Black Magic - Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations website .TXT) 📗

guess the

real nature of your studies, nor what it is you pursue.” And he also

smiled, but grimly.

 

“Every man in Frankfort is not priest-beridden,” said Dirk quickly.

“They would not meddle with me just because I do not preach the laws

of the Church. I teach my scholars rhetoric, logic and

philosophy…they are well pleased.”

 

“I have heard it,” answered Theirry, looking out of the window at the

red roses dazzling in the sunshine; Dirk could not guess how it

rankled with his friend that he obtained no pupils, that no one cared

to listen to his teaching; that while Dirk was becoming famous as the

professor of rhetoric at Frankfort college, he remained utterly

unknown.

 

“To-day I disclosed to them Procopius,” said Dirk, “and propounded a

hundred proposition out of Priscianus—should improve their Latin—

there were some nobles from the Court. One submitted that my teaching

was heretical—asked if I was a Gnostic or an Arian—aaid I should be

condemned by the Council of Saragossa—as Avila was, and for as good

reasons…”

 

“Meanwhile…”

 

Dirk interrupted.

 

“Meanwhile—we know almost all the wise woman can teach us, and are on

the eve of great power…”

 

Theirry pushed wider the shutters so that the strong sunlight fell

over the knee of his dark gown.

 

“You perhaps,” he said heavily. “Not I—the spirits will not listen to

me…only with great difficulty can I compel them…well I wot that I

am bound to evil, but I wot also that it doth little for me.”

 

At this complaint a look of apprehension came into Dirk’s eyes.

 

“My fortune is your fortune,” he said.

 

“Nay,” answered Theirry, half fiercely, “it is not…you have been

successful…so have not I…old Nathalie loves you—she cares nothing

for me—you have already a name in Frankfort—I have none, nor money

either…Saint Ambrose’s gold is gone, and I live on your charity.”

 

While he was speaking Dirk gazed at him with a strengthening

expression of trouble and dismay; with large distracted eyes full of

tenderness, while his cheeks paled and his mouth quivered.

 

“No—no.” He spoke in protest, but his distress was too deep and too

genuine to allow of much speech.

 

“I am going away from here,” said Theirry firmly.

 

Dirk gasped as if he had been wounded.

 

“From Frankfort?” he ejaculated.

 

“Nay…from this place.”

 

There was a little silence while the last traces of light and colour

seemed to be drained from Dirk’s face.

 

“You do not mean that,” he said at length. “After we have been…Oh,

after all of it—you cannot mean…”

 

Theirry turned and faced the room.

 

“You need not fear that I shall break the bond that unites us,” he

cried. “I have gone too far yea, and still I hope to attain by the

Devil’s aid my desires. But I will not stay here.” “Where will you

go?”

 

Theirry’s hazel eyes again sought the crimson roses in the witch’s

garden.

 

“To-day as I wandered outside the walls I met a hawking party. Jacobea

of Martzburg was among them.”

 

“They had been in Frankfort many weeks, and so had she, yet this was

the first time that he had mentioned her name.”

 

“Oh!” cried Dirk.

 

“She knew me,” continued Theirry; “and spoke to me. She asked, out of

her graciousness, if I had aught to do in Frankfort…thinking, I wot,

I looked not like it.” He blushed and smiled. “Then she offered me a

post at Court. Her cousin is Chamberlain to the Queen—nay, Empress, I

should say—and he will take me as his secretary. I shall accept.”

 

Dirk was miserably, hopelessly silent; all the radiance, the triumph

that had adorned him when Theirry eutered were utterly quenched; he

stood like one under the lash, with agonised eyes. “Are you not glad?”

asked Theirry, with a swell in his voice. “I shall be near her…”

“Is that a vast consideration?” said Dirk faintly. “That you should be

near her?”

 

“Did you think that I had forgotten her because I spoke not?” answered

Theirry. “Also there are chances that by your arts I may strengthen—”

 

Through the heavy golden shadows of the room Dirk moved slowly towards

the window where Theirry stood.

 

“I shall lose you,” he said.

 

Theirry was half startled by the note in his voice.

 

“Nay…shall I not come here…often? Are you not my comrade?”

 

“So you speak,” answered Dirk, his brow drawn, his lips pale even for

one of his pallor. “But you leave me…You choose another path from

mine.” He wrung his frail hands together. “I had not thought of this.”

 

“It need not grieve you that I go,” answered Theirry, half sullen,

half wondering. “I wot I am pledged deeply enough to thy Master.” His

eyes flashed wildly. “Is there not sin on my soul?–Have I not

awakened in the night to see Saint Ambrose smile at me? Am I not

outside the Church and in league with Hell?”

 

“Hush! hush!” warned Dirk.

 

Theirry flung himself into the window-seat, his elbows on his knees,

his palms pressed into his cheeks; the sunlight fell through the open

window behind him and shone richly in his dark brown hair.

 

Dirk leant against the wall and stared down at him; in his poor pale

face were yearning and tenderness beyond expression.

 

At last Theirry rose and turned to the door.

 

“Are you going?” questioned Dirk fearfully.

 

“Yea.”

 

Dirk braced himself.

 

“Do not go,” he said. “There is everything before us if we stay

together…if you…” His words choked him, and he was silent.

