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

hand. Theirry

paused, frowned, and hesitated.

 

The lady, warned of something, glanced up and sprang to her feet; he

saw now that she held a dead bird in her left hand; her face was

flushed with weeping, her long yellow hair disordered about her brow;

she gazed at him with wet grey eyes, and Theirry felt it imperative to

speak.

 

“You are troubled?” he asked, then flushed, thinking she might term it

insolence.

 

But she answered simply and at once.

 

“About him I am”—she held the little brown bird out on her palm; “he

was on the small poplar tree—and singing—he held his head up so”—

she lifted her long throat—“and I could see his heart beating behind

the feathers—I listened to him, oh! with pleasure”—fresh tears

started to the eyes that she turned on Theirry—“then my miserable cat

that had followed me leapt on him—and slew him. Oh, I chased them,

but when I got him back he was dead.”

 

Theirry was extraordinarily moved by this homely tragedy; it could not

have occurred to him that there was matter for tears in such a common

thing; but as the lady told the story, holding out, as if secure of

his sympathy, the poor little ruffled body, he felt that it was both

pitiful and monstrous. “You may chastise the cat,” he said, for he saw

the elegant soft animal rubbing itself against the stem of the poplar.

 

“I have beaten her,” she confessed.

 

“You can hang her,” said Theirry, thinking to console still more.

 

But the lady flushed up.

 

“She is an agreeable cat,” she answered. “She cannot help her nature.

Oh, it would be an odious cruelty to hang her!—see, she does not

understand!”

 

Theirry, rebuked, was at a loss; he stood looking at the lady, feeling

helpless and useless.

 

She wiped her eyes with a silk handkerchief, and stood in a piteous

meek silence, holding her dead bird in a trembling hand.

 

“If you buried it—” suggested Theirry desperately. “I do think it

would have wished to be buried here—”

 

To his joy she brightened a little.

 

“You think so?” she asked wistfully.

 

“Certes!” he reassured her eagerly. “See, I have a knife—I will make

a pleasant grave.”

 

She stepped to the edge of the stream as near as she could to him, and

because she came unconsciously, with no thought for anything save the

bird in her hand, Theirry thrilled with a great pleasure, as should a

wild deer come fearlessly.

 

“I cannot cross—the water is too wide,” she said. “But will you take

him and make his grave?”

 

She went on one knee among the sorrel leaves and daisies. Theirry had

a swift picture of her as she leant forward, stretching her arm

towards him over the stream that divided them. He had seen fair women

in Courtrai, he saw in her the most admired points of these, glass

grey eyes, small features, an arched red mouth, white skin and yellow

hair; she was no more beautiful than many ladies who had left him

cold, but he found himself anxious to please her, and he had so far

never tried to win a woman’s favour.

 

Her pale red dress rippled about her on the grass; her curls and her

veil were blown back from her face; Theirry knelt and held out his

hand.

 

Over mid-stream their fingers touched; he took the bird, and she drew

back hastily.

 

As he, still on his knees, looked at her, he saw that she was no

longer unconscious; she stood erect as if commanding herself not to

fly, and (as she was very slender) he likened her to the pale crimson

pistil of a lily which has yellow on the head—her hair, he told

himself.

 

“I am vexed to trouble you”—she spoke haltingly. There were so many

things he wished to say in answer to this that he said nothing, but

took his knife from his belt and cut a little square of turf.

 

“You are a clerk from the college?” she asked.

 

“Ay,” he answered, and wished fiercely he could have given himself a

finer name. “There are many learned men there,” she said courteously.

 

He would not have believed it possible to find in himself such care

over a trivial thing as he now took over this little bird’s grave, for

he knew she watched him with judgment in her eyes.

 

The unholy day-dreams that had vexed and enthralled him were

completely forgotten in this new feeling.

 

The lines of a verse he had not noticed when he read it came back to

him, beating in his head.

 

“Pleasant is she of a fair white favour,

 

Sweet her caress as the ripe grape’s flavour.

 

And her lips are like the rose in their savour.

 

Seeing her my pulses quicken.

 

I turn from common things and sicken.

 

For the quiet wood where the May buds thicken.

 

Hearing her my breath is taken,

 

My bold heart bowed and shaken,

 

And I from sloth at last awaken.”

 

He dug into the soft brown earth with the point of his knife, lined

the grave with leaves, and picked up the little bird.

 

For a moment he held it in his hand as she had done.

 

And he dared not look at her.

 

Then he laid it in the ground and replaced the grass and daisies.

