Peter Steinmarc, now that he was an engaged man, affianced to a young
bride, was urgent from day to day with Madame Staubach that the date
of his wedding should be fixed. He soon found that all Nuremberg knew
that he was to be married. Perhaps Herr Molk had not been so silent
and discreet as would have been becoming in a man so highly placed,
and perhaps Peter himself had let slip a word to some confidential
friend who had betrayed him. Be this as it might, all Nuremberg knew
of Peter's good fortune, and he soon found that he should have no
peace till the thing was completed. "She is quite well enough, I
am sure," said Peter to Madame Staubach, "and if there is anything
amiss she can finish getting well afterwards." Madame Staubach was
sufficiently eager herself that Linda should be married without
delay; but, nevertheless, she was angry at being so pressed, and
used rather sharp language in explaining to Peter that he would not
be allowed to dictate on such a subject. "Ah! well; if it isn't this
year it won't be next," said Peter, on one occasion when he had
determined to show his power. Madame Staubach did not believe the
threat, but she did begin to fear that, perhaps, after all, there
might be fresh obstacles. It was now near the end of November, and
though Linda still kept her room, her aunt could not see that she
was suffering from any real illness. When, however, a word was said
to press the poor girl, Linda would declare that she was weak and
sick--unable to walk; in short, that at present she would not leave
her room. Madame Staubach was beginning to be angered at this; but,
for all that, Linda had not left her room.
It was now two weeks since she had suffered herself to be betrothed,
and Peter had twice been up to her chamber, creaking with his shoes
along the passages. Twice she had passed a terrible half-hour, while
he had sat, for the most part silent, in an old wicker chair by her
bedside. Her aunt had, of course, been present, and had spoken most
of the words that had been uttered during these visits; and these
words had nearly altogether referred to Linda's ailments. Linda was
still not quite well, she had said, but would soon be better, and
then all would be properly settled. Such was the purport of the words
which Madame Staubach would speak on those occasions.
"Before Christmas?" Peter had once asked.
"No," Linda had replied, very sharply.
"It must be as the Lord shall will it," said Madame Staubach. That
had been so true that neither Linda nor Peter had found it necessary
to express dissent. On both these occasions Linda's energy had been
chiefly used to guard herself from any sign of a caress. Peter had
thought of it, but Linda lay far away upon the bed, and the lover did
not see how it was to be managed. He was not sure, moreover, whether
Madame Staubach would not have been shocked at any proposal in
reference to an antenuptial embrace. On these considerations he
abstained.
It was now near the end of November, and Linda knew that she was
well. Her aunt had proposed some day in January for the marriage, and
Linda, though she had never assented, could not on the moment find
any plea for refusing altogether to have a day fixed. All she could
do was to endeavour to stave off the evil. Madame Staubach seemed
to think that it was indispensable that a day in January should be
named; therefore, at last, the thirtieth of that month was after some
fashion fixed for the wedding. Linda never actually assented, but
after many discourses it seemed to be decided that it should be so.
Peter was so told, and with some grumbling expressed himself as
satisfied; but when would Linda come down to him? He was sure that
Linda was well enough to come down if she would. At last a day was
fixed for that also. It was arranged that the three should go to
church together on the first Sunday in December. It would be safer so
than in any other way. He could not make love to her in church.
On the Saturday evening Linda was down-stairs with her aunt. Peter,
as she knew well, was at the Rothe Ross on that evening, and would
not be home till past ten. Tetchen was out, and Linda had gone down
to take her supper with her aunt. The meal had been eaten almost
in silence, for Linda was very sad, and Madame Staubach herself
was beginning to feel that the task before her was almost too much
for her strength. Had it not been that she was carried on by the
conviction that things stern and hard and cruel would in the long-run
be comforting to the soul, she would have given way. But she was a
woman not prone to give way when she thought that the soul's welfare
was concerned. She had seen the shrinking, retreating horror with
which Linda had almost involuntarily contrived to keep her distance
from her future husband. She had listened to the girl's voice, and
knew that there had been not one light-hearted tone from it since
that consent had been wrung from the sufferer by the vehemence of her
own bedside prayers. She was aware that Linda from day to day was
becoming thinner and thinner, paler and still paler. But she knew, or
thought that she knew, that it was God's will; and so she went on. It
was not a happy time even for Madame Staubach, but it was a time in
which to Linda it seemed that hell had come to her beforehand with
all its terrors.
