steinmarc? What could be
her aunt's idea of reverence? "If she does that, she will love him
also."
"Yes,--if she does," said Linda.
"And will not this be much more likely, if the husband be older than
his wife?"
"A year or two," said Linda, timidly.
"Not a year or two only, but so much so as to make him graver and
wiser, and fit to be in command over her. Will not the woman so ruled
be safer than she who trusts herself with one who is perhaps as weak
and inexperienced as herself?" Madame Staubach paused, but Linda
would not answer the question. She did not wish for such security
as was here proposed to her. "Is it not that of which you have to
think,--your safety here, so that, if possible, you may be safe
hereafter?" Linda answered this to herself, within her own bosom. Not
for security here or hereafter, even were such to be found by such
means, would she consent to become the wife of the man proposed to
her. Madame Staubach, finding that no spoken reply was given to her
questions, at last proceeded from generalities to the special case
which she had under her consideration. "Linda," she said, "I trust
you will consent to become the wife of this excellent man." Linda's
face became very hard, but still she said nothing. "The danger of
which I have spoken is close upon you. You must feel it to be so. A
youth, perhaps the most notorious in all Nuremberg for wickedness--"
"No, aunt; no."
"I say yes; and this youth is spoken of openly as your lover."
"No one has a right to say so."
"It is said, and he has so addressed himself to your own ears. You
have confessed it. Tell me that you will do as I would have you,
and then I shall know that you are safe. Then I will trust you in
everything, for I shall be sure that it will be well with you. Linda,
shall it be so?"
"It shall not be so, aunt Charlotte."
"Is it thus you answer me?"
"Nothing shall make me marry a man whom I hate."
"Hate him! Oh, Linda."
"Nothing shall make me marry a man whom I cannot love."
"You fancy, then, that you love that reprobate?" Linda was silent.
"Is it so? Tell me. I have a right to demand an answer to that
question."
"I do love him," said Linda. Using the moment for reflection allowed
to her as best she could, she thought that she saw the best means of
escape in this avowal. Surely her aunt would not press her to marry
one man when she had declared that she loved another.
"Then, indeed, you are a castaway."
"I am no castaway, aunt Charlotte," said Linda, rising to her feet.
"Nor will I remain here, even with you, to be so called. I have done
nothing to deserve it. If you will cease to press upon me this odious
scheme, I will do nothing to disgrace either myself or you; but if I
am perplexed by Herr Steinmarc and his suit, I will not answer for
the consequences." Then she turned her back upon her aunt and walked
slowly out of the room.
On that very evening Peter came to Linda while she was standing alone
at the kitchen window. Tetchen was out of the house, and Linda had
escaped from the parlour as soon as the hour arrived at which in
those days Steinmarc was wont to seat himself in her aunt's presence
and slowly light his huge meerschaum pipe. But on this occasion he
followed her into the kitchen, and Linda was aware that this was done
before her aunt had had any opportunity of explaining to him what
had occurred on that morning. "Fraulein," he said, "as you are alone
here, I have ventured to come in and join you."
"This is no proper place for you, Herr Steinmarc," she replied. Now,
it was certainly the case that Peter rarely passed a day without
standing for some twenty minutes before the kitchen stove talking
to Tetchen. Here he would always take off his boots when they were
wet, and here, on more than one occasion,--on more, probably, than
fifty,--had he sat and smoked his pipe, when there was no other
stove a-light in the house to comfort him with its warmth. Linda,
therefore, had no strong point in her favour when she pointed out to
her suitor that he was wrong to intrude upon the kitchen.
"Wherever you are, must be good for me," said Peter, trying to smirk
and to look pleased.
Linda was determined to silence him, even if she could not silence
her aunt. "Herr Steinmarc," she said, "I have explained to my aunt
that this kind of thing from you must cease. It must be made to
cease. If you are a man you will not persecute me by a proposal which
I have told you already is altogether out of the question. If there
were not another man in all Nuremberg, I would not have you. You may
perhaps make me hate you worse than anybody in the world; but you
cannot possibly do anything else. Go to my aunt and you will find
that I have told her the same." Then she walked off to her own
bedroom, leaving the town-clerk in sole possession of the kitchen.
