All September went by, and all October, and life in the red house in
the island in Nuremberg was a very sad life indeed. During this time
Linda Tressel never spoke to Ludovic Valcarm, nor of him; but she saw
him once, standing among the beer-casks opposite to the warehouse.
Had she not so seen him, she would have thought that he had vanished
altogether out of the city, and that he was to be no more heard of
or seen among them. He was such a man, and belonged to such a set,
that his vanishing in this fashion would have been a thing to create
no surprise. He might have joined his father, and they two might
be together in any quarter of the globe,--on any spot,--the more
distant, the more probable. It was one of Linda's troubles that she
knew really nothing of the life of the man she loved. She had always
heard things evil spoken of him, but such evil-speaking had come
from those who were his enemies,--from his cousin, who had been
angry because Ludovic had not remained with him on the stool in the
town-hall; and from Madame Staubach, who thought ill of almost all
young men, and who had been specially prejudiced against this young
man by Peter Steinmarc. Linda did not know what she should believe.
She had heard that the Brothers Sach were respectable tradesmen,
and it was in Valcarm's favour that he was employed by them. She
had thought that he had left them; but now, seeing him again among
the barrels, she had reason to presume that his life could not be
altogether unworthy of him. He was working for his bread, and what
more could be required from a young man than that? Nevertheless, when
she saw him, she sedulously kept herself from his sight, and went,
almost at once, back to the kitchen, from whence there was no view on
to the Ruden Platz.
During these weeks life was very sad in this house. Madame Staubach
said but little to her niece of her past iniquity in the matter
of Ludovic's visit, and not much of Peter's suit; but she so bore
herself that every glance of her eye, every tone of her voice, every
nod of her head, was a separate rebuke. She hardly ever left Linda
alone, requiring her company when she went out to make her little
purchases in the market, and always on those more momentous and
prolonged occasions when she attended some public prayer-meeting.
Linda resolved to obey in such matters, and she did obey. She went
hither and thither by her aunt's side, and at home sat with her aunt,
always with a needle in her hand,--never leaving the room, except
when Peter Steinmarc entered it. This he did, perhaps, on every other
evening; and when he did so, Linda always arose and went up to her
own chamber, speaking no word to the man as she passed him. When her
aunt had rebuked her for this, laying upon her a command that she
should remain when Steinmarc appeared, she protested that in that
matter obedience was impossible to her. In all other things she would
do as she was bidden; nothing, she said, but force, should induce
her to stay for five minutes in the same room with Peter Steinmarc.
Peter, who was of course aware of all this, would look at her when he
passed her, or met her on the stairs, or in the passages, as though
she were something too vile for him to touch. Madame Staubach, as she
saw this, would groan aloud, and then Peter would groan. Latterly,
too, Tetchen had taken to groaning; so that life in that house had
become very sad. But Linda paid back Peter's scorn with interest.
Her lips would curl, and her nostrils would be dilated, and her eyes
would flash fire on him as she passed him. He also prayed a little
in these days that Linda might be given into his hands. If ever she
should be so given, he should teach her what it was to scorn the
offer of an honest man.
For a month or six weeks Linda Tressel bore all this with patience;
but when October was half gone, her patience was almost at an end.
Such a life, if prolonged much further, would make her mad. The
absence of all smiles from the faces of those with whom she lived,
was terrible to her. She was surrounded by a solemnity as of the
grave, and came to doubt almost whether she were a living creature.
If she were to be scorned always, to be treated ever as one unfit
for the pleasant intercourse of life, it might be as well that she
should deserve such treatment. It was possible that by deserving it
she might avoid it! At first, during these solemn wearisome weeks,
she would tell herself that because her aunt had condemned her,
not therefore need she feel assured that she was condemned of her
heavenly Father. She was not a castaway because her aunt had so
called her. But gradually there came upon her a feeling, springing
from her imagination rather than from her judgment, that she was a
thing set apart as vile and bad. There grew upon her a conviction
that she was one of the non-elect, or rather, one of those who are
elected to an eternity of misery. Her religious observances, as
they came to her now, were odious to her; and that she supposed to
be a certain sign that the devil had fought for her soul and had
conquered. It could not be that she should be so terribly wretched if
she were not also very wicked. She would tremble now at every sound;
and though she still curled her lips, and poured scorn upon Peter
from her eyes, as she moved away at his approach, she was almost so
far beaten as to be desirous to succumb. She must either succumb
to her aunt and to him, or else she must fly. How was she to live
without a word of sympathy from any human being?
She had been careful to say little or nothing to Tetchen, having some
indistinct idea that Tetchen was a double traitor. That Tetchen had
on one occasion been in league with Ludovic, she was sure; but she
thought that since that the woman had been in league with Peter also.