There was, however, one thing certain to her yet. She would never put
her hand into that of Peter Steinmarc in God's house after such a
fashion that any priest should be able to say that they two were man
and wife in the sight of God.
On this Saturday evening Tetchen was out, as was the habit with her
on alternate Saturday evenings. On such occasions Linda would usually
do what household work was necessary in the kitchen, preparatory
to the coming Sabbath. But on this evening Madame Staubach herself
was employed in the kitchen, as Linda was not considered to be well
enough to perform the task. Linda was sitting alone, between the fire
and the window, with no work in her hand, with no book before her,
thinking of her fate, when there came upon the panes of the window
sundry small, sharp, quickly-repeated rappings, as though gravel
had been thrown upon them. She knew at once that the noise was not
accidental, and jumped up on her feet. If it was some mode of escape,
let it be what it might, she would accept it. She jumped up, and with
short hurried steps placed herself close to the window. The quick,
sharp, little blows upon the glass were heard again, and then there
was a voice. "Linda, Linda." Heavens and earth! it was his voice.
There was no mistaking it. Had she heard but a single syllable in the
faintest whisper, she would have known it. It was Ludovic Valcarm,
and he had come for her, even out of his prison. He should find that
he had not come in vain. Then the word was repeated--"Linda, are you
there?" "I am here," she said, speaking very faintly, and trembling
at the sound of her own voice. Then the iron pin was withdrawn
from the wooden shutter on the outside, as it could not have been
withdrawn had not some traitor within the house prepared the way for
it, and the heavy Venetian blinds were folded back, and Linda could
see the outlines of the man's head and shoulders, in the dark, close
to the panes of the window. It was raining at the time, and the night
was very dark, but still she could see the outline. She stood and
watched him; for, though she was willing to be with him, she felt
that she could do nothing. In a moment the frame of the window was
raised, and his head was within the room, within her aunt's parlour,
where her aunt might now have been for all that he could have
known;--were it not that Tetchen was watching at the corner, and
knew to the scraping of a carrot how long it would be before Madame
Staubach had made the soup for to-morrow's dinner.
"Linda," he said, "how is it with you?"
"Oh, Ludovic!"
"Linda, will you go with me now?"
"What! now, this instant?"
"To-night. Listen, dearest, for she will be back. Go to her in ten
minutes from now, and tell her that you are weary and would be in
bed. She will see you to your room perhaps, and there may be delay.
But when you can, come down silently, with your thickest cloak
and your strongest hat, and any little thing you can carry easily.
Come without a candle, and creep to the passage window. I will be
there. If she will let you go up-stairs alone, you may be there in
half-an-hour. It is our only chance." Then the window was closed, and
after that the shutter, and then the pin was pushed back, and Linda
was again alone in her aunt's chamber.
To be there in half-an-hour! To commence such a job as this at once!
To go to her aunt with a premeditated lie that would require perfect
acting, and to have to do this in ten minutes, in five minutes,
while the minutes were flying from her like sparks of fire! It was
impossible. If it had been enjoined upon her for the morrow, so that
there should have been time for thought, she might have done it. But
this call upon her for instant action almost paralysed her. And yet
what other hope was there? She had told herself that she would do
anything, however wicked, however dreadful, that would save her from
the proposed marriage. She had sworn to herself that she would do
something; for that Steinmarc's wife she would never be. And here had
come to her a possibility of escape,--of escape too which had in it
so much of sweetness! She must lie to her aunt. Was not every hour of
life a separate lie? And as for acting a lie, what was the difference
between that and telling it, except in the capability of the liar.
