All January had passed by. That thirtieth of January had come and
gone which was to have made Linda Tressel a bride, and Linda was
still Linda Tressel. But her troubles were not therefore over, and
Peter Steinmarc was once again her suitor. It may be remembered
how he had reviled her in her aunt's presence, how he had reminded
her of her indiscretion, and how he had then rejected her; but,
nevertheless, in the first week of February he was again her suitor.
Madame Staubach had passed a very troubled and uneasy month.
Though she was minded to take her niece's part when Linda was so
ungenerously attacked by the man whom she had warmed in the bosom of
her family, still she was most unwilling that Linda should triumph.
Her feminine instincts prompted her to take Linda's part on the spur
of the moment, as similar instincts had prompted Tetchen to do the
same thing; but hardly the less on that account did she feel that
it was still her duty to persevere with that process of crushing by
which all human vanity was to be pressed out of Linda's heart. Peter
Steinmarc had misbehaved himself grossly, had appeared at that last
interview in a guise which could not have made him fascinating to any
young woman; but on that account the merit of submitting to him would
be so much the greater. There could hardly be any moral sackcloth and
ashes too coarse and too bitter for the correction of a sinful mind
in this world, but for the special correction of a mind sinful as
Linda's had been, marriage with such a man as Peter Steinmarc would
be sackcloth and ashes of the most salutary kind. The objection which
Linda would feel for the man would be the exact antidote to the
poison with which she had been infected by the influence of the Evil
One. Madame Staubach acknowledged, when she was asked the question,
that a woman should love her husband; but she would always go on to
describe this required love as a feeling which should spring from a
dutiful submission. She was of opinion that a virtuous child would
love his parent, that a virtuous servant would love her mistress,
that a virtuous woman would love her husband, even in spite of
austere severity on the part of him or her who might be in authority.
When, therefore, Linda would refer to what had taken place in the
parlour, and would ask whether it were possible that she should love
a man who had ill-used her so grossly, Madame Staubach would reply
as though love and forgiveness were one and the same thing. It was
Linda's duty to pardon the ill-usage and to kiss the rod that had
smitten her. "I hate him so deeply that my blood curdles at the sight
of him," Linda had replied. Then Madame Staubach had prayed that her
niece's heart might be softened, and had called upon Linda to join
her in these prayers. Poor Linda had felt herself compelled to go
down upon her knees and submit herself to such prayer as well as she
was able. Could she have enfranchised her mind altogether from the
trammels of belief in her aunt's peculiar religion, she might have
escaped from the waters which seemed from day to day to be closing
over her head; but this was not within her power. She asked herself
no questions as to the truth of these convictions. The doctrine had
been taught to her from her youth upwards, and she had not realised
the fact that she possessed any power of rejecting it. She would
tell herself, and that frequently, that to her religion held out no
comfort, that she was not of the elect, that manifestly she was a
castaway, and that therefore there could be no reason why she should
endure unnecessary torments in this life. With such impressions on
her mind she had suffered herself to be taken from her aunt's house,
and carried off by her lover to Augsburg. With such impressions
strong upon her, she would not hesitate to declare her hatred for
the man, whom, in truth, she hated with all her heart, but whom,
nevertheless, she thought it was wicked to hate. She daily told
herself that she was one given up by herself to Satan. But yet, when
summoned to her aunt's prayers, when asked to kneel and implore her
Lord and Saviour to soften her own heart,--so to soften it that she
might become a submissive wife to Peter Steinmarc,--she would comply,
because she still believed that such were the sacrifices which a true
religion demanded. But there was no comfort to her in her religion.
Alas! alas! let her turn herself which way she might, there was no
comfort to be found on any side.
At the end of the first week in February no renewed promise of assent
had been extracted from Linda; but Peter, who was made of stuff less
stern, had been gradually brought round to see that he had been
wrong. Madame Staubach had, in the first instance, obtained the
co-operation of Herr Molk and others of the leading city magistrates.