The league with Ludovic had been very wicked, but that might be
forgiven. A league with Peter was a sin to be forgiven never; and
therefore Linda had resolutely declined of late to hold any converse
with Tetchen other than that which the affairs of the house demanded.
When Tetchen, who in this matter was most unjustly treated, would
make little attempts to regain the confidence of her young mistress,
her efforts were met with a repellant silence. And thus there was no
one in the house to whom Linda could speak. This at last became so
dreadful to her, the desolation of her position was so complete,
that she had learned to regret her sternness to Tetchen. As far as
she could now see, there was no alliance between Tetchen and Peter;
and it might be the case, she thought, that her suspicions had been
unjust to the old woman.
One evening, about the beginning of November, when it had already
become dark at that hour in which Peter would present himself in
Madame Staubach's parlour, he had entered the room, as was usual with
him; and, as usual, Linda had at once left it. Peter, as he passed
her, had looked at her with more than his usual anger, with an
aggravated bitterness of condemnation in his eyes. She had been
weeping in silence before he had appeared, and she had no power left
to throw back her scorn at him. Still weeping, she went up into her
room, and throwing herself on her bed, began, in her misery, to cry
aloud for mercy. Some end must be brought to this, or the burden on
her shoulders would be heavier than she could bear. She had gone to
the window for a moment as she entered the chamber, and had thrown
one glance in despair over towards the Ruden Platz. But the night was
dark, and full of rain, and had he been there she could not have seen
him. There was no one to befriend her. Then she threw herself on the
bed and wept aloud.
She was still lying there when there came a very low tap at the door.
She started up and listened. She had heard no footfall on the stairs,
and it was, she thought, impossible that any one should have come up
without her hearing the steps. Peter Steinmarc creaked whenever he
went along the passages, and neither did her aunt or Tetchen tread
with feet as light as that. She sat up, and then the knock was
repeated,--very low and very clear. She still paused a moment,
resolving that nothing should frighten her,--nothing should startle
her. No change that could come to her would, she thought, be a change
for the worse. She hastened up from off the bed, and stood upon the
floor. Then she gave the answer that is usual to such a summons.
"Come in," she said. She spoke low, but with clear voice, so that her
word might certainly be heard, but not be heard afar. She stood about
ten feet from the door, and when she heard the lock turned, her heart
was beating violently.
The lock was turned, and the door was ajar, but it was not opened.
"Linda," said a soft voice--"Linda, will you speak to me?" Heavens
and earth! It was Ludovic,--Ludovic in her aunt's house,--Ludovic at
her chamber door,--Ludovic there, within the very penetralia of their
abode, while her aunt and Peter Steinmarc were sitting in the chamber
below! But she had resolved that in no event would she be startled.
In making that resolve, had she not almost hoped that this would be
the voice that should greet her?
She could not now again say, "Come in," and the man who had had the
audacity to advance so far, was not bold enough to advance farther,
though invited. She stepped quickly to the door, and, placing her
hand upon the lock, knew not whether to close it against the intruder
or to confront the man. "There can be but a moment, Linda; will you
not speak to me?" said her lover.
What could her aunt do to her?--what Peter Steinmarc?--what could the
world do, worse than had been done already? They had told her that
she was a castaway, and she had half believed it. In the moments of
her deepest misery she had believed it. If that were so, how could
she fall lower? Would it not be sweet to her to hear one word of
kindness in her troubles, to catch one note that should not be laden
with rebuke? She opened the door, and stood before him in the gloom
of the passage.
"Linda,--dear, dearest Linda;"--and before she knew that he was so
near her, he had caught her hand.
"Hush! they are below;--they will hear you."
"No; I could be up among the rafters before any one could be on
the first landing; and no one should hear a motion." Linda, in her
surprise, looked up through the darkness, as though she could see
the passage of which he spoke in the narrowing stair amidst the roof.
What a terrible man was this, who had come to her bedroom door, and
could thus talk of escaping amidst the rafters!
"Why are you here?" she whispered.
"Because I love you better than the light of heaven. Because I would
go through fire and water to be near you. Linda,--dearest Linda, is
it not true that you are in sorrow?"
"Indeed yes," she said, shaking her head, while she still left her
hand in his.
"And shall I not find an escape for you?"
"No, no; that is impossible."
"I will try at least," said he.
"You can do nothing for me,--nothing."