Peter Steinmarc, when he was left standing alone in the kitchen, did
not like his position. He was a man not endowed with much persuasive
gift of words, but he had a certain strength of his own. He had a
will, and some firmness in pursuing the thing which he desired. He
was industrious, patient, and honest with a sort of second-class
honesty. He liked to earn what he took, though he had a strong
bias towards believing that he had earned whatever in any way he
might have taken, and after the same fashion he was true with a
second-class truth. He was unwilling to deceive; but he was usually
able to make himself believe that that which would have been deceit
from another to him, was not deceit from him to another. He was
friendly in his nature to a certain degree, understanding that
good offices to him-wards could not be expected unless he also was
prepared to do good offices to others; but on this matter he kept an
accurate mental account-sheet, on which he strove hard to be able
to write the balance always on the right side. He was not cruel
by nature, but he had no tenderness of heart and no delicacy of
perception. He could forgive an offence against his comfort, as when
Tetchen would burn his soup; or even against his pocket, as when,
after many struggles, he would be unable to enforce the payment of
some municipal fee. But he was vain, and could not forgive an offence
against his person. Linda had previously told him to his face that he
was old, and had with premeditated malice and falsehood exaggerated
his age. Now she threatened him with her hatred. If he persevered in
asking her to be his wife, she would hate him! He, too, began to hate
her; but his hatred was unconscious, a thing of which he was himself
unaware, and he still purposed that she should be his wife. He would
break her spirit, and bring her to his feet, and punish her with a
life-long punishment for saying that he was sixty, when, as she well
knew, he was only fifty-two. She should beg for his love,--she who
had threatened him with her hatred! And if she held out against him,
he would lead her such a life, by means of tales told to Madame
Staubach, that she should gladly accept any change as a release. He
never thought of the misery that might be forthcoming to himself in
the possession of a young wife procured after such a fashion. A man
requires some power of imagination to enable him to look forward to
the circumstances of an untried existence, and Peter Steinmarc was
not an imaginative man.
But he was a thoughtful man, cunning withal, and conscious that
various resources might be necessary to him. There was a certain
packer of casks, named Stobe, in the employment of the brewers who
owned the warehouse opposite, and Stobe was often to be seen on the
other side of the river in the Ruden Platz. With this man Steinmarc
had made an acquaintance, not at first with any reference to
Linda Tressel, but because he was desirous of having some private
information as to the doings of his relative Ludovic Valcarm. From
Stobe, however, he had received the first intimation of Ludovic's
passion for Linda; and now on this very evening of which we are
speaking, he obtained further information,--which shocked him,
frightened him, pained him exceedingly, and yet gave him keen
gratification. Stobe also had seen the leap out of the boat, and
the rush through the river; and when, late on that evening, Peter
Steinmarc, sore with the rebuff which he had received from Linda,
pottered over to the Ruden Platz, thinking that it would be well that
he should be very cunning, that he should have a spy with his eye
always open, that he should learn everything that could be learned
by one who might watch the red house, and watch Ludovic also, he
learned, all of a sudden, by the speech of a moment, that Ludovic
Valcarm had, on that Sunday morning, paid his wonderful visit to the
island.
"So you mean that you saw him?" said Peter.
"With my own eyes," said Stobe, who had his reasons, beyond Peter's
moderate bribes, for wishing to do an evil turn to Ludovic. "And
I saw her at the parlour window, watching him, when he came back
through the water."
"How long was he with her?" asked Peter, groaning, but yet exultant.
"A matter of half an hour; not less anyways."
"It was two Sundays since," said Peter, remembering well the morning
on which Linda had declined to go to church because of her headache.
"I remember it well. It was the feast of St. Lawrence," said Stobe,
who was a Roman Catholic, and mindful of the festivals of his Church.
