They were whirled away through the dark cold night with the noise
of the rattling train ever in their ears. Though there had been a
railway running close by Nuremberg now for many years, Linda was not
herself so well accustomed to travelling as will probably be most of
those who will read this tale of her sufferings. Now and again in
the day-time, and generally in fair weather, she had gone as far as
Fuerth, and on one occasion even as far as Wuerzburg with her aunt when
there had been a great gathering of German Anabaptists at that town;
but she had never before travelled at night, and she had certainly
never before travelled in such circumstances as those which now
enveloped her. When she entered the carriage, she was glad to
see that there were other persons present. There was a woman,
though the woman was so closely muffled and so fast asleep that
Linda, throughout the whole morning, did not know whether her
fellow-traveller was young or old. Nevertheless, the presence of the
woman was in some sort a comfort to her, and there were two men in
the carriage, and a little boy. She hardly understood why, but she
felt that it was better for her to have fellow-travellers. Neither
of them, however, spoke above a word or two either to her or to her
lover. At first she sat at a little distance from Ludovic,--or rather
induced him to allow that there should be some space between them;
but gradually she suffered him to come closer to her, and she dozed
with her head upon his shoulder. Very little was said between them.
He whispered to her from time to time sundry little words of love,
calling her his queen, his own one, his life, and the joy of his
eyes. But he told her little or nothing of his future plans, as she
would have wished that he should do. She asked him, however, no
questions;--none at least till their journey was nearly over. The
more that his conduct warranted her want of trust, the more unwilling
did she become to express any diffidence or suspicion.
After a while she became very cold;--so cold that that now became for
the moment her greatest cause of suffering. It was mid-winter, and
though the cloak she had brought was the warmest garment that she
possessed, it was very insufficient for such work as the present
night had brought upon her. Besides her cloak, she had nothing
wherewith to wrap herself. Her feet became like ice, and then the
chill crept up her body; and though she clung very close to her
lover, she could not keep herself from shivering as though in an ague
fit. She had no hesitation now in striving to obtain some warmth by
his close proximity. It seemed to her as though the cold would kill
her before she could reach Augsburg. The train would not be due there
till nine in the morning, and it was still dark night as she thought
that it would be impossible for her to sustain such an agony of
pain much longer. It was still dark night, and the violent rain
was pattering against the glass, and the damp came in through the
crevices, and the wind blew bitterly upon her; and then as she
turned a little to ask her lover to find some comfort for her, some
mitigation of her pain, she perceived that he was asleep. Then the
tears began to run down her cheeks, and she told herself that it
would be well if she could die.
After all, what did she know of this man who was now sleeping by her
side,--this man to whom she had intrusted everything, more than her
happiness, her very soul? How many words had she ever spoken to him?
What assurance had she even of his heart? Why was he asleep, while
her sufferings were so very cruel to her? She had encountered the
evils of this elopement to escape what had appeared to her the
greater evils of a detested marriage. Steinmarc was very much to be
hated. But might it not be that even that would have been better than
this? Poor girl! the illusion even of her love was being frozen cold
within her during the agony of that morning. All the while the train
went thundering on through the night, now rushing into a tunnel, now
crossing a river, and at every change in the sounds of the carriages
she almost hoped that something might be amiss. Oh, the cold! She had
gathered her feet up and was trying to sit on them. For a moment or
two she had hoped that her movement would waken Ludovic, so that she
might have had the comfort of a word; but he had only tumbled with
his head hither and thither, and had finally settled himself in a
position in which he leaned heavily upon her. She thought that he
was heartless to sleep while she was suffering; but she forgot that
he had watched at the window while she had slumbered upon the sacks
in the warehouse. At length, however, she could bear his weight no
longer, and she was forced to rouse him. "You are so heavy," she
said; "I cannot bear it;" when at last she succeeded in inducing him
to sit upright.
"Dear me! oh, ah, yes. How cold it is! I think I have been asleep."
"The cold is killing me," she said.
"My poor darling! What shall I do? Let me see. Where do you feel it
most."
"All over. Do you not feel how I shiver? Oh, Ludovic, could we get
out at the next station?"
"Impossible, Linda. What should we do there?"
"And what shall we do at Augsburg? Oh dear, I wish I had not come.
I am so cold. It is killing me." Then she burst out into floods of
sobbing, so that the old man opposite to her was aroused. The old man
had brandy in his basket and made her drink a little. Then after a
while she was quieted, and was taken by station after station without
demanding of Ludovic that he should bring this weary journey to an
end.
Gradually the day dawned, and the two could look at each other in the
grey light of the morning. But Linda thought of her own appearance
rather than that of her lover. She had been taught that it was
required of a woman that she should be neat, and she felt now that
she was dirty, foul inside and out,--a thing to be scorned. As their
companions also bestirred themselves in the daylight, she was afraid
to meet their eyes, and strove to conceal her face. The sacks in
the warehouse had, in lieu of a better bed, been acceptable; but
she was aware now, as she could see the skirts of her own dress and
her shoes, and as she glanced her eyes gradually round upon her
shoulders, that the stains of the place were upon her, and she knew
herself to be unclean. That sense of killing cold had passed off from
her, having grown to a numbness which did not amount to present pain,
though it would hardly leave her without some return of the agony;
but the misery of her disreputable appearance was almost as bad to
her as the cold had been. It was not only that she was untidy and
dishevelled, but it was that her condition should have been such
without the company of any elder female friend whose presence would
have said, "This young woman is respectable, even though her dress be
soiled with dust and meal." As it was, the friend by her side was one
who by his very appearance would condemn her. No one would suppose
her to be his wife. And then the worst of it was that he also would
judge her as others judged her. He also would say to himself that no
one would suppose such a woman to be his wife. And if once he should
learn so to think of her, how could she expect that he would ever
persuade himself to become her husband? How she wished that she had
remained beneath her aunt's roof! It now occurred to her, as though
for the first time, that no one could have forced her to go to church
on that thirtieth of January and become Peter Steinmarc's wife. Why
had she not remained at home and simply told her aunt that the thing
was impossible?
