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diff --git a/32671-h/32671-h.htm b/32671-h/32671-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8c5e743 --- /dev/null +++ b/32671-h/32671-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1196 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Doors Of Death, by Arthur B. Waltermire. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + +.linenum { + position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 4%; +} /* poetry number */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.sidenote { + width: 20%; + padding-bottom: .5em; + padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; + padding-right: .5em; + margin-left: 1em; + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; + color: black; + background: #eeeeee; + border: dashed 1px; +} + +.bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.figleft { + float: left; + clear: left; + margin-left: 0; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 1em; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +.figright { + float: right; + clear: right; + margin-left: 1em; + margin-bottom: + 1em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-right: 0; + padding: 0; + text-align: center; +} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + +.poem span.i0 { + display: block; + margin-left: 0em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i2 { + display: block; + margin-left: 2em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poem span.i4 { + display: block; + margin-left: 4em; + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Doors of Death, by Arthur B. Waltermire + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Doors of Death + +Author: Arthur B. Waltermire + +Release Date: June 3, 2010 [EBook #32671] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOORS OF DEATH *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + +<h1>The Doors of Death</h1> + +<h2>By ARTHUR B. WALTERMIRE</h2> + +<p>[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October +1936. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. +copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="sidenote"><i>A strange and curious story is this, about a banker whose +only fear was that he might be buried alive, like his grandfather before +him</i></div> + + +<p>A heavy stillness hung about the great halls and richly furnished rooms +of Judson McMasters' residence, and even seemed to extend out over the +velvet lawns, the shrub-lined walks and sun-blotched reaches under the +lacy elms and somber maples.</p> + +<p>Biggs glided about the sick-chamber like a specter, apparently striving +to keep busy, while he cast countless furtive, uneasy glances at the +heavy figure under the white sheets. An odor of drugs and fever tainted +the air, and a small walnut table near the flushed sleeper was laden +with the familiar prescription bottle, tumbler and box of powders. On +the wall behind the table, near the head of the bed, hung a small +oil-painting of Napoleon.</p> + +<p>The sleeper stirred restlessly, raised himself painfully and slowly, and +attempted to seek fleeting comfort in a new position. At the first +movement Biggs was a shadow at the bedside, deftly manipulating the +coverings and gently aiding the sick man with a tenderness born of long +service and deep affection. As the massive gray head sank into the +fluffed pillow the tired eyes opened, lighted by a faint glint of +thankfulness. Then they closed again and the once powerful body relaxed.</p> + +<p>With a pitiful, wistful expression on his aged face, the faithful Biggs +stood helplessly peering at the sick man until hot tears began to course +down his furrowed cheeks, and he turned hastily away.</p> + +<p>"Biggs!"</p> + +<p>The voice, still strong and commanding, cut the semi-gloom like a knife.</p> + +<p>Biggs, who was about to tuck the heavy curtains still more securely over +the windows, whirled as though he had touched a live wire, and in a +flash was across the great room and beside the bed.</p> + +<p>"Did you call, sir?" His voice quavered.</p> + +<p>"No"—a faint twinkle lighted the sick man's eyes—"I just spoke."</p> + +<p>"Ah, now sir," cried the overjoyed Biggs, "you are better, sir."</p> + +<p>"Biggs, I want some air and sunshine."</p> + +<p>"But the doctor, sir——"</p> + +<p>"Drat the doctor! If I'm going to pass out I want to see where I'm +going."</p> + +<p>"Oh, but sir," expostulated the old servant, as he parted the curtains +and partially opened a casement window, "I wish you wouldn't say that, +sir."</p> + +<p>"I believe in facing a situation squarely, Biggs. My father and +grandfather died from this family malady, and I guess I'm headed over +the same route."</p> + +<p>"Please, sir," entreated Biggs.</p> + +<p>"Biggs, I want to ask you a question."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir?"</p> + +<p>"Are you a Christian?"</p> + +<p>"I try to be, sir."</p> + +<p>"Do you believe in death?"</p> + +<p>Biggs was thoroughly startled and confused.</p> + +<p>"Why—a—we all have to die, sometime, sir," he answered haltingly, not +knowing what else to say.</p> + +<p>"But do we actually die?" insisted the sufferer.