Black Magic - Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations website .TXT) 📗
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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Ambrose of Menthon looked at him closely.
“Alas!” he murmured slowly, “I know you.”
Dirk beat his breast.
“Mea culpa!” he moaned. “Mea culpa!”
“Rise. Come with me,” said the saint. “I will attend your wants.”
The youth did not move.
“Will you solace my soul, sir?” he cried. “God must have sent you here
to save my soul—for long days I have sought you.”
Saint Ambrose’s face glowed
“Have ye, then, repented?”
Dirk rose slowly to his feet and stood with bent head.
“May one repent of such offences?”
“God is very merciful,” breathed the saint tenderly.
“Remorse and sorrow fill my heart,” murmured Dirk. “I have cast off my
evil comrades, renounced my vile gains and journeyed into the
loneliness to find God His pardon…and it seemed He would not hear
me…”
“He hears all who come in grief and penitence,” said the saint
joyously. “And He has heard you, for has He not sent me to find you,
even in this most desolate place?”
“You feed me with hope,” answered Dirk in a quivering voice, “and
revive me with glad tidings…may I dare, I, poor lost wretch, to be
uplifted and exalted?”
“Poor youth,” was the tender murmur. “Come with me.”
He led the way across the thick snow, Dirk following with downcast
eyes and white cheeks. They skirted the forest and came upon a little
hut, set back and sheltered among the scattered trees.
Saint Ambrose opened the rude door.
“I am alone now,” he said softly, as he entered. “I had with me a
frail holy youth, who was travelling to Paris; last night he died, I
have just laid his body in the earth, his soul rests on the bosom of
the Lord.”
Dirk stepped into the hut and stood meekly on the threshold, and Saint
Ambrose glanced at him wistfully.
“Maybe God has sent me this soul to tend and succour in place of that
He has called home.” Dirk whispered humbly—
“If I might think so.”
The saint opened an inner door.
“Your garments are wet and soiled.”
A sudden colour stained Dirk’s face.
“I have no others.”
Ambrose of Menthon pointed to the inner chamber. “There Blaise died
yester-eve; there are his clothes, enter and put them on.”
“It will be the habit of a novice?” asked Dirk softly.
“Yea.”
Dirk bent and kissed the saint’s fingers with ice-cold lips.
“I have dared,” he whispered, “to hope that I might die wearing the
garb of God His servants, and now I dare even to hope that He shall
grant my prayer.”
He stepped into the inner chamber and closed the door.
BLAISE
Ambrose of Menthon and his meek and humble follower rested at Ch�lons,
on their way to Paris.
For many weeks they had begged from door to door, sleeping in some
hermit’s cell or by the roadside when the severity of the bitter
nights permitted, occasionally finding shelter in a wayside convent.
So patient, so courageous before hardship, so truly sad and
remorseful, so grateful for the distant chance of ultimate pardon was
Dirk, that the saint grew to love the penitent vagabond.
No one eager to look for it could have found any fault with his
behaviour; he was gentle as a girl, obedient as a servant, rigid in
his prayers (and he had a strangely complete knowledge of the offices
and penances of the Church), silent and sorrowful often, taking no
pleasure in anything save the saint’s talk of Paradise and holy
things.
Particularly he loved to hear of the dead youth Blaise, of his saintly
life, of his desire to join the stern Brotherhood of the Sacred Heart,
in Paris, of his fame as one beloved of God, of the convent’s wish to
receive him, of his great learning, of his beautiful death in the
snowy evening.
To all this Dirk listened with still attention, and from Saint
Ambrose’s rapt and loving recital he gathered little earthly details
of the subject of their speech.
Such as that he was from Flanders, of a noble family, that his
immediate relatives were dead, that his years were no more than
twenty, and that he was dark and pale.
For himself Dirk had little to say; he described simply his shame and
remorse after he had stolen the holy gold, his gradual sickening of
his companions, the long torture of his awakening soul, his attempts
to find the saint, and how, finally, after he had resolved to flee his
evil life and enter a convent, he had run out of Frankfort, found a
boat waiting—and so drifted to Saint Ambrose’s feet.
The saint, rejoicing in his penitence, suggested that he should enter
the convent whither they journeyed with the tidings of the holy
youth’s death, and Dirk consented with humble gratitude. And so they
passed through Ch�lons, and rested in a deserted hut overlooking the
waters of the Maine.
Having finished their scanty meal they were seated together under the
rough shelter; the luxury of a fire was denied their austerity; a cold
wind blew in and out of the ill-built doors, and a colourless light
filled the mean bare place. Dirk sat on a broken stool, reading aloud
the writings of Saint Jerome.
He wore a coarse brown robe, very different from his usual attire,
fastened round the waist with a rope into which was twisted a wooden
rosary; his feet were encased in rude leather boots, his hands
reddened with the cold, his face hollow and of a bluish pallor in
which his eyes shone feverishly large and dark.