The question of Linda's marriage had become quite a city matter. She
had been indiscreet; that was acknowledged. As to the amount of her
indiscretion, different people had different opinions. In the opinion
of Herr Molk, that was a thing that did not signify. Linda Tressel
was the daughter of a city officer who had been much respected. Her
father's successor in that office was just the man who ought to be
her husband. Of course he was a little old and rusty; but then Linda
had been indiscreet. Linda had not only been indiscreet, but her
indiscretion had been, so to say, very public. She had run away from
the city in the middle of the night with a young man,--with a young
man known to be a scamp and a rebel. It must be acknowledged that
indiscretion could hardly go beyond this. But then was there not
the red house to make things even, and was it not acknowledged on
all sides that Peter Steinmarc was very rusty?--The magistrates
had made up their minds that the bargain was a just one, and as it
had been made, they thought that it should be carried out. When
Peter complained of further indiscretion on the part of Linda, and
pointed out that he was manifestly absolved from his contract by
her continued misconduct, Herr Molk went to work with most demure
diligence, collected all the evidence, examined all the parties,
and explained to Peter that Linda had not misbehaved herself since
the contract had last been ratified. "Peter, my friend," said the
burgomaster, "you have no right to go back to anything,--to anything
that happened before the twenty-third." The twenty-third was the day
on which Peter had expressed his pardon for the great indiscretion
of the elopement. "Since that time there has been no breach of trust
on her part. I have examined all the parties, Peter." It was in vain
that Steinmarc tried to show that he was entitled to be absolved
because Linda had said that she hated him. Herr Molk did not lose
above an hour or two in explaining to him that little amenities of
that kind were to be held as compensated in full by the possession
of the red house. And then, had it not been acknowledged that he was
very rusty,--a man naturally to be hated by a young woman who had
shown that she had a preference for a young lover? "Oh, bah!" said
Herr Molk, almost angry at this folly; "do not let me hear anything
more about that, Peter." Steinmarc had been convinced, had assented,
and was now ready to accept the hand of his bride.
Nothing more had been heard of Ludovic since the day on which he
had come to the house and had disappeared. Herr Molk, when he was
interrogated on the subject, would shake his head, but in truth Herr
Molk knew nothing. It was the fact that Valcarm, after being confined
in prison at Augsburg for three days, had been discharged by the
city magistrates; and it was the case, also, though the fact was not
generally known, that the city magistrates of Augsburg had declared
the city magistrates of Nuremberg to be--geese. Ludovic Valcarm
was not now in prison, but he had left Nuremberg, and no one knew
whither he was gone. The brewers, Sach, by whom he had been employed,
professed that they knew nothing respecting him; but then, as Herr
Molk declared, the two brothers Sach were men who ought themselves to
be in prison. They, too, were rebels, according to Herr Molk.
But in truth, as regarded Linda, no trouble need have been taken in
inquiring after Ludovic. She made no inquiry respecting him. She
would not even listen to Tetchen when Tetchen would suggest this or
that mode of ascertaining where he might be. She had allowed herself
to be reconciled to Tetchen, because Tetchen had taken her part
against Peter Steinmarc; but she would submit to no intrigue at the
old woman's instance. "I do not want to see him ever again, Tetchen."
"But, fraulein, you loved him."
"Yes, and I do. But of what use is such love? I could do him no good.
If he were there, opposite,--where he used to be,--I would not cross
the river to him."
"I hope, my dear, that it mayn't be so with you always, that's all,"
Tetchen had said. But Linda had no vestige of such hope at her heart.
The journey to Augsburg had been to her the cause of too much agony,
had filled her with too real a sense of maidenly shame, to enable her
to look forward with hope to any adventure in which Ludovic should
have to take a part. To escape from Peter Steinmarc, whether by
death, or illness, or flight, or sullen refusal,--but to escape from
him let the cost to herself be what it might,--that was all that she
now desired. But she thought that escape was not possible to her. She
was coming at last to believe that she would have to stand up in the
church and give her hand. If it were so, all Nuremberg should ring
with the tragedy of their nuptials.
Since Peter had returned, and expressed to Madame Staubach his
willingness to go on with the marriage, he had, after a fashion, been
again taken into that lady's favour. He had behaved very badly, but a
fault repented was a fault to be forgiven. "I am sorry that there was
a rumpus, Madame Staubach," he had said, "but you see that there is
so much to put a man's back up when a girl runs away with a man in
the middle of the night, you know."
"Peter," the widow had replied, interrupting him, "that need not be
discussed again. The wickedness of the human heart is so deep that
it cannot be fathomed; but we have the word of the Lord to show to
us that no sinner is too vile to be forgiven. What you said in your
anger was cruel and unmanly, but it has been pardoned." Then Peter
sat down and lighted his pipe. He did not like the tone of his
friend's remarks, but he knew well that there was nothing to be
gained by discussing such matters with Madame Staubach. It was better
for him to take his old seat quietly, and at once to light his pipe.