 

“All your reasoning cannot stay me,” answered Theirry, his hand on the

door. “She smiled at me and I saw her yellow hair…and I am stifled

here and useless.”

 

He opened the door and went out.

 

Dirk sank on the brilliant gold cushions and twisted his fingers

together; through the half-closed shutters he could see that

marvellous blaze of red roses and their sharp green leaves, the garden

wall and the blue August sky; he could hear a bird singing, far away

and pleasantly, and after a while he heard Theirry sing, too, as he

moved about in an upper chamber. Dirk had not known him sing before,

and now, as the little wordless song fell on his cars, he winced and

writhed.

 

“He sings because he is going away.”

 

He sprang up and crossed to the calendar; a year ago to-day he and

Theirry had first met; he had marked the day with red—and now—

 

Presently Theirry entered again; he was no longer singing, and he had

his things in a bundle on his back.

 

“I will come to-morrow and take leave of Nathalie,” he said; “or

perhaps this evening. But I must see the Chamberlain now.”

 

Dirk nodded; he was still standing by the calendar, and for the second

time Theirry passed out. “Oh! oh!” whispered Dirk. “He is gone—

gone–gone—gone.”

 

He remained motionless, picturing the Court Theirry would join,

picturing Jacobea of Martzburg; the other influences that would be

brought to bear on his companion—

 

Then he crept to the window and pushed the shutter wide, so that half

the dark room was flooded with gold.

 

The great burning roses nodded in unison, heavy bees humming among

them. Dirk leant from the window and flung out his arms with sudden

passion.

 

“Satan! Satan!” he shrieked. “Give him back to me! Everything else you

have promised me for that! Do you hear me! Satan! Satan!”

 

His voice died away in a great sob; he rested his throbbing head

against the hot mullions and put his hand over his eyes; red of the

roses and gold of the sunshine of the Eastern cushions blended in one

before him; he sank back into the window-seat, and beard some one

speak his name.

 

Lifting his sick gaze, he saw the witch standing in the centre of the

floor, looking at him.

 

Dirk gave a great sigh, hunched up his shoulders, and smoothed his

cuffs; then he said, very quietly, looking sideways at the witch—

 

“Theirry has gone.”

 

Nathalie, the witch, seated herself on a little stool that was all

inlaid with mother-o’-pearl, folded her hands in her lap and smiled.

 

She was not an old nor an ugly woman, but of a pale, insignificant

appearance, with shining, blank-looking eyes set in wrinkles, a narrow

face and dull black hair, threaded now with flat gold coins; she

stooped a little, and had marvellously delicate hands.

 

“I knew he would go,” she answered in a small voice.

 

“With scant farewell, with little excuse, with small preparation, with

no regret, he has gone,” said Dirk. “To the Court—at the bidding of a

lady. You know her, for I have spoken of our meeting with her when we

were driven forth from Basle.” He closed his eyes, as if he made a

great effort at control. “I think he is on the verge of loving her.”

He unclosed his eyes, full, blazing. “This must be prevented.”

 

The witch shook her head.

 

“If you are wise, let him go.” She fixed her glimmering glance on

Dirk’s smooth pale face. “He is neither good nor evil; his heart

sayeth one thing, his passions another—let him go. His courage is not

equal to his desires. He would be great—by any means;—yet he is

afraid—let him go. He thinks to serve the Devil while it lurks still

in his heart: ‘At last I will repent—in time I will repent!’—let him

go. He will never be great, or even successful, for he is confused in

his aims, hesitating, passionate and changeable; therefore, you who

can have the world–let him go.”

 

“All this I know,” answered Dirk, his fingers clutching the gold

cushions. “But I want him back.”

 

“He will come. He has gone too far to stay away.”

 

“I want him to return for ever,” cried Dirk. “He is my comrade—he

must be with me always–he must have none in his thoughts save me.”

 

Nathalie frowned.

 

“This is folly. The day you came here to me with words of Master

Lukas, I saw that you were to be everything—he nothing; I saw that

the world would ring with your name, and that he would die unknown.”

She rose vehemently. “I say, let him go! He will be but a clog, a drag

on your progress. He is jealous of you; he is not over skilful…what

can you say for him save that he is pleasant to gaze upon?”

 

Dirk slipped from the cushions and walked slowly up and down the room;

a slow, beautiful smile rested on his lips, and his eyes were gentle.

 

“What can I say for him? ‘Tis said in three words—I love him.”

 

He folded his arms on his breast, and lifted his head.

 

“How little you know of me, Nathalie! Though you have taught me all

your wisdom, what do you know of me save that I was Master Lukas’s

apprentice boy?”

 

“Ye came from mystery—as you should come,” smiled the witch.

 

And now Dirk seemed to smile through agony.

 

“It is a mystery—methinks to tell it would be to be blasted as I

stand; it seems so long ago—so strange—so horrible…well, well!”—

he put his hand to his forehead and took a turn about the room—“as I

sat in Master Lukas’s empty house, painting, carving, reading

forbidden books, I was not afraid; it seemed to me I had no soul…so

why fear for that which was lost before I was born? ‘The Devil has put

me here,’ said I, ‘and I will serve him…he shall make me his