Black Magic, Marjorie Bowen [100 books to read TXT] 📗

all her answer. All sound without had

ceased; the light burnt clear and steadily, casting its faint radiance

over the slim outlines of the young man and the shuddering figure of

the lady.

 

“What of your steward?” whispered Dirk.

 

She responded mechanically as if she spoke by rote. “I have no

steward. I am going alone to Martzburg.”

 

“What of Sebastian?” urged the youth.

 

Jacobea was silent; she came slowly down the chamber, guiding herself

with one hand along the wall, as though she could not see; the wind

stirred the arras under her fingers and ruffled her gown about her

feet.

 

Dirk set the goblet beside the lamp the while he watched her intently

with frowning eyes. “What of Sebastian?” he repeated. “Ye fled from

him, but have ye ceased to think of him?” “No,” said the chatelaine of

Martzburg; “no, day and night—what is God, that He lets a man’s face

to come between me and Him?”

 

“The Emperor is dead,” said Dirk.

 

“Is dead,” she repeated.

 

“Ysabeau knows how.”

 

“Ah!” she whispered. “I think I knew it.”

 

“Shall the Empress be happy and you starve your heart to death?”

 

Jacobea sighed. “Sebastian! Sebastian!” She had the look of one

walking in sleep. “What is Sybilla to you?”

 

“His wife,” answered Jacobea in the same tone; “his wife.”

 

“The dead do not bind the living.” Jacobea laughed.

 

“No, no—how cold it is here; do you not feel the wind across the

floor?” Her fingers wandered aimless over her bosom. “Sybilla is dead,

you say?”

 

“Nay—Sybilla might die—so easily.”

 

Jacobea laughed again.

 

“Ysabeau did it—she is young and fair,” she said. “And she could do

it—why not I? But I cannot bear to look on death.”

 

Her expressionless eyes turned on Dirk still in sightless fashion.

 

“A word,” said Dirk—“that is all your part; send him ahead to

Martzburg.”

 

Jacobea nodded aimlessly.

 

“Why not?—why not?—Sybilla would be in bed, lying awake, listening

to the wind as I have done–so often—and he would come up the steep,

dark stairs. Oh, and she would raise her head—”

 

Dirk put in—

 

“Has the chatelaine spoken?’ she would say, and he would make an end

of it.”

 

“Perhaps she would be glad to die,” said Jacobea dreamily. “I have

thought that I should be glad to die.”

 

“And Sebastian?” said Dirk.

 

Her strangely altered face lit and changed.

 

“Does he care for me?” she asked piteously.

 

“Enough to make life and death of little moment,” answered Dirk. “Has

he not followed you from Frankfort?”

 

“Followed me?” murmured Jacobea. “I thought he had forsaken me.”

 

“He is here.”

 

“Here—here?” She turned, her movements still curiously blind, and the

long strand of her hair shone on her dark gown as she stood with her

back to the light.

 

“Sebastian,” said Dirk softly.

 

He waved his little hand, and the steward appeared in the dark doorway

of the inner room; he looked from one to the other swiftly, and his

face was flushed and dangerous.

 

“Sebastian,” said Jacobea; there was no change in voice nor

countenance; she was erect and facing him, yet it might well be she

did not see him, for there seemed no life in her eyes.

 

He came across the room to her, speaking as he came, but a sudden

fresh gust of wind without scattered his words.

 

“Have you followed me?” she asked.

 

“Yea,” he answered hoarsely, staring at her; he had not dreamed a

living face could look so white as hers, no, nor dead face either. He

dropped to one knee before her, and took her limp hand.

 

“Shall we be free tonight?” she asked gently.

 

“You have but to speak,” he said. “So much will I do for you.”

 

She bent forward, and with her other hand touched his tumbled hair.

 

“Lord of Martzburg and my lord,” she said, and smiled sweetly. “Do you

know how much I love you, Sebastian? why, you must ask the image of

the Virgin—I have told her so often, and no one else; nay, no one

else.”

 

Sebastian sprang to his feet.

 

“Oh God!” he cried. “I am ashamed—ye have bewitched her—she knows

not what she says.” Dirk turned on him fiercely.

 

“Did ye not curse me when ye thought she had escaped? did I not swear

to recover her for you? is she not yours? Saint Gabriel cannot save

her now.”

 

“If she had not said that,” muttered Sebastian; he turned distracted

eyes upon her standing with no change in her expression, the tips of

her fingers resting on the table; her wide grey eyes gazing before

her.

 

“Fool,” answered Dirk; “an’ she did not love you, what chance had you?

I left my fortunes to help you to this prize, and I will not see you

palter now—lady, speak to him.”

 

“Ay, speak to me,” cried Sebastian earnestly; “tell me if it be your

wish that I, at all costs, should become your husband, tell me if it

is your will that the woman in our way should go.” A slow passion

stirred the calm of her face; her eyes glittered.

 

“Yes,” she said; “yes.”

 

“Jacobea!”—he took her arm and drew her close to him—“look me in the

face and repeat that to me; think if it is worth—Hell—to you and

me.”

 

She gazed up at him, then hid her face on his sleeve.

 

“Ay, Hell,” she answered heavily; “go to Martzburg tonight; she

cannot claim you when she is dead; how I have striven not to hate

her—my lord, my husband.” She clung to him like a sleepy child that

feels itself falling into oblivion. “Now it is all over, is it not?—

the unrest, the striving. Sebastian beware of the storm—it blows so

loud.”

