Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (romantic novels in english .TXT) 📖

Theirry broke out

desperately—

 

“Jacobea–my heart is torn within me–to-day I said there was no

God—but when I sit by you…”

 

“Yea, there is a God,” she answered quietly. “Be very sure of that.”

 

“Then I am past His forgiveness,” whispered Theirry.

 

Again he was mute; he saw before him the regal figure of Dirk—he

heard his words—“Be but true to me”—then he thought of Jacobea and

Paradise…agony ran through his veins.

 

“Oh, Jacobea!” he cried at last. “I am beyond all measure mean and

vile… I know not what to do… I can be Emperor, yet as I sit here

that seems to me as nothing.”

 

“The Pope favours you, you tell me,” she said. “He is a priest, and a

holy man, and yet—it is strange, what is this talk of Ursula of

Rooselaare?–and yet it is no matter.”

 

His mail clinked in answer to his tremor.

 

“Tell me what I must do—see, I am in a great confusion; the world is

very dark, this way and that show little lights, and I strive to

follow hem—but they change and move and blind me—and if I grasp one

it is extinguished into greater darkness; I hear whispers, murmurs,

threats, I believe them, and believe them not, and all is confusion,

confusion!”

 

Jacobea rose slowly from the bench.

 

“Why do you come to me?”

 

“Because ye seem to me nearer heaven than anything I know…”

 

Jacobea pressed the white rose to her bosom. “It is dark now—the

flowers smell so sweet–come into the house.”

 

He followed her dim-seen figure across the grass; she lifted the latch

of the convent door and went before him into the building.

 

For a while she left him in the passage, then returned with a pale

lamp in her hand and conducted him into a small, bare chamber, which

seemed mean in contrast with the glowing splendour of his appearance.

 

“The sisters are abroad,” said Jacobea. “And I stay here in case any

ring the bell for succour.” She set the lamp on the wooden table and

slowly turned her eyes on Theirry.

 

“Sir, I am very selfish.” She spoke with difficulty, as if she

painfully forced expression. “I have thought of myself for so many

years—and somehow”—she lightly touched her breast—“I cannot feel,

for myself or for others; nothing seems real, save Sybilla; nothing

matters save her–sometimes I cry for little things I find dying

alone, for poor unnoticed miseries of animals and children—but for

the rest…you must not blame me if I do not sympathise; that has gone

from me. Nor can I help you; God is far away beyond the stars. I do

not think He can stoop to such as you and me—and—and—I do not feel

as if I should wake until I die—”

 

Theirry covered his eyes and moaned.

 

Jacobea was not looking at him, but at the one bright thing in the

room.

 

A samite cushion worked with a scarlet lily that rested on a chair by

the window.

 

“Each our own way to death,” she said. “All we can do is so little

compared with that–death—see, I think of it as a great crystal

light, very cold, that will slowly encompass us, revealing everything,

making everything easy to understand—white lilies will not be more

beautiful, nor breeze at summer-time more sweet…so, sir, must you

wait patiently.”

 

She took her gaze from the red flower and turned her tired grey eyes

on him.

 

The blood surged into his face; he clenched his hands and spoke

passionately.

 

“I will renounce the world, I will become a monk…”

 

The words choked in his throat; he looked fearfully round; the

lamplight struck his armour into a hundred points of light and cast

pale shadows over the whitewashed walls.

 

“What was that?” asked Jacobea.

 

One was singing without: Theirry’s strained eyes glistened.

 

“If Love were all!

 

His perfect servant I would be.

 

Kissing where his foot might fall, Doing him homage on a lowly knee.

 

If Love were all!”

 

Theirry turned and went out into the dark, hot night.

 

He could see neither roses, nor fountain, nor even the line of the

convent wall against the sky; but the light above the gate revealed to

him the dancer in orange, who leant against the stone arch of the

entrance and sang to a strange long instrument that hung round her

neck by a gleaming chain.

 

At her feet the ape crouched, nodding himself to sleep.

 

“If Love were all I

 

But Love is weak.

 

And Hate oft giveth him a fall.

 

And Wisdom smites him on the cheek, If Love were all!

 

Behind Theirry came Jacobea, with the lantern in her hand.

 

“Who is this?” she asked.

 

The dancer laughed; the sound of it muffled behind her mask.

