- Joined
- Oct 9, 2018
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SNARING OF THEIRRY
Dirk and the witch kept company until they reached the gates of Frankfort.
There the young man took his own way through the busy town, and Nathalie slipped aside into the more retired streets; many of the passers-by saluted Dirk, some halted to speak with him; the brilliant young doctor of rhetoric, with a reputation made fascinating by an air of mystery, was a desired acquaintance among the people of Frankfort. He returned their greetings pleasantly yet absently; he was thinking of Jacobea of Martzburg, whom he had left behind in the great forest, and considering what chances there might be, either for Theirry or Sybilla the steward’s wife.
He passed the tall red front of the college, where the quiet trees tapped their leaves against the arched windows, turned over the narrow curved bridge that spanned the steadily flowing waters of the Main, and came to the thick walls surrounding the Emperor’s castle.
There for a moment he paused and looked thoughtfully up at the Imperial flag that fluttered softly against the evening sky.
When he passed on it was with a cheerful step and whistling a little tune under his breath; a few moments brought him to the long street where the witch lived, a few more to her gate, and then his face lit and changed wonderfully, for ahead of him was Theirry.
Flushed and panting, he ran to his friend’s side and touched him on the arm.
Theirry turned, his hand on the latch; his greeting was hurried, half shamefaced.
“My master and most of the Court were at the tourney to-day,” he said. “I thought it safe to come.”
Dirk withdrew his hand, and his eyes narrowed.
“Ah!—ye are beginning to be circumspect how ye visit here.”
“You word it unkindly,” answered Theirry hastily. “Let us enter the house, where we can talk at ease.”
They passed into the witch’s dwelling, and to the room at the back that looked into the garden of red roses.
The windows were set wide, and the scented softness of the evening filled the half-darkened chamber; Dirk lit a little lamp that had a green glass, and by the faint flame of it gazed long and lingeringly at Theirry.
He found his friend richly dressed in black and crimson, wearing an enamel chain round his bonnet, and a laced shirt showing at his bosom; he found the glowing, bright charm of his face disturbed by some embarrassment or confusion, the beautiful mouth uneasily set, the level brows slightly frowning.
“Oh, Theirry!” he cried in a half-mournful yearning. “Come back to me—come back.”
“I am very well at Court,” was the quick answer. “My master is gentle and my tasks easy.”
Dirk seated himself at the table; he watched the other intently and rested his pale cheek on his hand.
“Very clearly can I see ye are well, and very well at Court—seldom do ye leave it.”
“I find it difficult to get here often,” said Theirry.
He crossed to the window and looked out, as if the room oppressed him, and he thought the prospect of the roses pleasanter than the shadows and lamplight within.
“Ye find it difficult,” said Dirk, “because your desires chain you to the Court. I think ye are a faithless friend.”
“That am not I—ye know more of me than any man—I care more for ye than for any man——”
“Or woman?” added Dirk dryly.
An impatient colour came into Theirry’s cheeks; he looked resolutely at the red roses.
“That is unworthy in you, Dirk—is it disloyal to you to know a lady—to—to—admire a lady, to strive to serve and please a lady——?”
He turned his charming face, and, in his effort to conciliate, his voice was gentle and winning. “Truly she is the sweetest of her kind, Dirk; if you knew her—evil is abashed before her——”
“Then it is as well I do not know her,” Dirk retorted grimly. “Strangely ye talk—you and I know we are not saints—but belike ye would reform—belike a second time ye have repented.”
Theirry seemed in some agitation.
“No, no—have I not gone too far? Do I not still hope to gain something—perhaps everything?” He paused, then added in a low voice, “But I wish I had never laid hands on the monk. I wish I had not touched God His money—and when I see her I cannot prevent my heart from smarting at the thought of what I am.”
“How often do you see her?” asked Dirk quietly.
“But seldom,” answered Theirry sadly. “And it is better—what could I ever be to her?”