"You love me, Linda? Say that you love me." She remained silent, but
her hand was still within his grasp. She could not lie to him, and
say that she loved him not. "Linda, you are all the world to me. The
sweetest music that I could hear would be one word to say that I am
dear to you." She said not a word, but he knew now that she loved
him. He knew it well. It is the instinct of the lover to know that
his mistress has given him her heart heartily, when she does not deny
the gift with more than sternness,--with cold cruelty. Yes; he knew
her secret now; and pulling her close to him by her hand, by her arm,
he wound his own arm round her waist tightly, and pressed his face
close to hers. "Linda, Linda,--my own, my own!--O God! how happy I
am!" She suffered it all, but spoke not a word. His hot kisses were
rained upon her lips, but she gave him never a kiss in return. He
pressed her with all the muscles of his body, and she simply bore
the pressure, uncomplaining, uncomplying, hardly thinking, half
conscious, almost swooning, hysterical, with blood rushing wildly
to her heart, lost in an agony of mingled fear and love. "Oh,
Linda!--oh, my own one!" But the kisses were still raining on her
lips, and cheek, and brow. Had she heard her aunt's footsteps on the
stairs, had she heard the creaking shoes of Peter Steinmarc himself,
she could hardly have moved to save herself from their wrath. The
pressure of her lover's arms was very sweet to her, but still,
through it all, there was a consciousness that, in her very knowledge
of that sweetness, the devil was claiming his own. Now, in very
truth, was she a castaway. "My love, my life!" said Ludovic, "there
are but a few moments for us. What can I do to comfort you?" She was
still in his arms, pressed closely to his bosom, not trusting at all
to the support of her own legs. She made one little struggle to free
herself, but it was in vain. She opened her lips to speak, but there
came no sound from them. Then there came again upon her that storm of
kisses, and she was bound round by his arm, as though she were never
again to be loosened. The waters that fell upon her were sweeter than
the rains of heaven; but she knew,--there was still enough of life
in her to remember,--that they were foul with the sulphur and the
brimstone of the pit of hell.
"Linda," he said, "I am leaving Nuremberg; will you go with me?" Go
with him! whither was she to go? How was she to go? And this going
that he spoke of? Was it not thus usually with castaways? If it were
true that she was in very fact already a castaway, why should she not
go with him? And yet she was half sure that any such going on her
part was a thing quite out of the question. As an actor will say of
himself when he declines some proffered character, she could not see
herself in that part. Though she could tell herself that she was a
castaway, a very child of the devil, because she could thus stand and
listen to her lover at her chamber door, yet could she not think of
the sin that would really make her so without an abhorrence which
made that sin frightful to her. She was not allured, hardly tempted,
by the young man's offer as he made it. And yet, what else was there
for her to do? And if it were true that she was a castaway, why
should she struggle to be better than others who were of the same
colour with herself? "Linda, say, will you be my wife?"
His wife! Oh, yes, she would be his wife,--if it were possible. Even
now, in the moment of her agony, there came to her a vague idea that
she might do him some service if she were his wife, because she had
property of her own. She was ready to acknowledge to herself that her
duty to him was stronger than her duty to that woman below who had
been so cruel to her. She would be his wife, if it were possible,
even though he should drag her through the mud of poverty and through
the gutters of tribulation. Could she walk down to her aunt's
presence this moment his real wife, she would do so, and bear all
that could be said to her. Could this be so, that storm which had
been bitter with brimstone from the lowest pit, would at once become
sweet with the air of heaven. But how could this be? She knew that it
could not be. Marriage was a thing difficult to be done, hedged in
with all manner of impediments, hardly to be reached at all by such
a one as her, unless it might be such a marriage as that proposed to
her with Peter Steinmarc. For girls with sweet, loving parents, for
the Fanny Heisses of the world, marriage might be made easy. It was
all very well for Ludovic Valcarm to ask her to be his wife; but in
asking he must have known that she could not if she would; and yet
the sound of the word was sweet to her. If it might be so, even yet
she would not be a castaway.
But she did not answer his question. Struggling hard to speak, she
muttered some prayer to him that he would leave her. "Say that you
love me," demanded Ludovic. The demand was only whispered, but the
words came hot into her ears.
"I do love you," she replied.
"Then you will go with me."
"No, no! It is impossible."
"They will make you take that man for your husband."
"They shall never do that;--never,--never." In making this assertion,
Linda found strength to extricate herself from her lover's arms and
to stand alone.
"And how shall I come to you again?" said Ludovic.
"You must not come again. You should not have come now. I would not
have been here had I thought it possible you would have come."
"But, Linda--" and then he went on to show to her how very
unsatisfactory a courtship theirs would be, if, now that they were
together, nothing could be arranged as to their future meeting. It
soon became clear to Linda that Ludovic knew everything that was
going on in the house, and had learned it all from Tetchen. Tetchen
at this moment was quite aware of his presence up-stairs, and was
prepared to cough aloud, standing at the kitchen door, if any sign
were made that either Steinmarc or Madame Staubach were about to
leave the parlour. Though it had seemed to Linda that her lover had
come to her through the darkness, aided by the powers thereof, the
assistance which had really brought him there was simply that of the
old cook down-stairs. It certainly was on the cards that Tetchen
might help him again after the same fashion, but Ludovic felt that
such help would be but of little avail unless Linda, now that she had
acknowledged her love, would do something to help also. With Ludovic
Valcarm it was quite a proper course of things that he should jump
out of a boat, or disappear into the roof among the rafters, or
escape across the tiles and down the spouts in the darkness, as
preliminary steps in a love affair. But in this special love affair
such movements could only be preliminary; and therefore, as he was
now standing face to face with Linda, and as there certainly had been
difficulties in achieving this position, he was anxious to make some
positive use of it. And then, as he explained to Linda in very few
words, he was about to leave Nuremberg, and go to Munich. She did not
quite understand whether he was always to remain in Munich; nor did
she think of inquiring how he was to earn his bread there. But it was
his scheme, that she should go with him and that there they should be
married. If she would meet him at the railway station in time for the
early train, they certainly could reach Munich without impediment.
