White Lady Read online

  White Lady

  By Sophie Wenzel Ellis

  This page copyright © 2004 Blackmask Online.

  http://www.blackmask.com

  Etext from pulpgen.com

  In purest love André served his weirdly beautiful flower—his White Lady of passion, of jealousy, of hate.

  BRYNHILD knew that something had waked her, something pleasant and exhilarating, which was to be expected on this strange island in the most remote corner of the warm Caribbean sea, where André Fournier, her fiancé, experimented fantastically with tropical plant life.

  Presently she heard it again, music so wild and delicate that she felt its rapturous vibrations in her nerves, rather than heard them.

  Below her, from the house to the placid sea in the distance, spread an unnatural panorama, lighted by the sun's gaudy hood just coming out of the water. She looked, and was glad that she had accepted the invitation of Madame Fournier, André's gracious mother, to visit their lonely Ilede-Fleur.

  In a few minutes she was dressed and on the trail of the puzzling music. When she closed the back door behind her, she was immediately in a curious maze of floral wonders, unreal as a painting by Doré. The jungles of the sun-warmed lands had given to André their rarest treasures, which now sucked a richer life from the black soil of the Ile-de-Fleur.

  Nature, in her most whimsical mood, had not been permitted to rule here; everywhere, among frond and spray and giant runner, bloomed hybrid blossoms whose weird forms and colors suggested André's tampering with Nature.

  Brynhild heard the music clearer now, long notes that had an eerie, half-human sound, like the tuneless music of a demented savage. It baffled her, teased her into wilder plunges through the flower thickets, all jeweled with liquid beads.

  WHEN she mounted a hillock and saw, just beyond, a tiny cage built of copper screen, she knew that she had reached her goal. The music seemed to come from this little bower, which was puzzling, for the sole occupant was a blooming plant.

  A golden gauze seemed to drop suddenly from the sky, which was the tropical sun's first rays shooting from the sea. The stronger light brought a gasp from Brynhild, for now she could see that even in this land of queer vegetation, the imprisoned plant was a monstrous alien.

  From a mass of thick frondage, white and fleshy as her own bare arms, reared a flower whose round, pallid petals formed a face like the caricature of a woman. Draped around this eldritch flower-face and flowing down to meet the colorless foliage, was a mass of gauzy matter that had the startling appearance of a bridal veil.

  But what brought a cry from Brynhild was not the human look of this fantastic plant, but what it was doing. Just below the head, almost as large as her own, protruded two slender, dagger-pointed white spines, set in sockets in such a manner that they could be moved like arms. These two spines, rubbing together, produced the music that had captivated her.

  After the first frightful moment of comprehension, she longed to see the spectacle closer. She pressed her forehead against the copper screen.

  Instantly the spines ceased their serenade, the white flower-face turned and fronted her, and she felt eyes watching her, eyes she could not see. For a moment, flower and foliage remained rigid; then a spasm passed through the entire plant, the arms came together again, and hideous discord shrieked out.

  Brynhild, sensing that her presence had caused the change from elfin music to the blood-freezing dissonance, dropped behind a concealing thicket and watched.

  WHILE she waited, footsteps approached. André was coming. Like a tall young pagan priest he came forward, arms and shoulders naked, sunshine splashing his bronze curls. He had a beautiful, poetic face and a luminous smile that was now turned on the strange plant.

  Instantly the flower music commenced again, louder and more seductive than ever, the queer blossom reeling on its stem as though animal excitement quivered through its pallid flesh.

  André called out in his soft French: “Bonjour, White Lady. Are you happy this morning, eh?”

  The woman-face swayed toward him; the dagger arms caressed each other rapturously.

  Brynhild crouched lower behind her hiding place, each moment more astonished and horrified. André lifted the latch on the door and went inside.

  The music sank to a low, plaintive throbbing, tender as a bird's love song. André came closer to the flower and touched the white foliage with gentle fingers. Down drooped the flower head until the fleshy cheeks brushed his face.