Dirk smiled sombrely.
“That is true. Yet you would waste your life dallying round the places where you may sometimes see her face.”
Theirry bit his lip.
“Oh, you think me a fool—to falter, to regret;—but what have my sins ever done for me? There are many honest men better placed than I—and without the prospect of hell to blast their souls.”
Dirk looked at him with lowering eyes.
“You had been content had you not met this lady.”
“Enough of her,” answered Theirry wearily. “You make too much of it. I do not think I love her; but one who is fallen must view such sweetness, such gentle purity with sorrow—yea, with yearning.”
Dirk clasped his hand on the edge of the table.
“Maybe she is neither so pure nor so gentle as you think. Certes! she is but as other women, as one day ye may see.”
Theirry turned from the window half in protest, half in excuse.
“Cannot you understand how one may hold a fair thing dear—how one might worship—even—love?”
“Yes,” answered Dirk, and his great eyes were bright and misty. “But if I—loved”—he spoke the word beautifully, and rose as he uttered it—“I would so grapple his—her soul to mine that we should be together to all eternity; nor devil nor angel should divide us. But—but there is no need to talk of that—there are other matters to deal with.”
“Would I had never seen the evil books or never seen her face,” said Theirry restlessly. “So at least I had been undivided in my thoughts.”
He came to the table and looked at Dirk across the sickly, struggling flame of the lamp; in his hazel eyes was an expression of appeal, the call of the weak to the strong, and the other held out his hands impulsively.
“Ah, I am a fool to trouble with ye, my friend,” he said, and his voice broke with tenderness. “For ye are headstrong and unstable, and care not for me one jot, I warrant me—yet—yet you may do what you will with this silly heart of mine.”
There was a grace, a wistful affection in his face, in his words, in his gesture of outstretched hands that instantly moved Theirry, ever quick to respond. He took the young doctor’s slender fingers in a warm clasp; they were very quickly withdrawn. Dirk had a notable dislike to a touch, but his deep eyes smiled.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SNARING OF THEIRRY
Dirk and the witch kept company until they reached the gates of Frankfort.
There the young man took his own way through the busy town, and Nathalie slipped aside into the more retired streets; many of the passers-by saluted Dirk, some halted to speak with him; the brilliant young doctor of rhetoric, with a reputation made fascinating by an air of mystery, was a desired acquaintance among the people of Frankfort. He returned their greetings pleasantly yet absently; he was thinking of Jacobea of Martzburg, whom he had left behind in the great forest, and considering what chances there might be, either for Theirry or Sybilla the steward’s wife.
He passed the tall red front of the college, where the quiet trees tapped their leaves against the arched windows, turned over the narrow curved bridge that spanned the steadily flowing waters of the Main, and came to the thick walls surrounding the Emperor’s castle.
There for a moment he paused and looked thoughtfully up at the Imperial flag that fluttered softly against the evening sky.
When he passed on it was with a cheerful step and whistling a little tune under his breath; a few moments brought him to the long street where the witch lived, a few more to her gate, and then his face lit and changed wonderfully, for ahead of him was Theirry.
Flushed and panting, he ran to his friend’s side and touched him on the arm.
Theirry turned, his hand on the latch; his greeting was hurried, half shamefaced.
“My master and most of the Court were at the tourney to-day,” he said. “I thought it safe to come.”
Dirk withdrew his hand, and his eyes narrowed.
“Ah!—ye are beginning to be circumspect how ye visit here.”
“You word it unkindly,” answered Theirry hastily. “Let us enter the house, where we can talk at ease.”
They passed into the witch’s dwelling, and to the room at the back that looked into the garden of red roses.
The windows were set wide, and the scented softness of the evening filled the half-darkened chamber; Dirk lit a little lamp that had a green glass, and by the faint flame of it gazed long and lingeringly at Theirry.