 

He put her from him into the worn old chair. “I will come back to

you—to-morrow.” “To-morrow,” she repeated—“when the sun is up.”

 

The wind rushed between them and made the lamp-flame leap wildly.

 

“Make haste!” cried Dirk; “away—the horse is below.”

 

But Sebastian still gazed at Jacobea.

 

“It is done,” said Dirk impatiently, “begone.”

 

The steward turned away.

 

“They are all asleep below?” he questioned.

 

“Nor will they wake.”

 

Sebastian opened the door on to the dark stairway and went softly out.

 

“Now, it is done,” repeated Dirk in a swelling whisper, “and she is

lost.”

 

He snatched up the lamp, and, holding it aloft, looked down at the

drooping figure in the chair; Jacobea’s head sank back against the

tarnished velvet; there was a smile on her white lips, and her hands

rested in her lap; even with Dirk’s intent face bending over her and

the full light pouring down on her, she did not look up.

 

“Gold hair and grey eyes—and her little feet,” murmured Dirk; “one of

God’s own flowers–what are you now?”

 

He laughed to himself and reset the lamp on the table; the lull in the

storm was over, wind and rain strove together in the bare trees, and

the howlings of the tempest shook the long bare room. Jacobea moved in

her seat.

 

“Is he gone?” she asked fearfully.

 

“Certes, he has gone,” smiled Dirk. “Would you have him daily on such

an errand?” Jacobea rose swiftly and stood a moment listening to the

unhappy wind.

 

“I thought he was here,” she said under her breath. “I thought that he

had come at last.” “He came,” said Dirk.

 

The chatelaine looked swiftly round at him; there was a dawning

knowledge in her eyes. “Who are you?” she demanded, and her voice had

lost its calm; “what has happened?” “Do you not remember me?” smiled

Dirk.

 

Jacobea staggered back.

 

“Why,” she stammered, “he was here, down at my feet, and we spoke—

about Sybilla.” “And now,” said Dirk, “he has gone to free you of

Sybilla—as you bid him.”

 

The Pursuit of Jacobea

 

“As I bid him?”

 

Dirk clasped his cloak across his breast.

 

“At this moment he rides to Martzburg on this service of yours, and I

must begone to Frankfort where my fortunes wait. For you, these words:

should you meet again one Theirry, a pretty scholar, do not prate to

him of God and Judgment, nor try to act the saint. Let him alone, he

is no matter of yours, and maybe some woman cares for him as ye care

for Sebastian, ay, and will hold him, though she have not yellow

hair.”

 

Jacobea uttered a moan of anguish.

 

“I bid him go,” she whispered. “Did God utterly forsake me and I bid

him go?”

 

She gave Dirk a wild look over her shoulders, huddling them to her

ears, as she crouched upon the floor.

 

“You are the Devil!” she shrieked. “I have delivered myself unto the

Devil!”

 

She beat her hands together, and fell towards his feet.

 

Dirk stepped close and peered curiously into her unconscious face.

 

“Why, she is not so fair,” he murmured, “and grief will spoil her

bloom, and ‘twas only her face he loved.”

 

He extinguished the lamp and smiled into the darkness.

 

“I do think God is very weak.”

 

He drew the curtain away from the deep-set window, and the moon,

riding the storm clouds like a silver armoured Amazon, cast a ghastly

light over the huddled figure of Jacobea of Martzburg, and threw her

shadow dark and trailing across the cold floor. Dirk left the chamber

and the hostel unseen and unheard. The wind made too great a clamour

for stray sounds to tell. Out in the wild, wet night he paused a

moment to get his bearings; then turned towards the shed where he and

Sebastian had left their horses.

 

The trees and the signboard creaked and swung together; the long

lances of the rain struck his face and the wind dashed his hair into

his eyes, but he sang to himself under his breath with a joyous note.

 

The angry triumphant moon, casting her beams down the clouds, served

to light the hittle wooden shed—the inn-stable—built against the

rocks.

 

There were the chatelaine’s horses asleep in their stalls, here was

his own; but the place beside it where Sebastian’s steed had waited

was empty.

 

Dirk, shivering a little in the tempest, unfastened his horse, and was

preparing to depart, when a near sound arrested him.

 

Some one was moving in the straw at the back of the shed.

 

Dirk listened, his hand on the bridle, till a moonbeam striking across

his shoulder revealed a cloaked figure rising from the ground.

 

“Ah,” said Dirk softly, “who is this?”

 

The stranger got to his feet.

 

“I have but taken shelter here, sir,” he said, “deeming it too late to

rouse the hostel—” “Theirry!” cried Dirk, and laughed excitedly.

“Now, this is strange—”

 

The figure came forward.

 

“Theirry—yes; have you followed me?” he exclaimed wildly, and his

face showed drawn and wan in the silver light. “I left Frankfort to

escape you; what fiend’s trick has brought you here?” Dirk softly

stroked his horse’s neck.

 

“Are you afraid of me, Theirry?” he asked mournfully. “Certes, there

is no need.” But Theirry cried out at him with the fierceness of one

at bay—

 

“Begone, I want none of you nor of your kind; I know how the Emperor

died, and I fled from a city where such as you come to power, ay, even

as Jacobea of Martzburg did—I am come after her.”

 

“And where think you to find her?” asked Dirk.