Linda would find no difficulty in leaving the house. Tetchen would
take care that even the door should be open for her.
Linda listened to it all, and by degrees the impossibility of her
assenting to such iniquity became less palpable. And though the
wickedness of the scheme was still manifest to her, though she felt
that, were she to assent to it, she would, in doing so, give herself
up finally, body and soul, to the Evil One, yet was she not angry
with Ludovic for proposing it. Nay, loving him well enough before,
she loved him the better as he pressed her to go with him. But
she would not go. She had nothing to say but, No, no, no. It was
impossible. She was conscious after a certain fashion that her legs
would refuse to carry her to the railway station on such an errand,
that her physical strength would have failed her, and that were she
to make ever so binding a promise, when the morning came she would
not be there. He had again taken her hand, and was using all his
eloquence, still speaking in low whispers, when there was heard a
cough,--not loud, but very distinct,--Tetchen's cough as she stood at
the kitchen door. Ludovic Valcarm, though the necessity for movement
was so close upon him, would not leave Linda's hand till he had again
pressed a kiss upon her mouth. Now, at last, in this perilous moment,
there was some slightest movement on Linda's lips, which he flattered
himself he might take as a response. Then, in a moment, he was gone
and her door was shut, and he was escaping, after his own fashion,
into the darkness,--she knew not whither and she knew not how, except
that there was a bitter flavour of brimstone about it all.
She seated herself at the foot of the bed lost in amazement. She must
first think,--she was bound first to think, of his safety; and yet
what in the way of punishment could they do to him comparable to the
torments which they could inflict upon her? She listened, and she
soon heard Peter Steinmarc creaking in the room below. Tetchen had
coughed because Peter was as usual going to his room, but had Ludovic
remained at her door no one would have been a bit the wiser. No doubt
Ludovic, up among the rafters, was thinking the same thing; but there
must be no renewal of their intercourse that night, and therefore
Linda bolted her door. As she did so, she swore to herself that she
would not unbolt it again that evening at Ludovic's request. No
such encroaching request was made to her. She sat for nearly an
hour at the foot of her bed, waiting, listening, fearing, thinking,
hoping,--hardly hoping, when another step was heard on the stair and
in the passage,--a step which she well knew to be that of her aunt
Charlotte. Then she arose, and as her aunt drew near she pulled back
the bolt and opened the door. The little oil lamp which she held
threw a timid fitful light into the gloom, and Linda looked up
unconsciously into the darkness of the roof over her head.
It had been her custom to return to her aunt's parlour as soon as she
heard Peter creaking in the room below, and she had still meant to do
so on this evening; but hitherto she had been unable to move, or at
any rate so to compose herself as to have made it possible for her to
go into her aunt's presence. Had she not had the whole world of her
own love story to fill her mind and her heart?
"Linda, I have been expecting you to come down to me," said her aunt,
gravely.
"Yes, aunt Charlotte, and I was coming."
"It is late now, Linda."
"Then, if you please, I will go to bed," said Linda, who was by no
means sorry to escape the necessity of returning to the parlour.
"I could not go to my rest," said Madame Staubach, "without doing my
duty by seeing you and telling you again, that it is very wicked of
you to leave the room whenever our friend enters it. Linda, do you
ever think of the punishment which pride will bring down upon you?"
"It is not pride."
"Yes, Linda. It is the worst pride in the world."
"I will sit with him all the evening if he will promise me never
again to ask me to be his wife."
"The time will perhaps come, Linda, when you will be only too glad to
take him, and he will tell you that you are not fit to be the wife of
an honest man." Then, having uttered this bitter curse,--for such it
was,--Madame Staubach went across to her own room.
Linda, as she knelt at her bedside, tried to pray that she might
be delivered from temptation, but she felt that her prayers were
not prayers indeed. Even when she was on her knees, with her hands
clasped together as though towards her God, her very soul was full
of the presence of that arm which had been so fast wound round her
waist. And when she was in bed she gave herself up to the sweetness
of her love. With what delicious violence had that storm of kisses
fallen on her! Then she prayed for him, and strove very hard that her
prayer might be sincere.