</p> + +<p>"Well, I hope—not yet," ventured the old servant. "The doctor said——"</p> + +<p>"Forget the doctor," interposed McMasters. "Biggs, you have been in our +service since I was a lad, haven't you?"</p> + +<p>Tears welled into the servant's eyes, and his voice faltered.</p> + +<p>"Fifty-six years, come next November," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Well, let me tell you something, that even in those fifty-six years you +never learned, Biggs. My grandfather was buried alive!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir! Impossible!" cried Biggs, in horror.</p> + +<p>"Absolutely," asserted the banker.</p> + +<p>"Why—are you—how do you know, sir?" in a hoarse whisper.</p> + +<p>"My father built a family mausoleum in the far corner of this estate, +didn't he?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir—he hated burial in the earth, sir, after reading a poem of +Edgar Allan Poe's, sir!"</p> + +<p>"What poem was that, Biggs?"</p> + +<p>"I don't recall the name of it, but I remember the line," faltered +Biggs.</p> + +<p>"What was it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir," cried the old man, "let's talk about something cheerful."</p> + +<p>"Not until we're through with this discussion, Hiram."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The sound of his given name restored Biggs somewhat, for the banker +resorted to it only on occasions when he shared his deepest confidences +with his old houseman.</p> + +<p>"Well, the line goes, 'Soft may the worms about him creep,' sir."</p> + +<p>A slight shudder seemed to run through McMasters' body. Then after a +tomb-like silence, "Good reason for building the mausoleum."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir, I think so, sir."</p> + +<p>"Well," with an apparent effort, "when they exhumed my grandfather's +remains to place them in the new vault, the casket was opened, and——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir," cried Biggs, throwing out a trembling, expostulating hand, +but the banker went on, relentlessly.</p> + +<p>"——the body was turned over, on its side, with the left knee drawn up +part-way."</p> + +<p>"That's the way he always slept—in life." Biggs' voice was a hollow +whisper.</p> + +<p>"And that's the reason my father, after building himself a mausoleum, +insisted that his body be cremated," said McMasters. "He took no +chances."</p> + +<p>Biggs' horrified eyes traveled dully to the massive urn over the great +fireplace and rested there, fascinated.</p> + +<p>"Hiram, where is heaven?"</p> + +<p>Biggs' eyes flitted back to rest in surprize upon the questioner.</p> + +<p>"Why, up there, sir," pointing toward the ceiling.</p> + +<p>"Do you believe that the earth rotates on its axis?"</p> + +<p>"That's what I was taught in school, sir."</p> + +<p>"If that hypothesis is true, we are rolling through space at the rate of +about sixteen miles a minute," figured the banker. "Now you say heaven +is up there."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"Biggs, what time is it?"</p> + +<p>The servant glanced at the great clock in the corner.</p> + +<p>"Ah, it's twelve o'clock, sir, and time for your medicine," in a voice +full of relief.</p> + +<p>"Never mind the drugs," commanded McMasters, "until we finish our +problem in higher mathematics. Now, if I ask you where heaven is at +midnight, which will be twelve hours from now, where will you point," +triumphantly.</p> + +<p>"Why, up there," replied the bewildered servant, again indicating the +ceiling.</p> + +<p>"Then," cried McMasters, "you will be pointing directly opposite from +the place you indicated a moment ago; for by midnight the earth will +have turned approximately upside down. Do you get my point?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," replied poor Biggs, thoroughly befuddled.</p> + +<p>"Then where will heaven be at six o'clock this evening?" fairly shouted +the sick man.</p> + +<p>"Out there," replied the servant, hopelessly, pointing toward the +window.</p> + +<p>"And where will heaven be at six o'clock in the morning?"</p> + +<p>"Over there." And Biggs pointed a trembling finger at the fireplace. +Then, "Oh, sir, let's not—the doctor——"</p> + +<p>"Hang the doctor," interrupted McMasters testily. "I've been thinking +this thing over, and I've got to talk about it to someone."</p> + +<p>"But don't you believe in a hereafter?" queried Biggs, a horrible note +of fear in his pitiful voice.</p> + +<p>For a moment the banker was silent; the massive clock ticked solemnly +on. A coal toppled with a sputter and flare in the fireplace.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Hiram," in a thoughtful voice, "I suppose I do."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad to hear you say that," cried Biggs in very evident relief.</p> + +<p>"Ah, if you could but tell me," continued the banker, "from whence we +come, and whither we go?"</p> + +<p>"If I knew, sir, I'd be equal with the Creator," answered Biggs with +reverence.</p> + +<p>"That's well said, Hiram, but it doesn't satisfy me. I've made my place +in the world by getting to the root of things. Ah, if I could only get a +peek behind the curtain, before I go—back-stage, you know—mayhap I +would not be afraid to die," and his voice fell almost to a whisper.