THE PURSUIT OF JACOBEA
The chatelaine of Martzburg sat in the best guest-chamber of a
wayside hostel that lay a few hours’ journeying from her home. Outside
the rain dripped in the trees and a cold mountain wind shook the
sign-board. Jacobea trimmed the lamp, drew the curtains, and began
walking up and down the room; the inner silence broken only by the
sound of her footfall and an occasional sharp patter as the rain fell
on to the bare hearth.
So swiftly had she fled from Frankfort that its last scenes were still
before her eyes like a gorgeous and disjointed pageant; the Emperor
stricken down at the feast, the brief, flashing turmoil, Ysabeau’s
peerless face, that her own horrid thoughts coloured with a sinister
expression, Balthasar of Courtrai bringing the city to his feet--Hugh
of Rooselaare snatched away to a dungeon--and over it all the leaping
red light of a hundred flambeaux.
She herself was free here of everything save the sound of the rain,
yet she must needs think of and brood on the tumult she had left.
The quiet about her now, the distance she had put between herself and
Frankfort, gave her no sense of peace or safety; she strove, indeed,
with a feeling of horror, as if they from whom she had fled were about
her still, menacing her in this lonely room.
Presently she passed into the little bed-chamber and took up a mirror
into which she gazed long and earnestly.
“Is it a wicked face?”
She answered herself--“No, no.”
“Is it a weak face?”
“Alas!”
The wind rose higher, fluttered the lamp-flame and stirred the arras
on the wall; and laying the mirror down she returned to the outer
chamber. Her long hair that hung down her back was the only bright
thing in the gloomy apartment where the tapestry was old and dusty,
the furniture worn and faded; she wore a dark dress of embroidered
purple, contrasting with her colourless face; only her yellow locks
glittered as the lamplight fell on them.
The wind rose yet higher, struggled at the casement, seized and shook
the curtains and whistled in the chimney.
Up and down walked Jacobea of Martzburg, clasping and unclasping her
soft young hands, her grey eyes turning from right to left.
It was very cold, blowing straight from the great mountains the dark
hid; she wished she had asked for a fire and that she had kept one of
the women to sleep with her--it was so lonely, and the sound of the
rain reminded her of that night at Martzburg when the two scholars had
been given shelter.
She wanted to go to the door and call some one, but a curious
heaviness in her limbs began to make movement irksome; she could no
longer drag her steps, and with a sigh she sank into the frayed velvet
chair by the fireplace.
She tried to tell herself that she was free, that she was on her way
to escape, but could not form the words on her lips, hardly the
thought; her head throbbed, and a cold sensation gripped her heart;
she moved in the chair, only to feel as if held down in it; she
struggled in vain to rise. “Barbara!” she whispered, and thought she
was calling aloud.
A gathering duskiness seemed to overspread the chamber, and the
tongue-shaped flame of the lamp showed through it distinct yet very
far away; the noise of the wind and rain made one long insistent
murmur and moaning.
Jacobea laughed drearily, and lifted her hands to her bosom to try to
find the crucifix that hung there, but her fingers were like lead, and
fell uselessly into her lap again.
Her brain whirled with memories, with anticipations and vague
expectations, tinged with fear like the sensations of a dream; she
felt that she was sinking into soft infolding darkness; the lamp-flame
changed into a fire-pointed star that rested on a knight’s helm, the
sound of wind and rain became faint human cries.
She whispered, as the dying Emperor had done--“I am bewitched.”
Then the Knight, with the star glittering above his brow, came towards
her and offered her a goblet.
“Sebastian!” she cried, and sat up with a face of horror; the chamber
was spinning about her; she saw the Knight’s long painted shield and
his bare hand holding out the wine; his visor was down.
She shrieked and laughed together, and put the goblet aside.
Some one spoke out of the mystery.
“The Empress found happiness--why not you?--may not a woman die as
easily as a man?”
She tried to remember her prayers, to find her crucifix; but the cold
edge of the gold touched her lips, and she drank.
The hot wine scorched her throat and filled her with strength; as she
sprang up the Knight’s star quivered back into the lamp-flame, the
vapours cleared from the room; she found herself staring at Dirk
Renswoude, who stood in the centre of the room and smiled at her.
