he was not a castaway because her aunt had so
called her. But gradually there came upon her a feeling, springing
from her imagination rather than from her judgment, that she was a
thing set apart as vile and bad. There grew upon her a conviction
that she was one of the non-elect, or rather, one of those who are
elected to an eternity of misery. Her religious observances, as
they came to her now, were odious to her; and that she supposed to
be a certain sign that the devil had fought for her soul and had
conquered. It could not be that she should be so terribly wretched if
she were not also very wicked. She would tremble now at every sound;
and though she still curled her lips, and poured scorn upon Peter
from her eyes, as she moved away at his approach, she was almost so
far beaten as to be desirous to succumb. She must either succumb
to her aunt and to him, or else she must fly. How was she to live
without a word of sympathy from any human being?

She had been careful to say little or nothing to Tetchen, having some
indistinct idea that Tetchen was a double traitor. That Tetchen had
on one occasion been in league with Ludovic, she was sure; but she
thought that since that the woman had been in league with Peter also.
The league with Ludovic had been very wicked, but that might be
forgiven. A league with Peter was a sin to be forgiven never; and
therefore Linda had resolutely declined of late to hold any converse
with Tetchen other than that which the affairs of the house demanded.
When Tetchen, who in this matter was most unjustly treated, would
make little attempts to regain the confidence of her young mistress,
her efforts were met with a repellant silence. And thus there was no
one in the house to whom Linda could speak. This at last became so
dreadful to her, the desolation of her position was so complete,
that she had learned to regret her sternness to Tetchen. As far as
she could now see, there was no alliance between Tetchen and Peter;
and it might be the case, she thought, that her suspicions had been
unjust to the old woman.

One evening, about the beginning of November, when it had already
become dark at that hour in which Peter would present himself in
Madame Staubach's parlour, he had entered the room, as was usual with
him; and, as usual, Linda had at once left it. Peter, as he passed
her, had looked at her with more than his usual anger, with an
aggravated bitterness of condemnation in his eyes. She had