Her aunt had forced her to lie. No truth was any longer possible to
her. Would it not be better to lie for Ludovic Valcarm than to lie
for Peter Steinmarc? She looked at the upright clock which stood in
the corner of the room, and, seeing that the ten minutes was already
passed, she crossed at once over into the kitchen. Her aunt was
standing there, and Tetchen with her bonnet on, was standing by.
Tetchen, as soon as she saw Linda, explained that she must be off
again at once. She had only returned to fetch some article for a
little niece of hers which Madame Staubach had given her.
"Aunt Charlotte," said Linda, "I am very weary. You will not be
angry, will you, if I go to bed?"
"It is not yet nine o'clock, my dear."
"But I am tired, and I fear that I shall lack strength for
to-morrow." Oh, Linda, Linda! But, indeed, had you foreseen the
future, you might have truly said that you would want strength on the
morrow.
"Then go, my dear;" and Madame Staubach kissed her niece and blessed
her, and after that, with careful hand, threw some salt into the pot
that was simmering on the stove. Peter Steinmarc was to dine with
them on the morrow, and he was a man who cared that his soup should
be well seasoned. Linda, terribly smitten by the consciousness of her
own duplicity, went forth, and crept up-stairs to her room. She had
now, as she calculated, a quarter of an hour, and she would wish,
if possible, to be punctual. She looked out for a moment from the
window, and could only see that it was very dark, and could hear that
it was raining hard. She took her thickest cloak and her strongest
hat. She would do in all things as he bade her; and then she tried
to think what else she would take. She was going forth,--whither she
knew not. Then came upon her a thought that on the morrow,--for many
morrows afterwards, perhaps for all morrows to come,--there would be
no comfortable wardrobe to which she could go for such decent changes
of raiment as she required. She looked at her frock, and having one
darker and thicker than that she wore, she changed it instantly. And
then it was not only her garments that she was leaving behind her.
For ever afterwards,--for ever and ever and ever,--she must be a
castaway. The die had been thrown now, and everything was over. She
was leaving behind her all decency, all feminine respect, all the
clean ways of her pure young life, all modest thoughts, all honest,
serviceable daily tasks, all godliness, all hope of heaven! The
silent, quick-running tears streamed down her face as she moved
rapidly about the room. The thing must be done, must be done,--must
be done, even though earth and heaven were to fail her for ever
afterwards. Earth and heaven would fail her for ever afterwards, but
still the thing must be done. All should be endured, if by that all
she could escape from the man she loathed.
She collected a few things, what little store of money she had,--four
or five gulden, perhaps,--and a pair of light shoes and clean
stockings, and a fresh handkerchief or two, and a little collar,
and then she started. He had told her to bring what she could carry
easily. She must not disobey him, but she would fain have brought
more had she dared. At the last moment she returned, and took a small
hair-brush and a comb. Then she looked round the room with a hurried
glance, put out her candle, and crept silently down the stairs. On
the first landing she paused, for it was possible that Peter might
be returning. She listened, and then remembered that she would have
heard Peter's feet even on the walk outside. Very quickly, but still
more gently than ever, she went down the last stairs. From the foot
of the stairs into the passage there was a moment in which she must
be within sight of the kitchen door. She flew by, and felt that she
must have been seen. But she was not seen. In an instant she was at
the open window, and in another instant she was standing beside her
lover on the gravel path. What he said to her she did not hear; what
he did she did not know. She had completed her task now; she had done
her part, and had committed herself entirely into his hands. She
would ask no question. She would trust him entirely. She only knew
that at the moment his arm was round her, and that she was being
lifted off the bank into the river.
"Dearest girl! can you see? No; nothing, of course, as yet. Step
down. There is a boat here. There are two boats. Lean upon me, and we
can walk over. There. Do not mind treading softly. They cannot hear
because of the rain. We shall be out of it in a minute. I am sorry
you should be wet, but yet it is better for us."