</p> + +<p>"The Great Director does not permit the audience behind the footlights, +unless he calls them," answered Biggs whimsically, the ghost of a smile +lighting up his troubled features.</p> + +<p>"Another thing, Biggs, do you believe those stories about Jonah, and +Lazarus, and the fellow they let down through a hole in the roof to be +healed?"</p> + +<p>"I do, sir," with conviction.</p> + +<p>"Do you understand how it was done?" testily.</p> + +<p>"Of course not, sir, being only a human."</p> + +<p>"Then tell me, Hiram, when you cannot see through it, how can you +swallow all this theology?"</p> + +<p>"My faith, sir," answered Biggs, simply, raising his eyes with +reverence.</p> + +<p>At this, a quizzical smile came over the sick man's face.</p> + +<p>"In looking up, Hiram, don't forget, since it is twelve-thirty, that we +have swung around four hundred and eighty miles from the spot you +originally designated as the location of the Pearly Gates."</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir, I beg of you," remonstrated the servant, "I cannot bear to +have you jest on such a—why, master!" he broke off with a little cry, +rushing to his bedside.</p> + +<p>The quizzical smile on the banker's face had suddenly faded, and his +head had fallen feebly back upon the pillow.</p> + +<p>"Oh, why did he waste his strength so?" cried Biggs, piteously, as with +trembling hands and tear-blurred eyes he searched the little table for +the smelling-salts.</p> + +<p>After a few breaths, the patient sighed and opened his eyes wearily.</p> + +<p>"My medicine, Hiram, and then I must rest."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At midnight, Biggs, dozing in a big chair by the fire, was aroused by a +voice from the sick bed.</p> + +<p>"Hiram."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," scurrying to turn on a subdued light.</p> + +<p>"Where is heaven now?"</p> + +<p>Noting the wan flicker of a smile, the old servant pointed solemnly +downward.</p> + +<p>"You are a bright pupil," came in a scarcely audible voice.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, sir."</p> + +<p>"Do you know, Biggs, I wish I had led a different—a better life."</p> + +<p>"You have been a good master, sir. You have been kind, you have given +liberally to charity," Biggs defended him.</p> + +<p>"Yes," cynically, "I have given liberally to charity. But it has been no +sacrifice."</p> + +<p>"You have been a pillar in the church," ventured Biggs.</p> + +<p>"Yes," bitterly, "a stone pillar. I have paid handsomely for my pew, and +slept peacefully through the sermons. I have bought baskets of food for +the poor at Thanksgiving and Christmas time, only to let others reap the +happiness of giving them away. I could have had so much joy out of +Christmas, if I would. I could have been a jolly, rosy-cheeked Santa +Claus and gone to a hundred homes, my arms loaded with gifts."</p> + +<p>"True, sir, but you made that joy possible for others."</p> + +<p>"When I should have known the thrill of it myself. I have not really +lived, Hiram. To draw the sweets truly out of life, one must humble +himself and serve his fellow men. Yes, the scales have fallen from my +eyes, Hiram. But it is too late, 'the spirit is willing but the flesh is +weak'."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't seem right, sir," said Biggs after a pause.</p> + +<p>"What's that, Hiram?"</p> + +<p>"Why, sir, that you should be stricken down in the prime of life, just +at a time when you could mean so much to others, while I, old and +useless, am permitted to live on. But I am not finding fault with +Providence, sir," Biggs hastened to say; "I just can't find the meaning +of the riddle, sir."</p> + +<p>"Probably I've had my chance and fumbled it, Biggs."</p> + +<p>"Even so, sir, God is not vindictive, according to my ideas. There +surely is some other solution. I'm still going to pray that He will take +me in your stead, even if a miracle must be performed."</p> + +<p>"So you have faith in your prayers, do you, Biggs?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir, if they are unselfish prayers."</p> + +<p>"That brand is rather scarce, I take it," answered McMasters, but his +tone was reflective rather than sarcastic.</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir, I wish you would pray as I do. God would surely understand."</p> + +<p>"Rather a queer request, Hiram. If my life depends upon your death no +prayer shall ever pass my lips."</p> + +<p>"But, sir, I'm an old——"</p> + +<p>"However," interrupted McMasters, "I shall pray that if my life is +spared in any other fashion, I will make full amends for my years of +indifference and neglect. And, Hiram, no one knows how much I truly seek +this divine dispensation. But I have always scoffed at death-bed +confessions, and so my heart grows cold, for I have no right to +ask—now." Again, wearily, "No right—now."</p> + +<p>"Ah, master, God is plenteous in mercy. If you but have the faith, sir, +it shall make you whole."