  “Ah, ma petite!” André whispered. “My own White Lady! If I could but bridge the gap!”

  Brynhild could endure no more.

  “André!” she shrieked, leaping from her hiding place.

  Instantly the flower-head stiffened, and turned toward her with a gesture so human that the girl sickened. As André called out an impulsive greeting and came toward her, the unnatural foliage quivered violently and the daggers came together with a piercing din.

  ANDRÉ laughed. “She's jealous, the White Lady!” His English had the barest accent. “Did you ever imagine such a flower, Brynhild? Should you have believed if someone had told you of this?”

  “It is a nightmare!” She covered her eyes with soft, beautifully formed hands.

  “No, Brynhild. She is my dream materialized.”

  “Stop! I can't bear to hear you speak of it as though it were a woman.” Her face had blanched until it was as pale as the flower before her.

  In the cage, a terrific noise was going on, shocking in its metallic harshness.

  André turned around and looked at the flower.

  “I'd better go to it for a moment, dear. Come! White Lady is like a dog: if you are good to her, she'll respond with love that is almost human.”

  Hesitant, as though she feared something evil, Brynhild entered the cage behind André. André caressed the leaves and put his face against the humanlike head. The daggers, rubbing together, gave forth a feline purr.

  “Come, Brynhild,” said André, with his lucent smile, “pet her.”

  Brynhild shrank back. How could she touch those leprous, fleshy leaves, that flower-face as unnatural as a vampire's? Trembling, she reached out her little hand to the bleached foliage.

  Quick as a streak of lightning, the daggers struck at her, viciously, inflicting a long, bleeding scratch on her hand. The girl screamed and fell into André's arms.

  “Darling!” groaned the young man, bending over her solicitously. “I never thought—”

  Brynhild buried her golden curls against his shoulder.

  “Andre!” she sobbed. “I can't endure it. That monster—it hates me.” Her voice rose hysterically. “Why did you create it?”

  “Hush!” He spoke sternly. “She never would have scratched you if she hadn't sensed that you are an enemy.”

  “You're mad!” She broke from his arms and raised her beautiful face angrily. “This vile monster has gone to your head. Now, as always, you prefer your unnatural flowers to me.”

  HER white skirt flashed through the open door and on out between the flowery tangle beyond. He followed her, calling a contrite apology. When he caught her and again held her fast in his arms, they were both breathless.

  “Pardonne-moi!” he pleaded, his thin, spiritual face full of penitence. “But, Brynhild, I'd give half my life if you'd love plants as I do.”

  And with his hand pressing hers, he told her, in his peculiarly quiet voice, of the supreme joy that can be had from a sympathetic understanding of Nature's strange ways.

  “Man has a connection with plant life,” he said, “which all scientists will some day concede. Naturalists already agree that there is no real dividing line between the lowest forms of plant and animal life. And what is man but the highest animal?”

  He had
grown excited, as he always did when discussing plants. His sensitive face glowed with earnestness.

  “Who can say,” he continued, “how close is the kinship between animals and the carnivorous plants that devour meat? White Lady is not the only plant that has voluntary motion; nor is she the only one that senses instantly the presence of the destroyer.” He looked at her intently. “Some of our commonest garden plants have eye-cells in the epidermis of leaves and stalks—eyes that have lenses and are sensitive to light. White Lady is the result of careful cross-breedings that have developed the most humanlike traits found throughout plant life. Oh, Brynhild!” He held her hand against his cheek.

  “If you could only understand, dear! You would not be shocked that my White Lady is more than an animal plant; that the exquisite, lovely thing has intelligence!”

  A LONG shiver ran through the girl's slender body.

  “It is wrong to bring such a monstrosity into existence, André!”

  “No!” His eyes filmed with tears. “My only sin is that I developed just one. Had I developed two, White Lady would not now be the loneliest living thing in existence.” He flushed as he spoke.