She hardly understood him, but yet she did as he told her, and in a
few minutes she was standing on the other bank of the river, in the
Ruden Platz. Here Linda perceived that there was a man awaiting them,
to whom Ludovic gave certain orders about the boats. Then Ludovic
took her by the hand and ran with her across the Platz, till they
stood beneath the archway of the brewery warehouse where she had so
often watched him as he went in and out. "Here we are safe," he said,
stooping down and kissing her, and brushing away the drops of rain
from the edges of her hair. Oh, what safety! To be there, in the
middle of the night, with him, and not know whither she was to go,
where she was to lie, whether she would ever again know that feeling
of security which had been given to her throughout her whole life by
her aunt's presence and the walls of her own house. Safe! Was ever
peril equal to hers? "Linda, say that you love me. Say that you are
my own."
"I do love you," she said; "otherwise how should I be here?"
"And you had promised to marry that man!"
"I should never have married him. I should have died."
"Dearest Linda! But come; you must not stand here." Then he took her
up, up the warehouse stairs into a gloomy chamber, from which there
was a window looking on to the Ruden Platz, and there, with many
caresses, he explained to her his plans. The caresses she endeavoured
to avoid, and, when she could not avoid them, to moderate. "Would he
remember," she asked, "just for the present, all that she had gone
through, and spare her for a while, because she was so weak?" She
made her little appeal with swimming eyes and low voice, looking into
his face, holding his great hand the while between her own. He swore
that she was his queen, and should have her way in everything. But
would she not give him one kiss? He reminded her that she had never
kissed him. She did as he asked her, just touching his lips with
hers, and then she stood by him, leaning on him, while he explained
to her something of his plans. He kept close to the window, as it was
necessary that he should keep his eyes upon the red house.
His plan was this. There was a train which passed by the Nuremberg
station on its way to Augsburg at three o'clock in the morning. By
this train he proposed that they should travel to that city. He had,
he said, the means of providing accommodation for her there, and no
one would know whither they had gone. He did not anticipate that any
one in the house opposite would learn that Linda had escaped till the
next morning; but should any suspicion have been aroused, and should
the fact be ascertained, there would certainly be lights moving in
the house, and light would be seen from the window of Linda's own
chamber. Therefore he proposed, during the long hours that they must
yet wait, to stand in his present spot and watch, so that he might
know at the first moment whether there was any commotion among the
inmates of the red house. "There goes old Peter to bed," said he; "he
won't be the first to find out, I'll bet a florin." And afterwards he
signified the fact that Madame Staubach had gone to her chamber. This
was the moment of danger, as it might be very possible that Madame
Staubach would go into Linda's room. In that case, as he said, he
had a little carriage outside the walls which would take them to the
first town on the route to Augsburg. Had a light been seen but for a
moment in Linda's room they were to start; and would certainly reach
the spot where the carriage stood before any followers could be
on their heels. But Madame Staubach went to her own room without
noticing that of her niece, and then the red house was all dark and
all still. They would have made the best of their way to Augsburg
before their flight would be discovered.
During the minutes in which they were watching the lights Linda stood
close to her lover, leaning on his shoulder, and supported by his
arm. But this was over by ten, and then there remained nearly five
hours, during which they must stay in their present hiding-place. Up
to this time Linda's strength had supported her under the excitement
of her escape, but now she was like to faint, and it was necessary at
any rate that she should be allowed to lie down. He got sacks for her
from some part of the building, and with these constructed for her
a bed on the floor, near to the spot which he must occupy himself
in still keeping his eye upon the red house. He laid her down and
covered her feet with sacking, and put sacks under her head for
a pillow. He was very gentle with her, and she thanked him over
and over again, and endeavoured to think that her escape had been
fortunate, and that her position was happy. Had she not succeeded in
flying from Peter Steinmarc? And after such a flight would not all
idea of a marriage with him be out of the question? For some little
time she was cheered by talking to him. She asked him about his
imprisonment. "Ah!" said he; "if I cannot be one too many for such an
old fogey as Herr Molk, I'll let out my brains to an ass, and take to
grazing on thistles." His offence had been political, and had been
committed in conjunction with others. And he and they were sure of
success ultimately,--were sure of success very speedily. Linda could
understand nothing of the subject. But she could hope that her lover
might prosper in his undertaking, and she could admire and love him
for encountering the dangers of such an enterprise. And then, half
sportively, half in earnest, she taxed him with that matter which was
next her heart. Who had been the young woman with the blue frock and
the felt hat who had been with him when he was brought before the
magistrates?
