Weird Tales volume 28 number 03

by Wright, Farnsworth, 1888–1940

  "Jim," he said suddenly, "I saw her last night. She came to my room. She drew aside the curtains of the bed, and leaned over me. I can't describe my sensations. It was almost as though life were suspended in space—like a bridge over a timeless sea."

  I had nothing to say. I knew so well how he felt.

  "She leaned closer and closer to me," Wrexler went on; "then she smiled, and before I could find my breath to speak, she was gone. This is the second time she has smiled at me. I felt a nameless fear, as though there was a threatening quality in those red lips. She looked at me as though I might have been Black George himself."

  In that moment, all my envy was swept away by anxiety for my friend. Indeed, I wished she had kissed him, for then he would have been safe, I started to speak, to beg Wrexler to leave Rougemont, but before the words could leave my mouth, I saw her. She was standing in the path some distance away, directly in line with my eyes, and she was shaking her head impressively.

  I knew instantly what she meant. I was not to send Wrexler away, He

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  could not see her, because at the moment he was facing me, his hand on my arm. His fingers touching me were not quite steady. It brought me back to reality. "Wrexler," I cried, "you—could leave Rougemont."

  Her eyes clouded with anger. She looked at me reproachfully, command-ingly. As though I were dreaming, I heard my own voice, "I don't want you to go, I would be lonely without you. Perhaps there is no danger."

  Wrexler looked at me curiously. '"There is risk, I know that, but I do not care. I am like a man who has eaten a strange and terrible drug, who knows the danger, but can not resist it, I will stay."

  Beyond him Helene smiled a satisfied smile, as she looked at Wrexler's broad back. It made me feel afraid. Then suddenly her gaze swept to me, and the smile changed into a languorous one that promised all things. My heart beat faster, and I forgot my fear,

  Wrexler moved restlessly, turning so that we were side by side. Even in that second Helene had vanished—how, I do not know. One minute she was there, the next she was not.

  We walked along slowly. Finally Wrexler spoke, "No matter what happens, and I mean that widely, my friend, you are not to regret. For a little time I have been happy. I have come alive. I have loved, even though the woman that I love is a wraith* I have felt a sensation I thought never to feel. If I could hold her in my arms and press my lips to hers, I would count the world well lost."

  I could say nothing, because—God pity me!—I knew just how he felt.

  The days slipped away quickly, I did not see Helene again, but Wrexler did. Almost every da^ he met her

  in the rose garden, where they spent long hours.

  He told me that she was always elusive, but at the same time promising that some day she would be kinder. He said her voice was like golden honey and that without her he could not face life.

  Once I saw them myself, as I came from an interview with de Lacy. As I approached the rose garden through an opening in the arches, I saw them sitting side by side on the marble bench, and of the two, Helene looked the more earthly. For Wrexler had grown paler and more ethereal every day. His eyes were luminous as he looked at her adoringly.

  She saw me first, and her lips curved sweetly. She rose in a leisurely fashion, turned her back to me and dropped a low curtsy to Wrexler; then while I still watched, she extended one slender hand to him. He bent over it, his lips touched its soft whiteness. A little laugh like the tinkle of silver bells swept through the garden; then she was gone.

  Wrexler stood like a man in a trance. I came quickly forward. "You are playing with fire!" I cried.

  Wrexler roused. "You saw?"

  I nodded.

  "Have you ever seen anything mora beautiful, more lovely?"

  I shook my head.

  "I'm not afraid any more. She has promised me -"

  But what Helene had promised I was not to know, for Wrexler's mouth shut with a snap. When I pressed him, he shook his head. Finally he said, carefully choosing his words with a reluctance that was strange to him:

  "To me is to be granted something beyond the knowledge of mortal man, I can tell you no more, but some day you will know," There was an expression on his face that transcended earth.