“Oh!” she cried in a bewildered way, and put her hands to her
forehead.
“Well,” said Dirk; he held a rich gold goblet, empty, and his was the
voice she had already heard. “Why did you leave Frankfort?”
Jacobea shuddered.
“I do not know;” her eyes were blank and dull. “I think I was
afraid----”
“Lest you might do as Ysabeau did?” asked Dirk.
“What has happened to me?” was all her answer.
All sound without had ceased; the light burnt clear and steadily,
casting its faint radiance over the slim outlines of the young man and
the shuddering figure of the lady.
“What of your steward?” whispered Dirk.
She responded mechanically as if she spoke by rote.
“I have no steward. I am going alone to Martzburg.”
“What of Sebastian?” urged the youth.
Jacobea was silent; she came slowly down the chamber, guiding herself
with one hand along the wall, as though she could not see; the wind
stirred the arras under her fingers and ruffled her gown about her
feet.
Dirk set the goblet beside the lamp the while he watched her intently
with frowning eyes.
“What of Sebastian?” he repeated. “Ye fled from him, but have ye
ceased to think of him?”
“No,” said the chatelaine of Martzburg; “no, day and night--what is
God, that He lets a man’s face to come between me and Him?”
“The Emperor is dead,” said Dirk.
“Is dead,” she repeated.
“Ysabeau knows how.”
“Ah!” she whispered. “I think I knew it.”
“Shall the Empress be happy and you starve your heart to death?”
Jacobea sighed. “Sebastian! Sebastian!” She had the look of one
walking in sleep.
“What is Sybilla to you?”
“His wife,” answered Jacobea in the same tone; “his wife.”
“The dead do not bind the living.”
Jacobea laughed.
“No, no--how cold it is here; do you not feel the wind across the
floor?” Her fingers wandered aimless over her bosom. “Sybilla is dead,
you say?”
“Nay--Sybilla might die--so easily.”
Jacobea laughed again.
“Ysabeau did it--she is young and fair,” she said. “And she could do
it--why not I? But I cannot bear to look on death.”
Her expressionless eyes turned on Dirk still in sightless fashion.
“A word,” said Dirk--“that is all your part; send him ahead to
Martzburg.”
Jacobea nodded aimlessly.
“Why not?--why not?--Sybilla would be in bed, lying awake, listening
to the wind as I have done--so often--and he would come up the steep,
dark stairs. Oh, and she would raise her head----”
Dirk put in--
“‘Has the chatelaine spoken?’ she would say, and he would make an end
of it.”
“Perhaps she would be glad to die,” said Jacobea dreamily. “I have
thought that I should be glad to die.”
“And Sebastian?” said Dirk.
Her strangely altered face lit and changed.
“Does _he_ care for _me_?” she asked piteously.
“Enough to make life and death of little moment,” answered Dirk. “Has
he not followed you from Frankfort?”
“Followed me?” murmured Jacobea. “I thought he had forsaken me.”
“He is here.”
“Here--here?” She turned, her movements still curiously blind, and the
long strand of her hair shone on her dark gown as she stood with her
back to the light.
“Sebastian,” said Dirk softly.
He waved his little hand, and the steward appeared in the dark doorway
of the inner room; he looked from one to the other swiftly, and his
face was flushed and dangerous.
“Sebastian,” said Jacobea; there was no change in voice nor
countenance; she was erect and facing him, yet it might well be she
did not see him, for there seemed no life in her eyes.
He came across the room to her, speaking as he came, but a sudden
fresh gust of wind without scattered his words.
“Have you followed me?” she asked.
“Yea,” he answered hoarsely, staring at her; he had not dreamed a
living face could look so white as hers, no, nor dead face either. He
dropped to one knee before her, and took her limp hand.
“Shall we be free to-night?” she asked gently.
“You have but to speak,” he said. “So much will I do for you.”
She bent forward, and with her other hand touched his tumbled hair.
“Lord of Martzburg and my lord,” she said, and smiled sweetly. “Do you
know how much I love you, Sebastian? why, you must ask the image of
the Virgin--I have told her so often, and no one else; nay, no one
else.”
Sebastian sprang to his feet.