"Young woman;--with blue frock! who told you of the young woman,
Linda?" He came and knelt beside her as he asked the question,
leaving his watch for the moment; and she could see by the dim light
of the lamp outside that there was a smile upon his face,--almost
joyous, full of mirth.
"Who told me? The magistrate you were taken to; Herr Molk told me
himself," said Linda, almost happily. That smile upon his face had in
some way vanquished her feeling of jealousy.
"Then he is a greater scoundrel than I took him to be, or else a more
utter fool. The girl in the blue frock, Linda, was one of our young
men, who was to get out of the city in that disguise. And I believe
Herr Molk knew it when he tried to set you against me, by telling you
the story."
Whether Herr Molk had known this, or whether he had simply been fool
enough to be taken in by the blue frock and the felt hat, it is not
for us to inquire here. But Ludovic was greatly amused at the story,
and Linda was charmed at the explanation she had received. It was
only an extra feather in her lover's cap that he should have been
connected with a blue frock and felt hat under such circumstances as
those now explained to her. Then he went back to the window, and she
turned on her side and attempted to sleep.
To be in all respects a castaway,--a woman to whom other women
would not speak! She knew that such was her position now. She had
done a deed which would separate her for ever from those who were
respectable, and decent, and good. Peter Steinmarc would utterly
despise her. It was very well that something should have occurred
which would make it impossible that he should any longer wish to
marry her; but it would be very bitter to her to be rejected even by
him because she was unfit to be an honest man's wife. And then she
asked herself questions about her young lover, who was so handsome,
so bold, so tender to her; who was in all outward respects just what
a lover should be. Would he wish to marry her after she had thus
consented to fly with him, alone, at night: or would he wish that she
should be his light-of-love, as her aunt had been once cruel enough
to call her? There would be no cruelty, at any rate no injustice, in
so calling her now. And should there be any hesitation on his part,
would she ask him to make her his wife? It was very terrible to her
to think that it might come to pass that she should have on her knees
to implore this man to marry her. He had called her his queen, but
he had never said that she should be his wife. And would any pastor
marry them, coming to him, as they must come, as two runaways? She
knew that certain preliminaries were necessary,--certain bidding of
banns, and processes before the magistrates. Her own banns and those
of her betrothed, Peter Steinmarc, had been asked once in the church
of St. Lawrence, as she had heard with infinite disgust. She did not
see that it was possible that Ludovic should marry her, even if he
were willing to do so. But it was too late to think of all this now;
and she could only moisten the rough sacking with her tears.
"You had better get up now, dearest," said Ludovic, again bending
over her.
"Has the time come?"
"Yes; the time has come, and we must be moving. The rain is over,
which is a comfort. It is as dark as pitch, too. Cling close to me. I
should know my way if I were blindfold."
She did cling close to him, and he conducted her through narrow
streets and passages out to the city gate, which led to the railway
station. Nuremberg has still gates like a fortified town, and there
are, I believe, porters at the gates with huge keys. Nuremberg
delights to perpetuate the memories of things that are gone. But
ingress and egress are free to everybody, by night as well as by day,
as it must be when railway trains arrive and start at three in the
morning; and the burgomaster and warders, and sentinels and porters,
though they still carry the keys, know that the glory of their house
has gone.
Railway tickets for two were given to Linda without a question,--for
to her was intrusted the duty of procuring them,--and they were soon
hurrying away towards Augsburg through the dark night. At any rate
they had been successful in escaping. "After to-morrow we will be as
happy as the day is long," said Ludovic, as he pressed his companion
close to his side. Linda told herself, but did not tell him, that she
never could be happy again.