  The next night I spoke to de Lacg

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  and told him my fears. Wrexler was spending more and more time in the rose garden. I hardly saw him, and he would not discuss anything with me. Even at the stately, elegantly served meals, he barely spoke. He always seemed to be listening, waiting.

  De Lacy shared my fears, but he suggested nothing to help. "He has been marked, my lord," he said gravely. "We can only pray. But even in prayers there is no refuge, for Helene is beyond such things."

  "Surely " I began to remonstrate.

  "The power of evil is as strong as the power of good, or at least there is little between them. Helene herself is bound fast by hate of Black George."

  Curses live, I knew that—witness the lasting quality of the curses and spells of the Egyptian priests. But Helene was not evil. I said as much.

  De Lacy shook his head. "She is cut off from her lover. She does not feel kindly toward men. Remember she promised vengeance century after century, that day in the great hall."

  That night in the silence of my chamber I called her name. "Helene! Helene!" I flung my agonized summons into the night, but there was no answer.

  I went over in my mind the tales de Lacy had told me of the havoc she had caused; how one man had cast himself down from the highest turret, crying her name; how another had been found dead in the rose garden, horror frozen on his face. There were still others who had looked upon her, and death or madness came as the result.

  The more I thought of these tales of terror, the more I feared for Wrexler. At last I could stand no more. I thrust my arms into the rich velvet robe that had taken the place of my bath gown, and went to Wrexler's room. The guards stood back to let me pass.

  I did not mean to wake him, but some inner foreboding made me feel I must know that he was safe.

  As 1 drew aside the curtains of his bed, 1 could not entirely stifle the cry that came to my lips, for the bed was empty. But upon the pillow lay a small, white rose. It was the kind they use in funeral wreaths in France, My heart almost stopped beating.

  The rose garden!—or perhaps the library. A more normal thought struck me. Wrexler might have wanted to read. I rushed into the hall, to find de Lacy waiting for me, summoned by the guards. He held a silver candle-stick in which a tall, white candle burned.

  "The library!" I gasped. That was nearest, we should try it first. De Lacy knew my meaning. He had instantly grasped the situation and his face was white and tense.

  Together we descended the curving stairway. Together we reached the library. Then, motioning de Lacy behind me, I swung open the door.

  The room was brightly illuminated, although not one of the candles had been lit In the middle of it stood Wrexler, with Helene in his arms. Theit lips were close-locked.

  It was a picture that an artist would have delighted to paint: the stiff, crimson skirts of Helene d'Harcourt's gown stood wide on either side, and Wrexler's blue doublet and hose against them was in bold relief. His long over-sleeves edged with fur hung gracefully.

  I could not speak. This mating of man with ghost was almost more than my poor mortal brain could bear, yet with every atom of my being I wished that I could have been in Wrexler's place. I remembered the one chaste kiss I had had from her, and I almost fainted at the thought of possessing those lips for my own, as Wrexler was doing. Strangely

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  enough, mingling with this emotion was another—a feeling of fear and anxiety for my friend. Cold horror that froze my blood kept me rooted to the spot.

  Behind me de Lacy had fallen to his knees. I could hear him repeating the Latin words of a prayer. All at once I saw where the light was coming from. The entire north wall, ord
inarily lined with books, had gone. In its stead was a stone wall, and in the center of the wall was a low-hung Gothic door, carved and ornate. It was standing open, and beyond was a pale, luminous yellow mist. I could see nothing of what else was beyond the door, for the yellow haze filled the entire space. It was like a golden fog, and its radiance lighted the library with a strange, unearthly glow. Its luminosity glowed upon Helene and Wrexler like a spotlight.

  For a moment I thought Rougemont, de Lacy, everything of the past weeks, must have been a dream and that I was watching a cinema of past days. All at once, before my astonished eyes Helene gently drew her lips away from Wrex-ler's. She slipped from his arms and extended her hands to him. "Come," I heard her say.

