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

never knew till then—ah, I swear it, be

never dreamt that I—never dreamt what my favour meant, but now—his—

eyes—I cannot mistake them.”

 

“He is a dutiful servant,” said Dirk, “he waits for his mistress to

speak.”

 

Jacobea sank to her knees on the grass.

 

“I entreat you to forbear,” she whispered. “Whoever you are, whatever

your object I ask your mercy. I am very unhappy—do not goad me—drive

me further.”

 

Dirk stepped forward and caught her drooping shoulders in his firm

hands.

 

“Pious fool!” he cried. “How long do you think you can endure this?

how long do you think he will remain the servant when he knows he

might be the master?”

 

She averted her agonised face.

 

“Then it was from you he learned it, you—”

 

Dirk interrupted hotly—

 

“He knows, remember that! he knows and he waits. Already he hates the

woman who keeps him dumb; it were very easily done—one look, some few

words—ye would not find him slow of understanding.” He loosened his

grasp on her and Jacobea fell forward and clasped his feet.

 

“I implore you take back this wickedness, I am weak; since my first

sight of you I have been striving against your influence that is

killing me; man or demon, I beseech you, let me be!”

 

She raised her face, the slow, bitter tears forced out of her sweet,

worn eyes; her hair fell like golden embroidery over the yellow gown,

and her fingers fluttered on her unhappy bosom. Dirk considered her

curiously and coldly.

 

“I am neither man nor demon,” he said. “But this I tell you, as surely

as he is more to you than your own soul, so surely are you lost.”

 

“Lost! lost!” she repeated, and half raised herself.

 

“Certes, therefore get the price of your soul,” he mocked. “What is

the woman to you? A coldhearted jade, as good dead now as fifty years

hence—what is one sin the more? I tell you while you set that man’s

image up in your heart before that of God ye are lost already.”

 

“I am so lonely,” she whispered piteously. “Had I one friend—” She

paused, as though some one came into her mind with the words, and

Dirk, intently watching her, suddenly flushed and glowed with anger.

 

He stepped back and clapped his hands.

 

“I promised you a sight of your lover,” he said. “Now let him speak

for himself.” Jacobea turned her head sharply.

 

A few feet away from her stood Sebastian, holding back the heavy

boughs and looking at her.

 

She gave a shriek and swiftly rose; Dirk and the witch had

disappeared; if they had slipped into the undergrowth and were yet

near they gave no answer when she wildly called to them; the vast

forest seemed utterly empty save for the silent figure of Sebastian.

 

Not doubting now that Dirk was some evil being whom her own wicked

thoughts had evoked, believing that the appearance of her steward was

some phantom sent for her undoing, she, unfortunate, distracted with

misery and terror, turned with a shuddering relief to the oblivion of

the still pool.

 

Hastening with trembling feet through the clinging weeds and ferns,

she climbed down the damp bank and would have cast herself into the

dull water, when she heard his voice calling her—a human voice.

 

She paused, lending a fearful ear to the sound while the water rippled

from her foot. “It is I,” he called. “My lady, it is I.”

 

This was Sebastian himself, no delusion nor ghost but her living

steward, as she had seen him this morning in his brown riding-habit,

wearing her gold and blue colours round his hat. She mastered her

terror and confusion.

 

“Indeed, you frightened me,”—a lie rose to save her. “I thought it

some robber—I did not know you.”

 

Fear of his personal aid gave her strength to move away from the water

and gain the level ground.

 

“I have been searching for you,” said Sebastian. “We came upon your

horse on the high road and then upon your gloves in the grass, so, as

no rider could come among these trees, on foot I sought for you. I am

glad that you are safe.”

 

This calm and carefully ordered speech gave her time to gather

courage; she fumbled at her bosom, drew forth a crucifix and clutched

it to her lips with a murmur of passionate prayers.

 

He could not but notice this; he must perceive her soiled torn dress,

her wild face, her white exhaustion, but he gave no sign of it.

 

“It was a fortunate chance that sent me here,” he said gravely. “The

wood is so vast—” “Ay, so vast,” she answered. “Know you the way out,

Sebastian?”

 

She tried to nerve herself to look at him, but her glance was lifted

only to fall instantly again.

 

“You must forgive me,” she said, struggling with a fainting voice. “I

have walked very far, I am so weary—I must rest a while.”

 

But she did not sit, nor did he urge that she should.

 

“Have you met no one?” he asked.

 

She hesitated; if he had encountered neither the woman nor the young

man, then they were indeed wizards or of some unearthly race—she

could not bring herself to speak of them.

 

“No,” she answered at length.

 

“We have a long way to walk,” said the steward.

 

Jacobea felt his look upon her, and grasped her crucifix until the

sharp edges of it cut her palm. “Do you know the way?” she repeated

dully.

 

“Ay,” he answered now. “But it is far.”

 

She gathered up her long skirt and shook off the withered leaves that

clung to it. “Will you lead the way?” she said.