  Sudden horrible understanding gripped Brynhild, understanding so overwhelming that she swayed dizzily.

  “That monster—it loves you, André! It loves you as a dog loves its master.”

  He stroked the gleaming gold of her hair, all alive under the sunlight.

  “Don't go near it again, dear one,” he soothed. “There might be real danger for you. Now there! Mother is calling us to breakfast. Be happy and smiling, won't you?” He tilted up her chin and kissed her gently.

  At the breakfast table, Madame Fournier was very much disturbed; André took nothing except milk, into which he dissolved a pinkish pellet.

  “No coffee this morning, son?” asked the mother, anxiously.

  André flushed. “No, mother; just milk.”

  “Why, André!” protested Brynhild. “You scarcely eat enough to live. I watched you last night. You actually shivered over the lettuce mother made you eat. Don't you feel well?”

  “Excellent. Remember that I drink quantities of milk.”

  After breakfast, Madame Fournier drew Brynhild aside.

  “I'm uneasy,” she said. “André is becoming fanatical in his love for growing things. Think of it! He says he can hear his lettuce cry out when he cuts into it.”

  “A year ago,” shivered Brynhild, “I'd have called that nerves; but now that I've seen that monstrous White Lady thing—” She put her hands over her eyes.

  NO more that day did Brynhild go near White Lady. That night, while the island slept, she sat by her window and enjoyed the splendor of the moon-bathed panorama. Dimly, from the enchanted flowery reaches, came stealing the wild music of White Lady. With the first note, Brynhild stiffened, but, as the seductive sounds sent their sorcery through her, she listened with increasing delight, forgetful of her horror of the morning. Within a few moments, she was reaching for her dressing gown.

  Following where White Lady's music pulled her, Brynhild stepped lightly through the thick leafage, exalted as though she were blown along by a jubilant wind.

  André's strange world of flowers was like the inside of a giant pearl, for the Caribbean moon, riding full and low, had bleached the island to a luminous whiteness. From the pale hypnosis above and from the honeyed breaths that trembled over the flowers, she drew a new kinship with Nature. There was solemn joy in knowing that the same mysterious force called life which animated her own young body also sent the sap flowing through the plants about her.

  Every growing thing on the island seemed to respond to the beauty of the night as happily as she. On all sides, flower-faces that seemed delirious with the joy of living lifted to the white radiance above.

  The beauty of the world, then, did not exist for man's sole enjoyment.

  Perhaps there was truth in André's contention that plants, with their partially developed consciousness, respond with more delicate delight than cultivated man to such elemental joys as the beauty of moonlight and the soft kisses of the night wind.

  She was sure of this when she saw White Lady.

  The mysterious woman-flower was moon-mad. The roof of the bower, built to shade partially, cut off the moon which was directly above, but White Lady had curved her stem so that her face reached the light.

  THE music that throbbed from the rubbing arms was so rapturous that Brynhild felt her senses reel. She threw herself upon the grassy ground directly in front of the cage.

  Instantly the music ceased, and the monstrous blossom withdrew to the shadows, where it stood tall and straight on its rigid stem, spectral in its veil and cadaverous foliage. Brynhild was prepared for the hideous discord that she had heard in the morning, but from the shadows came such low, enticing harmonies, sweet as the breathings of a wind harp, that she drew closer. The nearer she approached, the dimmer came the music, until the horrible thought came to her that White Lady was enticing her within the cage.

  Pressing her hands over her ears, she fled, frightened with the paralyzing fear of the unknown.

  The next morning, when she told André, he caught her in his arms and cried out:

  “Keep away from her! As you value your life, keep away. She has intelligence, but no conscience—no pity for what she hates.”

  “But, André!” She searched his ascetic face closely. “Will you let such a thing live? Shan't you cut it down?”

  “Cut down my White Lady, the supreme achievement of my life?” He looked as though he thought her insane.

  “Not even though it hates me, André? Not even though it is trying to destroy me?”