  Wrexler had been right: her voice was like golden honey. It was like the music of willow trees in early spring. Wrexler grasped her hands. For the first time I saw his face. Joy transfigured it, such joy as I have never seen before, and never shall see again.

  Helene moved backward, slowly but surely, drawing him toward the little Gothic door that stood open. With her soft lips half parted, she whispered, "Come."

  "Wrexler," I cried suddenly.

  He did not hear me. As he looked into her eyes, he might have been a bird charmed by a snake. Nothing could break through the spell that bound him.

  They were nearer the door. EacH second brought them closer to it. Now Helene was on the other side. The golden mist concentrated upon her, until she looked like a goddess in its eery light.

  "Wrexler! Wrexler!" The words tore through my throat.

  Wrexler stepped over the threshold. Through the golden mist I saw him clasp Helene in his arms again. I saw her smile triumphantly at me, as she raised her lips to his. There was something in her eyes that filled me with horror.

  The mist swirled about them until I could barely discover the outlines of their figures through its gleaming haze. Then the door swung slowly shut.

  I awoke to feverish activity. "Wrexler! Wrexler!" I shouted and rushed forward to the door.

  I grasped the iron ring that hung in its center. I pulled on it with all my might. When I found that it resisted all my efforts I began beating against the door itself. Presently I felt myself being pulled away.

  "There is no use, my lord," de Lacy's voice was saying. "The door is gone."

  "Gone!" I ejaculated, and even as I spoke I saw what he meant. The north wall of the library was lined with books as it always had been. I had been beating upon them impotently.

  I looked down at my hands; the knuckles were raw and bleeding, just as they would have been from pounding on a heavily carved wooden door. De Lacy caught my meaning. "The door was there, my lord. It was the lost door— the door behind which Black George buried Helene d'Harcourt. It had been lost for centuries."

  I sank into a chair, weakly, for now the fact that I had lost Wrexler, my friend, was paramount. "I will tear down the walls until I find it."

  "That has been done, my lord, and it

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  has never been found. It will never be found again. Only for a brief moment you and I have been granted a glimpse of something we can not understand."

  "And Wrexler " I groaned.

  "He was happy," de Lacy comforted. "No matter what happened after, he has had happiness such as I have never seen before."

  My head pitched forward and I knew no more.

  Three days later, I was escorted to the library by de Lacy, to whom since Wrexler's loss I was more devoted than ever. With great ceremony I was given the key to the gilded casket, then left alone.

  Seated in the great chair before the oaken table, I unlocked the casket. It contained many pages closely written in my father's hand. In them were instructions as to my future conduct, my care of Rougemont, what he had done and what he expected me to do. But the lines that interested me most were these:

  "/ bought Rougemont for your mother, shortly after your birth, because when riding through this country, she saw and loved it. It was a purchase that cost me dear. For Rougemont held a curse and an avenging spirit in the form of a beautiful young girl who could not hear to see others' happiness. So my wife died.

  "Two months after your mother's 'death, I first saw la belle Helene. We fought a long battle, she and I, but I was strong, my son, because I loved your mother. No other woman's charms could lure me to my doom. Finally I made a bargain with a ghost,

  "She hated modern things and longed for Rougemont to be great again, I promised to restore the chateau to its former splendor, to make it just as H.

  had been in her days, and in return she promised immunity to me, and afterward to you, and to all my court when 1 should have established it.

  "1 restored Rougemont. 1 repeopled it. With her help and advice, I have made it as it was in her own day.

  "She showed me the hidden treasure vaults of the d'Harcourts so that I would have enough money to purchase the things she wanted.

  "She too has kept her bargain, for I and my court have lived happily here unmolested. Only when an outsider came or someone disobeyed or longed for the outside world, has she wreaked vengeance.

  "She has sworn to give you the kiss that promises immunity, the night you come. Only, beware, my son, whom you bring here from the world you know, and beware of the lovely Helene, Old man as I am, devoted to your mother's memory as I am, she can still make my 'pulses leap.