“Oh God!” he cried. “I am ashamed--ye have bewitched her--she knows
not what she says.”
Dirk turned on him fiercely.
“Did ye not curse me when ye thought she had escaped? did I not swear
to recover her for you? is she not yours? Saint Gabriel cannot save
her now.”
“If she had not said that,” muttered Sebastian; he turned distracted
eyes upon her standing with no change in her expression, the tips of
her fingers resting on the table; her wide grey eyes gazing before
her.
“Fool,” answered Dirk; “an’ she did _not_ love you, what chance had
you? I left my fortunes to help you to this prize, and I will not see
you palter now--lady, speak to him.”
“Ay, speak to me,” cried Sebastian earnestly; “tell me if it be your
wish that I, at all costs, should become your husband, tell me if it
is your will that the woman in our way should go.”
A slow passion stirred the calm of her face; her eyes glittered.
“Yes,” she said; “yes.”
“Jacobea!”--he took her arm and drew her close to him--“look me in the
face and repeat that to me; think if it is worth--Hell--to you and
me.”
She gazed up at him, then hid her face on his sleeve.
“Ay, Hell,” she answered heavily; “go to Martzburg to-night; she
cannot claim you when she is dead; how I have striven not to hate
her--_my_ lord, _my_ husband.” She clung to him like a sleepy child
that feels itself falling into oblivion. “Now it is all over, is it
not?--the unrest, the striving. Sebastian, beware of the storm--it
blows so loud.”
He put her from him into the worn old chair. “I will come back to
you--to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” she repeated--“when the sun is up.”
The wind rushed between them and made the lamp-flame leap wildly.
“Make haste!” cried Dirk; “away--the horse is below.”
But Sebastian still gazed at Jacobea.
“It is done,” said Dirk impatiently, “begone.”
The steward turned away.
“They are all asleep below?” he questioned.
“Nor will they wake.”
Sebastian opened the door on to the dark stairway and went softly out.
“Now, it _is_ done,” repeated Dirk in a swelling whisper, “and she is
lost.”
He snatched up the lamp, and, holding it aloft, looked down at the
drooping figure in the chair; Jacobea’s head sank back against the
tarnished velvet; there was a smile on her white lips, and her hands
rested in her lap; even with Dirk’s intent face bending over her and
the full light pouring down on her, she did not look up.
“Gold hair and grey eyes--and her little feet,” murmured Dirk; “one of
God’s own flowers--what are you now?”
He laughed to himself and reset the lamp on the table; the lull in the
storm was over, wind and rain strove together in the bare trees, and
the howlings of the tempest shook the long bare room.
Jacobea moved in her seat.
“Is he gone?” she asked fearfully.
“Certes, he has gone,” smiled Dirk. “Would you have him dally on such
an errand?”
Jacobea rose swiftly and stood a moment listening to the unhappy wind.
“I thought he was here,” she said under her breath. “I thought that he
had come at last.”
“He came,” said Dirk.
The chatelaine looked swiftly round at him; there was a dawning
knowledge in her eyes.
“Who are you?” she demanded, and her voice had lost its calm; “what
has happened?”
“Do you not remember me?” smiled Dirk.
Jacobea staggered back.
“Why,” she stammered, “he was here, down at my feet, and we
spoke--about Sybilla.”
“And now,” said Dirk, “he has gone to free you of Sybilla--as you bid
him.”
“As I bid him?”
Dirk clasped his cloak across his breast.
“At this moment he rides to Martzburg on this service of yours, and I
must begone to Frankfort where my fortunes wait. For you, these words:
should you meet again one Theirry, a pretty scholar, do not prate to
him of God and Judgment, nor try to act the saint. Let him alone, he
is no matter of yours, and maybe some woman cares for him as ye care
for Sebastian, ay, and will hold him, though she have not yellow
hair.”
Jacobea uttered a moan of anguish.
“_I_ bid him go,” she whispered. “Did God utterly forsake me and I bid
him go?”
She gave Dirk a wild look over her shoulders, huddling them to her
ears, as she crouched upon the floor.
“You are the Devil!” she shrieked. “I have delivered myself unto the
Devil!”
She beat her hands together, and fell towards his feet.
Dirk stepped close and peered curiously into her unconscious face.