At last they were within an hour of Augsburg, and even yet she knew
nothing as to his future plans. It was very odd that he should not
have told her what they were to do at Augsburg. He said that she
should be his queen, that she should be as happy as the day was long,
that everything would be right as soon as they reached Augsburg; but
now they were all but at Augsburg, and she did not as yet know what
first step they were to take when they reached the town. She had much
wished that he would speak without being questioned, but at last she
thought that she was bound to question him. "Ludovic, where are we
going to at Augsburg?"
"To the Black Bear first. That will be best at first."
"Is it an inn?"
"Yes, dear; not a great big house like the Rothe Ross at Nuremberg,
but very quiet and retired, in a back street."
"Do they expect us?"
"Well, no; not exactly. But that won't matter."
"And how long shall we stay there?"
"Ah! that must depend on tidings from Berlin and Munich. It may be
that we shall be compelled to get away from Bavaria altogether." Then
he paused for a moment, while she was thinking what other question
she could ask. "By the by," he said, "my father is in Augsburg."
She had heard of his father as a man altogether worthless, one ever
in difficulties, who would never work, who had never seemed to wish
to be respectable. When the great sins of Ludovic's father had been
magnified to her by Madame Staubach and by Peter, with certain wise
hints that swans never came out of the eggs of geese, Linda would
declare with some pride of spirit that the son was not like the
father; that the son had never been known to be idle. She had not
attempted to defend the father, of whom it seemed to be acknowledged
by the common consent of all Nuremberg that he was utterly worthless,
and a disgrace to the city which had produced him. But Linda now felt
very thankful for the assurance of even his presence. Had it been
Ludovic's mother, how much better would it have been! But that she
should be received even by his father,--by such a father,--was much
to her in her desolate condition.
"Will he be at the station?" Linda asked.
"Oh, no."
"Does he expect us?"
"Well, no. You see, Linda, I only got out of prison yesterday
morning."
"Does your father live in Augsburg?"
"He hardly lives anywhere. He goes and comes at present as he is
wanted by the cause. It is quite on the cards that we should find
that the police have nabbed him. But I hope not. I think not. When I
have seen you made comfortable, and when we have had something to eat
and drink, I shall know where to seek him. While I am doing so, you
had better lie down."
She was afraid to ask him whether his father knew, or would suspect,
aught as to his bringing a companion, or whether the old man would
welcome such a companion for his son. Indeed, she hardly knew how
to frame any question that had application to herself. She merely
assented to his proposition that she should go to bed at the Black
Bear, and then waited for the end of their journey. Early in the
morning their fellow-passengers had left them, and they were now
alone. But Ludovic distressed her no more by the vehemence of his
caresses. He also was tired and fagged and cold and jaded. It is not
improbable that he had been meditating whether he, in his present
walk of life, had done well to encumber himself with the burden of a
young woman.
At last they were at the platform at Augsburg. "Don't move quite
yet," he said. "One has to be a little careful." When she attempted
to raise herself she found herself to be so numb that all quickness
of motion was out of the question. Ludovic, paying no attention to
her, sat back in the carriage, with his cap before his face, looking
with eager eyes over the cap on to the platform.
"May we not go now?" said Linda, when she saw that the other
passengers had alighted.
"Don't be in a hurry, my girl. By God, there are those ruffians, the
gendarmerie. It's all up. By Jove! yes, it's all up. That is hard,
after all I did at Nuremberg."
"Ludovic!"
"Look here, Linda. Get out at once and take these letters. Make your
way to the Black Bear, and wait for me."
"And you?"
"Never mind me, but do as you're told. In a moment it will be too
late. If we are noticed to be together it will be too late."
"But how am I to get to the Black Bear?"
"Heaven and earth! haven't you a tongue? But here they are, and it's
all up." And so it was. A railway porter opened the door, and behind
the railway porter were two policemen. Linda, in her dismay, had not
even taken the papers which had been offered to her, and Valcarm, as
soon as he was sure that the police were upon him, had stuffed them
down the receptacle made in the door for the fall of the window.
But the fate of Valcarm and of his papers is at the present moment
not of so much moment to us as is that of Linda Tressel. Valcarm was
carried off, with or without the papers, and she, after some hurried
words, which were unintelligible to her in her dismay, found herself
upon the platform amidst the porters. A message had come from
Nuremberg by the wires to Augsburg, requiring the arrest of Ludovic
Valcarm, but the wires had said nothing of any companion that might
be with him. Therefore Linda was left standing amidst the porters on
the platform. She asked one of the men about the Black Bear. He shook
his head, and told her that it was a house of a very bad sort,--of a
very bad sort indeed.