  "Above all things, if she shows you the Lost Door, do not be tempted to cross its threshold, for that way, unless you are the reincarnation of the Englishman, annihilation lies."

  There was more, pages more, of other matters, but I left them for another day. Alone there in the library, I let my eyes wander to where the little Gothic door had been.

  Had Wrexler been the Englishman come back to earth to claim his bride? Could that account for the strange, unsatisfied longings he had always had, his unearthly feelings, his unlikeness to other people? Or was he Black George, lured back to Rougemont for Helene's vengeance? I hope for his sake that was not the explanation; that he and Helene

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  would find bliss waiting for them behind the Lost Door and I would never see Helene again.

  The days pass. I do what my father set out for me to do. I keep his bargain

  with the ghost of the fair Helene. I never leave Rougemont. I have no desire to, for I am always hoping that some day I shall again find the Lost Door.

  0

  oom of the House of Duryea

  By EARL PEIRCE, JR.

  r A powerful story of stark horror, and the dreadful thing that happened in a lone house in the Maine woods

  A RTHUR DURYEA, a young, hand-/% some man, came to meet his ■ father for the first time in

  twenty years. As he strode into the hotel lobby—long strides which had the spring of elastic in them—idle eyes lifted to appraise him, for he was an impressive figure, somehow grim with exaltation.

  The desk clerk looked up with his habitual smile of expectation; how-do-you-do-Mr.-so-and-so, and his fingers strayed to the green fountain pen which stood in a holder on the desk.

  Arthur Duryea cleared his throat, but still his voice was clogged and unsteady. To the clerk he said:

  "I'm looking for my father, Doctor Henry Duryea. I understand he is registered here. He has recently arrived from Paris."

  The clerk lowered his glance to a list of names. "Doctor Duryea is in suite 600, sixth floor," He looked up, his eyebrows

  arched questioningly. "Are you staying too, sir, Mr. Duryea?"

  Arthur took the pen and scribbled his name rapidly. Without a further word, neglecting even to get his key and own room number, he turned and walked to the elevators. Not until he reached his father's suite on the sixth floor did he make an audible noise, and this was a mere sigh which fell from his lips like a prayer.

  The man who opened the door was unusually tall, his slender frame clothed in tight-fitting black. He hardly dared to smile. His clean-shaven face was pale
, an almost livid whiteness against the sparkle in his eyes. His jaw had a bluish luster.

  "Arthur!" The word was scarcely a whisper. It seemed choked up quietly, as if it had been repeated time and again on his thin lips.

  Arthur Duryea felt the kindliness of W.T.—8

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  those eyes go through him, and then he was in his father's embrace.

  Later, when these two grown men had regained their outer calm, they closed the door and went into the drawing-room. The elder Duryea held out a humidor of fine cigars, and his hand shook so hard when he held the match that his son was forced to cup his own hands about the flame. They both had tears in their eyes, but their eyes were smiling.

  Henry Duryea placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "This is the happiest day

  of my life," he said. "You can never know how much I have longed for this moment."

  Arthur, looking into that glance, realized, with growing pride, that he had loved his father all his life, despite any of those things which had been cursed against him. He sat down on the edge of a chair.

  "I—I don't know how to act," he confessed. "You surprize me, Dad. You're so different from what I had expected,"

  "He lay like o waxen figure tied to his bed.'*

  W, T.—4

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  A cloud came over Doctor Duryea's features. "What did you expect, Arthur?" he demanded quickly. "An evil eye? A shaven head and knotted jowls?"

  "Please, Dad—no!" Arthur's words clipped short. "I don't think I ever really visualized you. I knew you would be a splendid man. But I thought you'd look older, more like a man who has really suffered."

  "I have suffered, more than I can ever describe. But seeing you again, and the prospect of spending the rest of my life with you, has more than compensated for my sorrows. Even during the twenty years we were apart I found an ironic joy in learning of your progress in college, and in your American game of football."