“Why, she is not so fair,” he murmured, “and grief will spoil her
bloom, and ’twas only her face he loved.”
He extinguished the lamp and smiled into the darkness.
“I do think God is very weak.”
He drew the curtain away from the deep-set window, and the moon,
riding the storm clouds like a silver armoured Amazon, cast a ghastly
light over the huddled figure of Jacobea of Martzburg, and threw her
shadow dark and trailing across the cold floor.
Dirk left the chamber and the hostel unseen and unheard. The wind made
too great a clamour for stray sounds to tell. Out in the wild, wet
night he paused a moment to get his bearings; then turned towards the
shed where he and Sebastian had left their horses.
The trees and the sign-board creaked and swung together; the long
lances of the rain struck his face and the wind dashed his hair into
his eyes, but he sang to himself under his breath with a joyous note.
The angry triumphant moon, casting her beams down the clouds, served
to light the little wooden shed--the inn-stable--built against the
rocks.
There were the chatelaine’s horses asleep in their stalls, here was
his own; but the place beside it where Sebastian’s steed had waited
was empty.
Dirk, shivering a little in the tempest, unfastened his horse, and was
preparing to depart, when a near sound arrested him.
Some one was moving in the straw at the back of the shed.
Dirk listened, his hand on the bridle, till a moonbeam striking across
his shoulder revealed a cloaked figure rising from the ground.
“Ah,” said Dirk softly, “who is this?”
The stranger got to his feet.
“I have but taken shelter here, sir,” he said, “deeming it too late to
rouse the hostel----”
“Theirry!” cried Dirk, and laughed excitedly. “Now, this is
strange----”
The figure came forward.
“Theirry--yes; have you followed me?” he exclaimed wildly, and his
face showed drawn and wan in the silver light. “I left Frankfort to
escape you; what fiend’s trick has brought you here?”
Dirk softly stroked his horse’s neck.
“Are you afraid of me, Theirry?” he asked mournfully. “Certes, there
is no need.”
But Theirry cried out at him with the fierceness of one at bay--
“Begone, I want none of you nor of your kind; I know how the Emperor
died, and I fled from a city where such as you come to power, ay, even
as Jacobea of Martzburg did--I am come after her.”
“And where think you to find her?” asked Dirk.
“By now she is at Basle.”
“Are ye not afraid to go to Basle?”
Theirry trembled, and stepped back into the shadows of the shed.
“I want to save my soul; no, I am not afraid; if need be, I will
confess.”
Dirk laughed.
“At the shrine of Jacobea of Martzburg? Look to it she be not trampled
in the mire by then.”
“You lie, you malign her!” cried the other in strong agitation.
But Dirk turned on him with imperious sternness.
“I did not leave Frankfort on a fool’s errand--I was triumphant, at
the high tide of my fortunes, my foot on Ysabeau’s neck. I had good
reason to have left this alone. Come with me to Martzburg and see my
work, and know the saint you worship.”
“To Martzburg?” Theirry’s voice had terror in it.
“Certes--to Martzburg.” Dirk began to lead his horse into the open.
“Is the chatelaine there?”
“If not yet, she will be soon; take one of these horses,” he added.
“I know not your meaning,” answered Theirry fearfully; “but my road
was to Martzburg. I mean to pray Jacobea, who left without a word to
me, to give me some small place in her service.”
“Belike she will,” mocked Dirk.
“You shall not go alone,” cried Theirry, becoming more distracted,
“for no good purpose can you be pursuing her.”
“I asked your company.”
Impatiently and feverishly Theirry unfastened and prepared himself a
mount.
“If ye have evil designs on her,” he cried, “be very sure ye will be
defeated, for her strength is as the strength of angels.”
Dirk delicately guided his steed out of the shed; the moon had at last
conquered the cloud battalions, and a clear cold light revealed the
square dark shape of the hostel, the flapping sign, the bare
pine-trees and the long glimmer of the road; Dirk’s eyes turned to the
blank window of the room where Jacobea lay, and he smiled wickedly.
“The night has cleared,” he said, as Theirry, leading one of the
chatelaine’s horses, came out of the stable; “and we should reach
Martzburg before the dawn.”