His smooth hair hung on to his shoulders; he stooped, in contrast with
his usual erect carriage. Pausing on his low and gentle reading he
looked across at the saint.
Ambrose of Menthon sat on a rough-hewn bench against the rougher wall;
weariness, exposure, and sheer weakness of body had done their work at
last; Dirk knew that for three nights he had not slept…he was asleep
now or had swooned; his fair head fell forward on his breast, his
hands hung by his side.
As Dunk became assured that his companion was unconscious, he slowly
rose and set down the holy volume. He was himself half starved, cold
to the heart and shuddering; he looked round the plaster walls and the
meek expression of his face changed to one of scorn, derision and
wicked disdain; he darted a bitter glance at the wan man, and crept
towards the door.
Opening it softly, he gazed out; the scene was fair and lonely—the
distant tourelles of Ch�lons rose clear and pointed against the winter
clouds; near by the grey river flowed between its high banks, where
the bare willows grew and the snow-wreaths still lay.
Dunk took shivering steps into the open and turned towards the Maine;
the keen wind penetrated his poor garments and lifted the heavy hair
from his thin cheeks; he beat his breast, chafed his hands and walked
rapidly.
Reaching the bank he looked up and down the river; there was no one in
sight, neither boat nor animal nor house to break the monotony of
land, sky and water, only those distant towers of the town.
Dirk walked among the twisted willows, then came to a pause.
A little ahead of him were a black man and a black dog, both seated on
the bank and gazing towards Ch�lons.
The youth came a little nearer.
“Good even,” he said. “It is very cold.”
The Blackamoor looked round.
“Are you pleased with the way you travel?” he asked, nodding his head.
“And your companion?”
Dunk’s face lowered.
“How much longer am I to endure it?”
“You must have patience,” said the black man, “and endurance.”
“I have both,” answered Dirk. “Look at my hands—they are no longer
soft, but red and hard; my feet are galled and wounded in rough
boots—I must walk till I am sick, then pray instead of sleeping; I
see no fire, and scarcely do I touch food.”
The hell-hound stirred and whined among the osiers, the jewels in the
Blackamoor’s collar flashed richly, though there was no light to
strike them.
“You will be rewarded,” he said, “and revenged too—o—ho—o! it is
very cold, as you say, very cold.”
“What must I do?” asked Dirk.
The black man rubbed his hands together.
“You know—you know.”
Dirk’s pinched wan face grew intent, and eager.
“Am I to use…this?” He touched the breast of his rough habit.
“Yea.”
“Then shall I be left defenceless.” Dirk’s voice shook a little. “If
anything should happen—I would not, I could not—oh, Sathanas!—I
could not be revealed!”
The Blackamoor rose from among the willows.
“Do you trust yourself and me?” he asked.
Dirk put his thin hand over his eyes.
“Yea, master.”
“Then you know what to do. You will not see me for many years—when
you have triumphed I shall come.”
He turned swiftly and ran down the bank, the hound at his heels; one
after another they leaped into the waters of the Maine and disappeared
with an inner sound.
Dunk straightened himself and set his lips. He reentered the hut to
find Ambrose of Menthon still against the wall, now indeed wearily
asleep; Dirk came softly forward; slowly and cautiously he put his
hand into his bosom and drew out a small green-coloured phial.
With his eyes keenly on the saint he broke the seal, then crept close.
By Saint Ambrose’s side hung his rosary, every bead smooth with the
constant pressure of his lips; Dunk raised the heavy crucifix
attached, and poured on to it the precious drop contained in the
phial.
Saint Ambrose did not wake nor move; Dunk drew away and crouched
against the wall, cursing the bitter wind with fierce eyes…
When the saint awoke, Dirk was on the broken stool reading aloud the
writings of Saint Jerome.
“Is it still light?” asked Ambrose of Menthon amazedly.
“It is the dawn,” answered Dunk.
“And I have slept the night through.” The saint dragged his stiff
limbs from the seat and fell on his knees in a misery of prayer.
Dunk closed the book and watched him; watched his long fingers twining
in the beads of his rosary, watched him kiss the crucifix, again and
again; then he, too, knelt, his face hidden in his hands.
He was the first to rise.
“Master, shall we press on to Paris?” he asked humbly.
The saint lifted dazed eyes from his devotions.
“Yea,” he said. “Yea.”
Dunk began putting together in a bundle their few books, and the
wooden platter in which they collected their broken food; this being
their all.
“I dreamt last night of Paradise,” said Saint Ambrose faintly, “the
floor was so thick-strewn with close little flowers, red, white, and
purple…and it was warm as Italy in May…” Dunk swung the bundle on
to his shoulder and opened the door of the hut.
“There is no sun to-day,” he remarked.
“How long it is since we have seen the sun!” said Saint Ambrose
wistfully.
They passed out into the dreary landscape and took their slow way
along the banks of the Maine.
Until midday they did not pause, scarcely spoke; then they passed
through a little village, and the charitable gave them food.
That night they slept in the open, under shelter of
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