</p> + +<p>"Very good, had I lived as you have lived, Biggs." Then, after a pause, +"Still, the cause is worthy, my heart is right and I shall approach the +Throne. May God be merciful unto me, a sinner."</p> + +<p>"I hope it is not too late yet," faltered Biggs. "Oh, if God would only +call me in your stead, that you might still do the good work that you +find it in your heart to do, how gladly would I go."</p> + +<p>A deep sigh was his only answer.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A long silence was finally broken by the sick man. But when he spoke, +his voice was so strange and uncanny that the servant hastened close and +peered anxiously into the fever-flushed face of the sufferer.</p> + +<p>"Hiram—I must tell you—a secret," came in a laborious, almost +sepulchral, whisper.</p> + +<p>Biggs came closer.</p> + +<p>"Bring a chair and sit down. I must talk to you."</p> + +<p>As the old servant again leaned forward, the sufferer hesitated; then +with an obvious effort he began.</p> + +<p>"Hiram, I am going to give you some instructions which you must obey to +the letter. Will you promise to keep them?"</p> + +<p>"I swear it, sir," with great earnestness.</p> + +<p>"Good! Now, if this fever seals my lips and the doctor pronounces me +dead——"</p> + +<p>"Please, sir," Biggs broke in, tears streaming down his furrowed cheeks, +but his master continued in the same subdued voice, "Whatever happens, I +am not to be embalmed—do you hear me?—not embalmed, but just laid away +as I am now."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," in a choked voice, which fully betrayed the breaking heart +behind it.</p> + +<p>"And now, Hiram, the rest of the secret." He paused and beckoned Biggs +to lean closer.</p> + +<p>"In my vault—in the mausoleum, I have had an electric button installed. +That button connects with a silver bell. Lift up that small picture of +Napoleon, there upon the wall."</p> + +<p>His hands trembling as with the palsy, Biggs reached out and lifted +aside the picture hanging near the head of the bed, and there revealed +the silver bell, fitted into a small aperture in the wall. Then, with a +sob, he fell back into his chair.</p> + +<p>"Hiram"—in a whisper—"after they bury me, you are to sleep in this +bed."</p> + +<p>With a cry, the old man threw out a horrified, expostulating hand. +Catching it feverishly, the banker half raised himself in bed.</p> + +<p>"Don't you understand?" he cried fiercely. "I may not be dead after all. +Remember grandfather! And Biggs—if that bell rings, get help—quick!"</p> + +<p>Suddenly releasing his hold, McMasters fell back limply among the +pillows.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>All through the long night the faithful Biggs maintained a sleepless +vigil, but the banker lay as immovable as a stone. When the rosy-cheeked +dawn came peeping audaciously through the casements, Biggs drew the +heavy curtains tightly shut once more.</p> + +<p>Not until the doctor's motor whirled away did the patient rouse from his +lethargy.</p> + +<p>Apparently strengthened by his deep stupor he spoke, and Biggs stood +instantly beside him.</p> + +<p>"What did the doctor say?"</p> + +<p>Biggs hesitated.</p> + +<p>"Out with it, I'm no chicken-hearted weakling."</p> + +<p>"Nothing much," admitted Biggs, sadly. "He only shook his head very +gravely."</p> + +<p>"He doesn't understand this family malady any more than the old quack +who allowed my grandfather to be buried alive," said McMasters almost +fiercely.</p> + +<p>Biggs shuddered and put a trembling hand to his eyes.</p> + +<p>"What ails me, Biggs?" almost plaintively. "No one knows. This fever has +baffled the scientists for years. When you fall into a comatose +condition they call it suspended animation. That's the best thing they +do—find names for diseases. My family doctor doesn't have any more of +an idea about this malady than you or I. The average physician is just a +guesser. He guesses you have a fever and prescribes a remedy, hoping +that it will hit the spot. If it doesn't he looks wise, wags his +head—and tries something else on you. Maybe it works and maybe it +doesn't. The only thing my guesser is absolutely sure of is that if I +live or if I die, he will collect a princely fee for his services."</p> + +<p>Biggs remained statuesque during the pause.</p> + +<p>"Gad," McMasters broke out again testily, "if I fiddled around in my +business like that I'd be a pauper in a month."</p> + +<p>"But the doctor says you're coming on," ventured Biggs.</p> + +<p>"Sure he does," answered the banker with a sneer. "That's his stock in +trade. I know that line of palaver. Secretly, he knows I am as liable to +be dead as alive when he comes again."</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir, you aren't going to die!"</p> + +<p>"That's what I'm afraid of, Biggs. But they'll call me dead and go ahead +and embalm me and make sure of it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir, I wish——"</p> + +<p>"Now remember, Biggs," broke in the sick man, "shoot the first +undertaker that tries to put that mummy stuff in my veins."</p> + +<p>"I understand perfectly, sir," answered Biggs, fearful lest the other's +excitement might again give him a turn for the worse.