He found his friend richly dressed in black and crimson, wearing an enamel chain round his bonnet, and a laced shirt showing at his bosom; he found the glowing, bright charm of his face disturbed by some embarrassment or confusion, the beautiful mouth uneasily set, the level brows slightly frowning.
“Oh, Theirry!” he cried in a half-mournful yearning. “Come back to me—come back.”
“I am very well at Court,” was the quick answer. “My master is gentle and my tasks easy.”
Dirk seated himself at the table; he watched the other intently and rested his pale cheek on his hand.
“Very clearly can I see ye are well, and very well at Court—seldom do ye leave it.”
“I find it difficult to get here often,” said Theirry.
He crossed to the window and looked out, as if the room oppressed him, and he thought the prospect of the roses pleasanter than the shadows and lamplight within.
“Ye find it difficult,” said Dirk, “because your desires chain you to the Court. I think ye are a faithless friend.”
“That am not I—ye know more of me than any man—I care more for ye than for any man——”
“Or woman?” added Dirk dryly.
An impatient colour came into Theirry’s cheeks; he looked resolutely at the red roses.
“That is unworthy in you, Dirk—is it disloyal to you to know a lady—to—to—admire a lady, to strive to serve and please a lady——?”
He turned his charming face, and, in his effort to conciliate, his voice was gentle and winning. “Truly she is the sweetest of her kind, Dirk; if you knew her—evil is abashed before her——”
“Then it is as well I do not know her,” Dirk retorted grimly. “Strangely ye talk—you and I know we are not saints—but belike ye would reform—belike a second time ye have repented.”
Theirry seemed in some agitation.
“No, no—have I not gone too far? Do I not still hope to gain something—perhaps everything?” He paused, then added in a low voice, “But I wish I had never laid hands on the monk. I wish I had not touched God His money—and when I see her I cannot prevent my heart from smarting at the thought of what I am.”
“How often do you see her?” asked Dirk quietly.
“But seldom,” answered Theirry sadly. “And it is better—what could I ever be to her?”
Dirk smiled sombrely.
“That is true. Yet you would waste your life dallying round the places where you may sometimes see her face.”
Theirry bit his lip.
“Oh, you think me a fool—to falter, to regret;—but what have my sins ever done for me? There are many honest men better placed than I—and without the prospect of hell to blast their souls.”
Dirk looked at him with lowering eyes.
“You had been content had you not met this lady.”
“Enough of her,” answered Theirry wearily. “You make too much of it. I do not think I love her; but one who is fallen must view such sweetness, such gentle purity with sorrow—yea, with yearning.”
Dirk clasped his hand on the edge of the table.
“Maybe she is neither so pure nor so gentle as you think. Certes! she is but as other women, as one day ye may see.”
Theirry turned from the window half in protest, half in excuse.
“Cannot you understand how one may hold a fair thing dear—how one might worship—even—love?”
“Yes,” answered Dirk, and his great eyes were bright and misty. “But if I—loved”—he spoke the word beautifully, and rose as he uttered it—“I would so grapple his—her soul to mine that we should be together to all eternity; nor devil nor angel should divide us. But—but there is no need to talk of that—there are other matters to deal with.”
“Would I had never seen the evil books or never seen her face,” said Theirry restlessly. “So at least I had been undivided in my thoughts.”
He came to the table and looked at Dirk across the sickly, struggling flame of the lamp; in his hazel eyes was an expression of appeal, the call of the weak to the strong, and the other held out his hands impulsively.
“Ah, I am a fool to trouble with ye, my friend,” he said, and his voice broke with tenderness. “For ye are headstrong and unstable, and care not for me one jot, I warrant me—yet—yet you may do what you will with this silly heart of mine.”
There was a grace, a wistful affection in his face, in his words, in his gesture of outstretched hands that instantly moved Theirry, ever quick to respond. He took the young doctor’s slender fingers in a warm clasp; they were very quickly withdrawn. Dirk had a notable dislike to a touch, but his deep eyes smiled.