Peter tarried for no further discourse with the brewer's man, but
hurried back again, round by the bridge, to the red house. As he went
he applied his mind firmly to the task of resolving what he would do.
He might probably take the most severe revenge on Linda, the revenge
which should for the moment be the most severe, by summoning her to
the presence of her aunt, by there exposing her vile iniquity, and
by there declaring that it was out of the question that a man so
respectable as he should contaminate himself by marrying so vile a
creature. But were he to do this Linda would never be in his power,
and the red house would never be in his possession. Moreover, though
he continued to tell himself that Linda was vile, though he was
prepared to swear to her villany, he did not in truth believe that
she had done anything disgraceful. That she had seen her lover he did
not doubt; but that, in Peter's own estimation, was a thing to be
expected. He must, no doubt, on this occasion pretend to view the
matter with the eyes of Madame Staubach. In punishing Linda, he would
so view it. But he thought that, upon the whole bearing of the case,
it would not be incumbent upon his dignity to abandon for ever his
bride and his bride's property, because she had been indiscreet. He
would marry her still. But before he did so he would let her know how
thoroughly she was in his power, and how much she would owe to him
if he now took her to his bosom. The point on which he could not at
once quite make up his mind was this: Should he tell Madame Staubach
first, or should he endeavour to use the power over Linda, which his
knowledge gave him, by threats to her? Might he not say to her with
much strength, "Give way to me at once, or I will reveal to your aunt
this story of your vileness"? This no doubt would be the best course,
could he trust in its success. But, should it not succeed, he would
then have injured his position. He was afraid that Linda would be too
high-spirited, too obstinate, and he resolved that his safest course
would be to tell everything at once to Madame Staubach.
As he passed between the back of Jacob Heisse's house and the river
he saw the upholsterer's ruddy face looking out from an open window
belonging to his workshop. "Good evening, Peter," said Jacob Heisse.
"I hope the ladies are well."
"Pretty well, I thank you," said Peter, as he was hurrying by.
"Tell Linda that we take it amiss that she did not come to our girl's
wedding. The truth is, Peter, you keep her too much moped up there
among you. You should remember, Peter, that too much work makes Jack
a dull boy. Linda will give you all the slip some day, if she be kept
so tight in hand."
Peter muttered something as he passed on to the red house. Linda
would give them the slip, would she? It was not improbable, he
thought, that she should try to do so, but he would keep such a watch
on her that it should be very difficult, and the widow should watch
as closely as he would do. Give them the slip! Yes; that might be
possible, and therefore he would lose no time.
When he entered the house he walked at once up to Madame Staubach's
parlour, and entered it without any of that ceremony of knocking that
was usual to him. It was not that he intended to put all ceremony
aside, but that in his eager haste he forgot his usual precaution.
When he entered the room Linda was there with her aunt, and he had
again to turn the whole subject over in his thoughts. Should he tell
his tale in Linda's presence or behind her back? It gradually became
apparent to him that he could not possibly tell it before her face;
but he did not arrive at this conclusion without delay, and the
minutes which were so occupied were full of agony. He seated himself
in his accustomed chair, and looked from the aunt to the niece and
then from the niece to the aunt. Give him the slip, would she? Well,
perhaps she would. But she should be very clever if she did.
"I thought you would have been in earlier, Peter," said Madame
Staubach.
"I was coming, but I saw the fraulein in the kitchen, and I ventured
to speak a word or two there. The reception which I received drove me
away."
"Linda, what is this?"
"I did not think, aunt, that the kitchen was the proper place for
him."
"Any room in this house is the proper place for him," said Madame
Staubach, in her enthusiasm. Linda was silent, and Peter replied to
this expression of hospitality simply by a grateful nod. "I will not
have you give yourself airs, Linda," continued Madame Staubach. "The
kitchen not a proper place! What harm could Peter do in the kitchen?"
