The Greatest Occult & Supernatural Tales of Marjorie Bowen. Bowen Marjorie
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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 archetype on earth . . . and I waited for his signal to bid me forth. Men talked of Antichrist! What if I am he?’ . . . so I thought.”
“And so you shall be,” breathed the witch.
Dirk’s great eyes glowed above his smiling lips.
“Could any but a demon have such thoughts? . . . then Theirry came, and I saw in his face that he did what I did — knew what I knew; and — and”— his voice faltered —“I mind me how I went and watched him as he slept — and then I thought after all I was no demon, for I was aware that I loved him. I had terrible thoughts — if I love, I have a soul, and if I have a soul it is damned — but he shall go with me —— if I came from hell I shall return to hell, and he shall go with me — if I am damned, he shall be damned and go hand in hand with me into the pit!”
The smile faded from his face, and an intense, ardent expression took its place; he seemed almost in an ecstasy.
“She may make fight with me for his soul — if he love her she might draw him to heaven — with her yellow hair! Did I not long for yellow locks when I saw my bridal? . . . I have forgotten what I spoke of — I would say that she does not love him . . . ”
“Yet she may,” said the witch; “for he is gay and beautiful.”
Dirk slowly turned his darkening eyes on Nathalie.
“She must not.”
The witch fondled her fingers.
“We can control many things — not love nor hate.”
Dirk pressed a swelling bosom.
“Her heart is in the hand of another man — and that man is her steward, ambitious, poor and married.”
He came up to the witch, and, slight as he was, beside the withered Eastern woman, he appeared marvellously fresh, glowing, and even splendid.
“Do you understand me?” he said.
The witch blinked her shining eyes. “I understand that there is little need of witchcraft or of black magic here.”
“No,” said Dirk. “Her own love shall be her poison . . . she herself shall give him back to me.”
Nathalie moved, the little coins shaking in her hair. “Dirk, Dirk, why do you make such a point of this man’s return?” she said, between reproach and yearning. She fondled the cold, passive and smiling youth with her tiny hands. “You are going to be great;” she mouthed the words greedily. “I may never have done much, but you have the key to many things. You will have the world for your footstool yet — let him go.”
Dirk still smiled.
“No,” he answered quietly.
The witch shrugged her shoulders and turned away.
“After all,” she said in a half whine, “I am only the servant now. You know words that can compel me and all my kind to obey you. So let it be; bring your Theirry back.”
Dirk’s smile deepened.
“I shall not ask your aid. Alone I can manage this matter. Ay, even if it jeopardise my chance of greatness, I will have my comrade back.”
“It will not be difficult,” nodded the witch. “A silly maid’s influence against thine!” she laughed.
“There is another will seek to detain him at the Court,” said Dirk reflectively. “His old-time friend, the Margrave’s son, Balthasar of Courtrai, who shines about the Emperor. I saw him not long ago — he also is my enemy.”
“Well, the Devil will play them all into thy hands,” smiled the witch.
Dirk turned an absent look on her and she crept away.
It grew to the hour of sunset; the red light of it trembled marvellously in the red roses and filled the low, dark chamber with a sombre crimson glow.
Dirk stood by the window biting his forefinger, revolving schemes in which Jacobea, her steward, Sybilla and Theirry were to be entangled as flies in a web; desperate devilry and despairing human love mingled grotesquely,