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Linda Tressel, as she returned home to the house in the Schütt island, became aware that it was necessary for her to tell to her aunt all that had passed between herself and Herr Molk.
He sat himself down again in the arm-chair from which he had risen, and began to consider the question. In the first place, Herr Steinmarc was at this time nearly fifty years old, and Linda Tressel was only twenty. He knew Linda's age well, for he had been an inhabitant of the garret up-stairs when Linda was born.
They are both sitting on a sort of tressel or armed bench, one of the arms and legs and one of the tassels of the cushion appear on the left side of Sir Thomas. At the feet of Sir John lies a cur-dog, and at Sir Thomas's a Bologna shock. Over Sir John's head is written, John More, father, aged 76. Over Sir Thomas's, Thomas More, aged 50.
"Tell him to leave me," said Madame Staubach, waving Peter away with her hand. Then Tetchen took the town-clerk by his arm, and led him somewhat roughly out of the room. So he shall disappear from our sight. No reader will now require to be told that he did not become the husband of Linda Tressel. Madame Staubach did nothing and said nothing further on the matter that night.
Sir Harry Hotspur was written on the same plan as Nina Balatka and Linda Tressel, and had for its object the telling of some pathetic incident in life rather than the portraiture of a number of human beings. Nina and Linda Tressel and The Golden Lion had been placed in foreign countries, and this was an English story.
Linda, though she could utter no articulate word, acknowledged to herself that her aunt had been good to her, and almost forgot the evil things that her aunt had worked for her. Linda Tressel, before she had gone to bed on that night which she had passed at Augsburg, had written a short note which was to be delivered, if such delivery should be possible, to Ludovic Valcarm.
A week passed by, and Linda Tressel heard nothing of Ludovic, and began at last to hope that that terrible episode of the young man's visit to her might be allowed to be as though it had never been. A week passed by, during every day of which Linda had feared and had half expected to hear some question from her aunt which would nearly crush her to the ground.
I am aware, however, that there was nothing in it to touch the heart like the abasement of Lady Mason when confessing her guilt to her old lover, or any approach in delicacy of delineation to the character of Mr. Crawley. Phineas Finn, the first part of the story, was completed in May, 1867. In June and July I wrote Linda Tressel for Blackwood's Magazine, of which I have already spoken.
So you are. Dear, dear! I knew your father well, very well. But, lord, how long that is ago! He is dead ever so many years; how many years?" "Sixteen years," said Linda. "Sixteen years dead! And he was a younger man than I, much younger. Let me see, not so much younger, but younger. Linda Tressel, your father's daughter is welcome to my house. A glass of wine will not hurt you this cold weather."
But she was already making up her mind to this, that if Peter Steinmarc ill-treated her niece, she would bring all Nuremberg about his ears. "Linda Tressel," he said; and as he spoke, the impetuosity of indignation to which he had worked himself had not as yet subsided, and therefore he was full of courage; "Linda Tressel, I find that that vagabond Ludovic Valcarm has again been here."
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