"He tormented me, so I left him. When he torments me I shall always
leave him." Then Linda got up and stalked out of the room. Her aunt
called her more than once, but she would not return. Her life was
becoming so heavy to her, that it was impossible that she should
continue to endure it. She went up now to her room, and looking out
of the window fixed her eyes upon the low stone archway in which she
had more than once seen Ludovic Valcarm. But he was not there now.
She knew, indeed, that he was not in Nuremberg. Tetchen had told her
that he had gone to Augsburg,--on pretence of business connected with
the brewery, Tetchen had said, but in truth with reference to some
diabolical political scheme as to which Tetchen expressed a strong
opinion that all who dabbled in it were children of the very devil.
But though Ludovic was not in Nuremberg, Linda stood looking at the
archway for more than half an hour, considering the circumstances of
her life, and planning, if it might be possible to plan, some future
scheme of existence. To live under the upas-tree of Peter Steinmarc's
courtship would be impossible to her. But how should she avoid it?
As she thought of this, her eyes were continually fixed on the low
archway. Why did not he come out from it and give her some counsel
as to the future? There she stood looking out of the window till she
was called by her aunt's voice--"Linda, Linda, come down to me."
Her aunt's voice was very solemn, almost as though it came from the
grave; but then solemnity was common to her aunt, and Linda, as she
descended, had not on her mind any special fear.
When she reached the parlour Madame Staubach was alone there,
standing in the middle of the room. For a moment or two after she
entered, the widow stood there without speaking, and then Linda knew
that there was cause for fear. "Did you want me, aunt Charlotte?" she
said.
"Linda, what were you doing on the morning of the Sabbath before the
last, when I went to church alone, leaving you in bed?"
Linda was well aware now that her aunt knew it all, and was aware
also that Steinmarc had been the informer. No idea of denying the
truth of the story or of concealing anything, crossed her mind for
a moment. She was quite prepared to tell everything now, feeling no
doubt but that everything had been told. There was no longer a hope
that she should recover her aunt's affectionate good-will. But in
what words was she to tell her tale? That was now her immediate
difficulty. Her aunt was standing before her, hard, stern, and cruel,
expecting an answer to her question. How was that answer to be made
on the spur of the moment?
"I did nothing, aunt Charlotte. A man came here while you were
absent."
"What man?"
"Ludovic Valcarm." They were both standing, each looking the other
full in the face. On Madame Staubach's countenance there was written
a degree of indignation and angry shame which seemed to threaten
utter repudiation of her niece. On Linda's was written a resolution
to bear it all without flinching. She had no hope now with her
aunt,--no other hope than that of being able to endure. For some
moments neither of them spoke, and then Linda, finding it difficult
to support her aunt's continued gaze, commenced her defence. "The
young man came when I was alone, and made his way into the house when
the door was bolted. I had locked myself into the kitchen; but when I
heard his voice I opened the door, thinking that it did not become me
to be afraid of his presence."
"Why did you not tell me,--at once?" Linda made no immediate reply to
this question; but when Madame Staubach repeated it, she was obliged
to answer.
"I told him that if he would go, I would forgive him. Then he went,
and I thought that I was bound by my promise to be silent."
Madame Staubach having heard this, turned round slowly, and walked to
the window, leaving Linda in the middle of the room. There she stood
for perhaps half a minute, and then came slowly back again. Linda had
remained where she was, without stirring a limb; but her mind had
been active, and she had determined that she would submit in silence
to no rebukes. Any commands from her aunt, save one, she would
endeavour to obey; but from all accusations as to impropriety of
conduct she would defend herself with unabashed spirit. Her aunt came
up close to her; and, putting out one hand, with the palm turned
towards her, raising it as high as her shoulder, seemed to wave her
away. "Linda," said Madame Staubach, "you are a castaway."
"I am no castaway, aunt Charlotte," said Linda, almost jumping from
her feet, and screaming in her self-defence.