  “But I warned you to keep away. Wouldn't you—wouldn't any human being have a right to fight an enemy? You are her enemy, and she knows it.”

  The dispute ended with Brynhild in tears, but with André as firm as ever about not cutting down his unnatural creation.

  BRYNHILD was jealous, jealous of a flower, and her jealousy increased with the passing of time. Whenever she heard the seductive song of White Lady, elemental hate surged in her heart. She wanted to destroy it, to tear apart those thick, white leaves, to crush that singular woman-face under her heel.

  She was afraid to go too close to the screen cage, but sometimes she stole near enough for a good glimpse of the flower. Always she was delighted to see the rage of the horrible thing, and, at a safe distance, laughed at the shrieking dissonance that the flower's striking daggers made. At times, when she approached the cage, White Lady merely stiffened, and then Brynhild knew that it watched her as a cat watches a mouse. André had told her that the invisible eyes in the leaves and stem were very highly developed.

  It gave Brynhild unholy delight to know that her very presence was torment to this human flower that seemed to adore André. As though the thing could understand, she would stand at a safe distance and tell how André loved her, and of the wedding which was only three weeks distant. Once, after a scene like this, White Lady lunged at her so viciously with her daggers that Brynhild was barely able to escape.

  And the girl knew that, sooner or later, one would succumb to the other.

  “It shall be that bête blanche,” vowed Brynhild, quoting the name that Madame Fournier had given the plant.

  AS the days passed, André grew thinner, whiter, more spiritual. He was absolutely unlike the brown young athlete with whom Brynhild had fallen in love, two years ago, in Bermuda.

  “It's the way he eats,” moaned his mother. “How can a strong man who works live on little else than milk? What are we to do, Brynhild? He is killing himself. Sometimes I even wonder if his mind is not going.” She began to cry softly. “Did you notice him in the rain yesterday?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “He walked around as in a dream, with his white face held up toward the dripping sky. When I went to him and asked him to come in, he refused. He told me to leave him alone, because he had found the mood in which he could react to t
he cool rain just as a plant. He's doing something mysterious to make himself as much as possible like things that grow in the ground.”

  “It's that White Lady!” said Brynhild bitterly. “Constant brooding over a monster like that will unhinge anyone's mind. The horrible freak is getting on my nerves, too. I do silly things.” She blushed, thinking of her own scenes with the strange plant.

  “We'll have to watch him, Brynhild.” Brynhild did watch, and thereby brought greater suffering to herself, for her surveillance revealed that he not only spent much of the day with White Lady, but that he often went to the plant at night.

  Much of his passion for herself had died. His love seemed to have ascended to a spiritual plane which was ethereal in its purity and tenderness. He spoke no more of their approaching marriage, seemed almost to have forgotten it.

  When the two were alone, he frequently turned the conversation to morbid subjects.

  “Death is beautiful in a land of flowers like this,” he told her. “Isn't it a happy thought, Brynhild, to know that when you are put into the warm, sweet earth, your body resolves into its chemical elements and again reaches up to the light in leaf and stalk and fragrant bloom?”

  ONE night, when the forgotten wedding was only a week off, André fainted. After he had responded to the frantic ministrations of his mother and Brynhild, he turned his great, dark eyes pleadingly to them and gasped:

  “I want you both to make me a promise.”

  “What, son?” asked the mother.

  “That when I'm dead, you'll bury me, not too deep, under my White Lady.” His tired lids fluttered down. “Oh, mother! To think of the roots of that sweet creature reaching down, down for me and resurrecting my atoms to a newer and sweeter life.”

  “André, darling! Don't! You're breaking our hearts!”

  “But will you promise?” “Yes! Oh, God—help me!” With André restored and quiet in his room, Brynhild and Madame Fournier sought a secluded corner for their frantic grief.

  “It can't go on another day, daughter,” said the mother. “André will die before the wedding. We must destroy that bête blanche.”