 

When he raised his head, his face flushed from stooping, he saw that

she was no longer watching him, but she had turned sideways and was

gazing at the distant woods.

 

He had leisure now to mark the details of her appearance.

 

Though slender she was of a full make and tall; her brows were very

arched and darker than her hair, her mouth dipped at the corners and

was firmly set; she seemed of a grave manner and very modest in her

bearing.

 

Theirry rose from his knees; she turned. “I thank you,” she said;

then, on a quick breath—“do you often come here?”

 

He answered foolishly.

 

“Nay—never before—I did not know the place.”

 

“That is my home yonder,” said the lady.

 

“Yours?” and he pointed to the castle walls.

 

“Yea. I am an orphan, and the Emperor’s ward.”

 

She looked at the point of her shoe showing beneath her pale crimson

robe. “What town do you come from?” she asked.

 

“Courtrai.”

 

“I know no town save Frankfort.”

 

A silence fell between them; the wicked grey cat walked in a stately

manner along the edge of the stream.

 

“I shall lose her,” said the lady. “Good even, gentle clerk. My name

is Jacobea of Martzburg. Perhaps I shall see you again.”

 

He had never felt more desirous of speaking, never less capable; he

murmured–“I do hope it,” and coloured burningly at his awkwardness.

 

She gave him a half look, a flash from grave grey eyes, instantly

veiled, and with an unsmiling mouth bade him again, “Good even.”

 

Then she was gone after the cat.

 

He saw her hasten down the side of the stream, her dress bending the

grasses and leaves; he saw her stoop and snatch up the creature, and,

holding it in her arms, take the path towards those lordly gates. He

hoped she might look back and see that he gazed after her, but she did

not turn her head, and when the last flutter of pale red had

disappeared he moved reluctantly from the place.

 

The sky was gay with sunset; as he walked through the wood, bars of

orange light fell athwart the straight pine trunks and made a glitter

on his path; he thought neither of those things that had occupied him

when he had passed through these trees before, nor of the lady he had

left; in his mind reigned a golden confusion, in which everything was

unformed and exquisite; he had no wish and no ability to reduce this

to definite schemes, hopes or fears, but walked on, enwrapped with

fancies.

 

On the slopes that adjoined the garden of the college Theirry came

upon a little group of students lying on the grass.

 

Just beyond them the others were standing; Dirk noticeable by his rich

dress and elegant bearing, and another youth whom Theirry knew for

Joris of Thuringia.

 

A glance told him there were words between them; even from where he

stood he could see Dirk was white and taut, Tons hot and flushed.

 

He crossed the grass swiftly; he knew that it was their policy to

avoid quarrels in the college. “Sirs, what is this?” he asked.

 

The students looked at him; some seemed amused, some excited; his

heart gave a sick throb as he saw that their glances were both

unfriendly and doubtful.

 

One gave him half-scornful information.

 

“Thy friend was caught with an unholy forbidden book, though he denies

it; he cast it into the river sooner than allow us a sight of it, and

now he is bitter with Joris’ commentary thereon.” Dirk saw Theirry,

and turned his pale face towards him.

 

“This churl insulted me,” he said; “yea, laid hands on me.”

 

A burst of half angry, half good-humoured laughter came from Joris.

 

“I cannot get the little youth to fight—by Christus his Mother! he is

afraid because I could break his neck between my finger and thumb!”

 

Dirk flashed burning eyes over him.

 

“I am not afraid, never could I fear such as thee; but neither my

profession nor my degree permit me to brawl—be silent and begone.”

 

The tone could not fail to rouse the other.

 

“Who art thou,” he shouted—“to speak as if thou wert a noble’s son? I

did but touch thy arm to get the book—”

 

The rest joined in.

 

“Certes, he did no more, and what was the book?”

 

Dirk held himself very proudly.

 

“I will no more be questioned than I will be touched.”

 

“Fine words for a paltry Flemish knave!” jeered one of the students.

 

“Words I can make good,” flashed Dirk, and turned towards the college.

 

Joris was springing after him when Theirry caught his arm.

 

“‘Tis but a peevish youth,” he said.

 

The other shook himself free and stared after the bright figure in

silk.

 

“He called me ‘son of a Thuringian thief!’” he muttered.

 

A laugh rose from the group.

 

“How knew he that?—from the unholy book?”

 

Joris frowned heavily; his wrath flared in another direction.

 

“Ya! Silence! Son of a British swineherd, thou, red face!”

 

The group seethed into fisticuffs; Theirry followed Dirk across the

gardens.