"You will not frighten me by your wicked violence. You have--lied to
me;--have lied to me. Yes; and that after all that I said to you as
to the heinousness of such wickedness. Linda, it is my belief that
you knew that he was coming when you kept your bed on that Sabbath
morning."
"If you choose to have such thoughts of me in your heart, aunt
Charlotte, I cannot help it. I knew nothing of his coming. I would
have given all I had to prevent it. Yes,--though his coming could do
me no real harm. My good name is more precious to me than anything
short of my self-esteem. Nothing even that you can say shall rob me
of that."
Madame Staubach was almost shaken by the girl's firmness,--by that,
and by her own true affection for the sinner. In her bosom, what
remained of the softness of womanhood was struggling with the
hardness of the religious martinet, and with the wilfulness of the
domestic tyrant. She had promised to Steinmarc that she would be very
stern. Steinmarc had pointed out to her that nothing but the hardest
severity could be of avail. He, in telling his story, had taken it
for granted that Linda had expected her lover, had remained at home
on purpose that she might receive her lover, and had lived a life
of deceit with her aunt for months past. When Madame Staubach had
suggested that the young man's coming might have been accidental, he
had treated the idea with ridicule. He, as the girl's injured suitor,
was, he declared, obliged to treat such a suggestion as altogether
incredible, although he was willing to pardon the injury done to him,
if a course of intense severity and discipline were at once adopted,
and if this were followed by repentance which to him should appear to
be sincere. When he took this high ground, as a man having authority,
and as one who knew the world, he had carried Madame Staubach with
him, and she had not ventured to say a word in excuse for her niece.
She had promised that the severity should be at any rate forthcoming,
and, if possible, the discipline. As for the repentance, that, she
said meekly, must be left in the hands of God. "Ah!" said Peter, in
his bitterness, "I would make her repent in sackcloth and ashes!"
Then Madame Staubach had again promised that the sackcloth and
ashes should be there. She remembered all this as she thought of
relenting,--as she perceived that to relent would be sweet to her,
and she made herself rigid with fresh resolves. If the man's coming
had been accidental, why had not the story been told to her? She
could understand nothing of that forgiveness of which Linda had
spoken; and had not Linda confessed that she loved this man? Would
she not rather have hated him who had so intruded upon her, had there
been real intrusion in the visit?
"You have done that," she said, "which would destroy the character of
any girl in Nuremberg."
"If you mean, aunt Charlotte, that the thing which has happened would
destroy the character of any girl in Nuremberg, it may perhaps be
true. If so, I am very unfortunate."
"Have you not told me that you love him?"
"I do;--I do;--I do! One cannot help one's love. To love as I do is
another misfortune. There is nothing but misery around me. You have
heard the whole truth now, and you may as well spare me further
rebuke."
"Do you not know how such misery should be met?" Linda shook her
head. "Have you prayed to be forgiven this terrible sin?"
"What sin?" said Linda, again almost screaming in her energy.
"The terrible sin of receiving this man in the absence of your
friends."
"It was no sin. I am sinful, I know,--very; no one perhaps more so.
But there was no sin there. Could I help his coming? Aunt Charlotte,
if you do not believe me about this, it is better that we should
never speak to each again. If so, we must live apart."
"How can that be? We cannot rid ourselves of each other."
"I will go anywhere,--into service, away from Nuremberg,--where you
will. But I will not be told that I am a liar."
And yet Madame Staubach was sure that Linda had lied. She thought
that she was sure. And if so,--if it were the case that this young
woman had planned an infamous scheme for receiving her lover on a
Sunday morning;--the fact that it was on a Sunday morning, and that
the hour of the Church service had been used, greatly enhanced the
atrocity of the sin in the estimation of Madame Staubach;--if the
young woman had intrigued in order that her lover might come to
her, of course she would intrigue again. In spite of Linda's solemn
protestation as to her self-esteem, the thing would be going on. This
infamous young man, who, in Madame Staubach's eyes, was beginning to
take the proportions of the Evil One himself, would be coming there
beneath her very nose. It seemed to her that life would be impossible
to her, unless Linda would consent to be married to the respectable
suitor who was still willing to receive her; and that the only way
in which to exact that consent would be to insist on the degradation
to which Linda had subjected herself. Linda had talked of going into
service. Let her go into that service which was now offered to her by
those whom she was bound to obey. "Of course Herr Steinmarc knows it
all," said Madame Staubach.