 

He turned and moved ahead of her down the narrow path by which he had

come; as she followed him she heard his foot fall soft on the thick

grass and the swishing sound of the straying boughs as he held them

back for her to pass, till she found the silence so unendurable that

she nerved herself to break it; but several times she gathered her

strength in vain for the effort, and when at last some foolish words

had come to her lips, he suddenly looked back over his shoulder and

checked her speech.

 

“‘Tis strange that your horse should have gone mad in such a manner,”

he said.

 

“But ye found him?” she faltered.

 

“Ay, a man found him, exhausted and trembling like a thing bewitched.”

 

Her heart gave a great leap—had he used that word by chance—

 

She could not answer.

 

“Ye were not hurt, my lady, when ye were thrown?” said the steward.

 

“No,” said Jacobea, “no.”

 

Silence again; no bird nor butterfly disturbed the sombre stillness of

the wood, no breeze stirred the thick leaves that surrounded them;

gradually the path widened until it brought them into a great space

grown with ferns and overarched with trees.

 

Then Sebastian paused.

 

“It is a long way yet,” he said. “Will you rest a while?”

 

“No,” she replied vehemently. “Let us get on–where are the others?

surely we must meet some one soon!”

 

“I do not know that any came this way,” he answered, and cast his

brooding glance over the “trembling weariness of her figure.

 

“Ye must rest, certes, it is folly to persist,” he added, with some

authority.

 

She seated herself, lifting the hand that held the crucifix to her

bosom.

 

“How full of shadows it is here,” she said. “It is difficult to fancy

the shining of the sun on the tops of these darkened trees.”

 

“I do not love forests,” answered Sebastian. As he stood his profile

was towards her; and she must mark again the face that she knew so

bitterly well, his thin dark cheek, his heavy-lidded eyes, his

contained mouth.

 

Gazing down into the clusters of ferns at his feet, he spoke—

 

“I think I must return to Martzburg,” he said.

 

She braced herself, making a gesture with her hand as if she would

ward off his words. “You know that you are free to do what you will,

Sebastian.”

 

He took off his right glove slowly and looked at his hand.

 

“Is it not better that I should go?”

 

He challenged her with a full sideways glance.

 

“I do not know,” she said desperately, “why you put this to me, here

and now.”

 

“I do not often see you alone.”

 

He was not a man of winning manners or of easy speech; his words came

stiffly, yet with a purpose in them that chilled her with a deeper

sense of dread.

 

She opened her hand to stare down at the crucifix in her palm.

 

“You can leave Frankfort when you wish—why not?” she said.

 

He faced her quickly.

 

“But I may come back?”

 

It seemed to Jacobea that he echoed Dirk’s words; the crucifix slipped

through her trembling fingers on to the grass.

 

“What do you mean? Oh, Sebastian, what do you mean?” The words were

forced from her, but uttered under her breath; she added instantly, in

a more courageous voice, “Go and come as you list, are you not free?”

 

He saw the crucifix at her feet and picked it up, but she drew back as

he came near and held out her hand.

 

He put the crucifix into it, frowning, his eyes dark and bright with

excitement.

 

“Do you recall the two students who were housed that night in

Martzburg?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “Is not one now at Court?”

 

“I would mean the other—the boy,” answered Sebastian.

 

She averted her face and drooped until the ends of her hair touched

her knees.

 

“I met him again to-day,” continued the steward, with a curious lift

in his voice, “here, in this forest, while searching for you. He spoke

to me.”

 

Certainly the Devil was enmeshing her, surely he had brought her to

this pass, sent Sebastian, of all men, to find her in her weariness

and loneliness.

 

And Sebastian knew—knew also that she knew—outspoken words between

them could be hardly more intolerable shame than this.

 

“He is cunning beyond most,” said the steward.

 

Jacobea lifted her head.

 

“He is an enchanter—a wizard, do not listen to him, do not speak to

him—as you value your soul, Sebastian, do not think of him.”

 

“As I value some other things,” he answered grimly, “I must both

listen to him and consider what he says.”

 

She rose.

 

“We will go on our way. I cannot talk with you now, Sebastian.”

 

But he stood in her path.

 

“Let me journey to Martzburg,” he said thickly; “one word—I shall

understand you.”

 

She glanced and saw him extraordinarily keen and moved; he was lord of

Martzburg could he but get her to pledge herself; in his eagerness,

however, he forgot advice. “Tell her,” said Dirk, “you have adored her

for years in secret.” This escaped his keenness, for though his wife

was nothing to him compared with his ambition, he had no tenderness

for Jacobea. Had he remembered to feign it he might have triumphed and

now; but though her gentle heart believed he held her dear, that he

did not say so made firmness possible for her.

 

“You shall stay in Frankfort,” she said, with sudden strength.

 

“Sybilla asks my return,” he said, gazing at her passionately. “Do we

not understand each other without words?”

 

“The fiend has bewitched you also,” she