 

Theirry made his way across the dark to her.

 

“What do you do here?” he demanded fiercely. “The Pope’s spy, you!”

 

“May I not come to worship here as well as another?” she answered.

 

“You know too much of me!” he cried distractedly. “But I also have

some knowledge of you, Ursula of Rooselaare!”

 

“How does that help you?” she asked, drawing back a little before him.

 

“I would discover why you follow me—watch me.”

 

He caught her by the arms and held her against the stone gateway.

 

“Now tell me the meaning of your disguise,” he breathed—“and of your

league with Michael II.”

 

She said a strange little word underneath her breath; the ape jumped

up and tore away the man’s hands while the girl bent to a run and sped

through the gate.

 

Theirry gave a cry of pain and rage, and glanced towards the convent;

the door was closed; lady and lamp had disappeared in the darkness.

 

“Shut out!” whispered Theirry. “Shut out!” He turned into the street

and saw, by the scattered lanterns along the Appian Way, the figure of

the dancer slipping fast towards the city gates. But he gained on her,

and at sound of his clattering step she looked round.

 

“Ah!” she said; “I thought you had stayed with the sweet-faced saint

yonder—”

 

“She wants none of me,” he panted—“but I—I mean to see your face tonight…” “I am not beautiful,” answered the dancer; “and you have

seen my face—”

 

“Seen your face!”

 

“Certes! in the Basilica on the F�te.”

 

“I knew you not in the press.”

 

“Nevertheless I was there.”

 

“I looked for you.”

 

“I thought ye looked for Jacobea.”

 

“Also I sought you,” said Theirry. “Ye madden me.”

 

The ever-gathering tempest was drawing near, with fitful flashes of

lightning playing over his jewel-like mail and her orange gown as they

made their way through the ruins.

 

“Do you wander here alone at night?” asked Theirry. “It is a vile

place; a man might be afraid.” “I have the ape,” she said.

 

“But the storm?”

 

“In Rome now-a-days we are well used to storms,” she answered in a low

voice. “Yea.”

 

He did not know what to say to her, but he could not leave her; a

strong, a supreme, fascination compelled him to walk beside her, a

half-delightful excitement stirred his blood.

 

“Where are we going?” asked Theirry. The wayside lanterns had ceased;

he could see her only by the lightning gleams.

 

“I know not—why do you follow me?”

 

“I am mad, I think—the earth rocks beneath me and heaven bends

overhead—you lure me and I follow in sheer confusion—Ursula of

Rooselaare, why have you lured me? What power is it that you have over

me? Wherefore are you disguised?”

 

She touched his mail in the dark as she answered—

 

“I am Balthasar’s wife.”

 

“Ay,” he responded eagerly; “and I do hear ye loved another man—”

 

“What is that to you?” she asked.

 

“This—though I have not seen your face—perchance could I love you,

Ursula!”

 

“Ursula!” She laughed on the word.

 

“Is it not your name?” he cried wildly.

 

“Yea—but it is long since any used it—”

 

The hot darkness seemed to twist and writhe about Theirry; he seemed

to breathe a nameless and uncontrollable passion in with the storm-laden air.

 

“Witch or demon,” he said, “I have cast in my lot with the Devil and

Michael II his servant—I follow the same master as you, Ursula.”

 

He put out his hand through the dark and grasped her arm.

 

“Who is the man for whose sake ye are silent?” he demanded.

 

There was no answer; he felt her arm quiver under his hand, and heard

the hems of her tunic tinkle against her buskins, as if she trembled.

 

The air was chokingly hot; Theirry’s heart throbbed high.

 

At last she spoke, in a half-swooning voice.

 

“I have taken off my mask…bend your head and kiss me.”

 

Invisible and potent powers drew him towards her unseen face; his lips

touched and kissed its softness…

 

The thunder sounded with such a terrific force and clash that Theirry

sprang back; a cry of agony went up from the darkness. He ran blindly

forward; her presence had gone from his side, nor could he see or feel

her as he moved.

 

A thousand light shapes danced across the night; witches and warlocks

carrying swinging lanterns, imps and fiends.

 

They gathered round Theirry, shrieking and howling to the

accompaniment of the storm.

 

He ran sobbing down the Appian Way, and his pace was very swift, for

all the mail he carried.