"I do not regard in the least what Herr Steinmarc knows," replied
Linda.
"But he is still willing to overlook the impropriety of your conduct,
upon condition--"
"He overlook it! Let him dare to say such a word to me, and I would
tell him that his opinion in this matter was of less moment to me
than that of any other creature in all Nuremberg. What is it to him
who comes to me? Were it but for him, I would bid the young man come
every day."
"Linda!"
"Do not talk to me about Peter Steinmarc, aunt Charlotte, or I shall
go mad."
"I must talk about him, and you must hear about him. It is now more
than ever necessary that you should be his wife. All Nuremberg will
hear of this."
"Of course it will,--as Peter Steinmarc knows it."
"And how will you cover yourself from your shame?"
"I will not cover myself at all. If you are ashamed of me, I will go
away. If you will not say that you are not ashamed of me, I will go
away. I have done nothing to disgrace me, and I will hear nothing
about shame." Having made this brave assertion, she burst into tears,
and then escaped to her own bed.
When Madame Staubach was left alone, she sat down, closed her eyes,
clasped her hands, and began to pray. As to what she should do in
these terrible circumstances she had no light, unless such light
might be given to her from above. A certain trust she had in Peter
Steinmarc, because Peter was a man, and not a young man; but it was
not a trust which made her confident. She thought that Peter was
very good in being willing to take Linda at all after all that had
happened, but she had begun to be aware that he himself was not
able to make his own goodness apparent to Linda. She did not in her
heart blame Peter for his want of eloquence, but rather imputed an
increased degree of culpability to Linda, in that any eloquence
was necessary for her conviction on such a matter. Eloquence in an
affair of marriage, in reference to any preparation for marriage
arrangements, was one of those devil's baits of which Madame Staubach
was especially afraid. Ludovic Valcarm no doubt could be eloquent,
could talk of love, and throw glances from his eyes, and sigh, and do
worse things, perhaps, even than those. All tricks of Satan, these to
ensnare the souls of young women! Peter could perform no such tricks,
and therefore it was that his task was so difficult to him. She could
not regard it as a deficiency that he was unable to do those very
things which, when done in her presence, were abominable to her
sight, and when spoken of were abominable to her ears, and when
thought of were abominable to her imagination. But yet how was she to
arrange this marriage, if Peter were able to say nothing for himself?
So she sat herself down and clasped her hands and prayed earnestly
that assistance might be given to her. If you pray that a mountain
shall be moved, and will have faith, the mountain shall certainly
be stirred. So she told herself; but she told herself this in an
agony of spirit, because she still doubted,--she feared that she
doubted,--that this thing would not be done for her by heaven's aid.
Oh, if she could only make herself certain that heaven would aid her,
then the thing would be done for her. She could not be certain, and
therefore she felt herself to be a wretched sinner.
In the mean time, Linda was in bed up-stairs, thinking over her
position, and making up her mind as to what should be her future
conduct. As far as it might be possible, she would enter no room in
which Peter Steinmarc was present. She would not go into the parlour
when he was there, even though her aunt should call her. Should he
follow her into the kitchen, she would instantly leave it. On no
pretence would she speak to him. She had always the refuge of her own
bedroom, and should he venture to follow her there, she thought that
she would know how to defend herself. As to the rest, she must bear
her aunt's thoughts, and if necessary her aunt's hard words also. It
was very well to talk of going into service, but where was the house
that would receive her? And then, as to Ludovic Valcarm! In regard to
him, it was not easy for her to come to any resolution; but she still
thought that she would be willing to make that compact, if her aunt,
on the other side, would be willing to make it also.