e 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