Linda, on that occasion, and on many others subsequently, came and
sat in the room, and there would be almost absolute silence. There
might be a question asked about the household, and Linda would answer
it; or Peter might remark that such a one among the small city
dealers had been fined before the magistrates for some petty breach
of the city's laws. But of conversation there was none, and Peter
never on these evenings addressed himself specially to Linda. It was
quite understood that she was to undergo persuasion, not from Peter,
but from her aunt.
About the middle of February her aunt made her last attack on poor
Linda. For days before something had been said daily; some word had
been spoken in which Madame Staubach alluded to the match as an
affair which would certainly be brought about sooner or later. And
there were prayers daily for the softening of Linda's heart. And it
was understood that every one in the house was supposed to be living
under some special cloud of God's anger till Linda's consent should
have been given. Madame Staubach had declared during the ecstasy of
her devotion, that not only she herself, but even Tetchen also, would
become the prey of Satan if Linda did not relent. Linda had almost
acknowledged to herself that she was in the act of bringing eternal
destruction on all those around her by her obstinacy. Oh, if she
could only herself be dead, let the eternal consequences as they
regarded herself alone be what they might!
"Linda," said her aunt, "is it not time at length that you should
give us an answer?"
"An answer, aunt Charlotte?" As if she had not given a sufficiency of
answers.
"Do you not see how others suffer because of your obstinacy?"
"It is not my doing."
"It is your doing. Do not allow any such thought as that to get into
your mind, and assist the Devil in closing the door of your heart.
They who are your friends are bound to you, and cannot separate
themselves from you."
"Who are my friends?"
"I am sorry you should ask that question, Linda."
"I have no friends."
"Linda, that is ungrateful to God, and thankless. I say nothing of
myself."
"You are my friend, but no one else."
"Herr Molk is your friend, and has shown himself to be so. Jacob
Heisse is your friend." He, too, using such wisdom as he possessed,
had recommended Linda to take the husband provided for her. "Peter
Steinmarc is your friend."
"No, he is not," said Linda.
"That is very wicked,--heinously wicked." Whereupon Madame Staubach
went towards the door for the purpose of bolting it, and Linda
knew that this was preparatory to a prayer. Linda felt that it was
impossible that she should fall on her knees and attempt to pray at
this moment. What was the use of it? Sooner or later she must yield.
She had no weapon with which to carry on the battle, whereas her aunt
was always armed.
"Aunt Charlotte," she said, suddenly, "I will do what you want,--only
not now; not quite yet. Let there be time for me to make myself ready
for it."
The dreaded visitation of that special prayer was at any rate
arrested, and Madame Staubach graciously accepted Linda's assent as
sufficient quittance at any rate for the evil words that had been
spoken on that occasion. She was too wise to demand a more gracious
acquiescence, and did not say a word then even in opposition to the
earnest request which had been made for delay. She kissed her niece,
and rejoiced as the woman rejoiced who had swept diligently and had
found her lost piece. If Linda would at last take the right path, all
former deviations from it should be as nothing. And Madame Staubach
half-trusted, almost thought, that it could not be but that her
own prayers should prevail at last. Linda indeed had twice before
assented, and had twice retracted her word. But there had been
causes. The young man had come and had prevailed, who surely would
not come again, and who surely, if coming, would not prevail. And
then Peter himself had misbehaved. It must now be Madame Staubach's
care that there should arise no further stumbling-block. There were
but two modes of taking this care at her disposal. She could watch
Linda all the day, and she could reiterate her prayers with renewed
diligence. On neither point would she be found lacking.
"And when shall be the happy day?" said Peter. On the occasion of
his visit to the parlour subsequent to the scene which has just been
described, Madame Staubach left the room for a while so that the two
lovers might be together. Peter had been warned that it would be so,
and had prepared, no doubt, his little speech.
"There will be no happy day," said Linda.
"Don't say that, my dear."
"I do say it. There will be no happy day for you or for me."
"But we must fix a day, you know," said Peter.
"I will arrange it with my aunt." Then Linda got up and left the
room. Peter Steinmarc attempted no further conversation with her, nor
did Madame Staubach again endeavour to create any intercourse between
them. It must come after marriage. It was clearly to her God's will
that these two people should be married, and she could not but be
right to leave the result to His wisdom. A day was named. With a
simple nod of her head Linda agreed that she would become Peter's
wife on the fifteenth of March; and she received visits from Herr
Molk and from Jacob Heisse to congratulate her on her coming
happiness.