</p> + +<p>"I know I'm apparently going to pass away. My father and grandfather +both had this cussed virus in their veins, and I don't believe either of +them was dead when he was pronounced so!"</p> + +<p>"Well, if by any chance—that is, if you," began Biggs desperately, "if +you are apparently—dead—why not have them keep your body here in the +house for a time?"</p> + +<p>"Convention, formality, custom, hide-bound law!" the banker fairly +frothed. "The health authorities would come here with an army and see +that I was buried. No, Biggs, I've got a fine crypt out there, all quiet +and secure, good ventilation, electric lights, like a pullman berth—and +a push-button. That precludes all notoriety. It's secret and safe. The +electrician who installed the apparatus died four years ago. So you and +I, alone, possess this knowledge."</p> + +<p>"Don't you think someone else should know of it too? Your attorney, +or——"</p> + +<p>"No, Biggs. If I really am dead I don't want anyone to write up my +eccentricities for some Sunday magazine sheet. And if I do come back, +then it will be time to tell the gaping public about my cleverness."</p> + +<p>"I wish you weren't so—so cold-blooded about it all, sir."</p> + +<p>"I have always hit straight from the shoulder, Hiram, and I'm facing +this death business as I'd face any other proposition. I'm not ready to +cash in, and if I can cheat the doctors, undertakers, lawyers, heirs, +and chief mourners for a few more years, I'm going to do it. And don't +forget poor old granddad. He might have been up and about yet had he but +used my scheme."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Biggs turned away, sick at heart. It was too terrible beyond words. To +him his religion was as essential as daily bread. Death was the +culmination of cherished belief and constant prayer. As his years +declined he had faced the inevitable day with simple faith that when the +summons came he would go gladly, like him "who wraps the drapery of his +couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." With throbbing heart +he listened for another torrent of words that would still further stab +his sensitive soul; for he had loved and revered his master from his +youth up.</p> + +<p>But no words came. He wheeled about. The massive head had fallen limply +among the pillows. Pallid lips were trying to form sentences without +result. Then the great body seemed to subside immeasurably deeper into +the covers and a death-like stillness fell upon the room.</p> + +<p>Intuitively feeling that his master was worse than at any previous +relapse, Biggs made every effort to revive him, gently at first, and +then by vigorously shaking and calling to him in a heart-broken, piteous +voice. But to no avail. The heavy figure looked pallid and corpse-like +under the snowy sheets.</p> + +<p>Long hours dragged by, and still the lonely old servant sat mutely +beside the bed, only aroused, at last, by the peremptory, measured call +of the telephone bell.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Biggs in a quavering voice. "Oh yes, Doctor Meredith, +Master's resting easy. Don't think you'll need to come until tomorrow."</p> + +<p>"I'll keep them away as long as I can," he muttered, as he slipped back +to his vigil. "God grant—maybe he'll come back—and take up the work of +the Master, so long delayed. Oh God! If Thou wouldst only take me in his +stead!"</p> + +<p>Sleeping fitfully, Biggs sat dumbly through an interminable night, but +the new day brought no reassuring sign from the inert form. The +stillness was appalling. The other servants were quartered in a distant +part of the mansion and only came when summoned. Again Biggs assured the +physician that he could gain nothing by calling, and another awful night +found him, ashen and distraught, at the bedside. Sometime in the still +watches he swooned and kindly nature patched up his shredded nerves, +before consciousness once more aroused him. But the strain was more than +he could bear. So when the anxious specialist came, unbidden, he found a +shattered old watchman who broke down completely and babbled forth the +whole mysterious tale, concealing nothing but the secret of the tomb.</p> + +<p>In a coffin previously made to order, they laid the unembalmed remains +of Judson McMasters in the family mausoleum, and the world which had +felt his masterful presence for so many years paused long enough to lay +a costly tribute on his bier and then went smoothly on its way.</p> + +<p>Not so with the faithful Biggs. Ensconced in his master's bedroom, he +nightly tossed in troubled sleep, filled with the jangling of +innumerable electric bells. And when—on the tenth night, after he had +been somewhat reassured that all was well—he was suddenly awakened by a +mad, incessant ringing from the hidden alarm, a deathly weakness +overcame him and it was some time before he was able to drag his palsied +body from the bed. With fumbling, clumsy fingers he tried to hasten, but +it was many minutes before he tottered, half dressed, out of the room. +And as he did so, his heart almost stood still, then mounted to his +throat as if to choke him.</p> + +<p>"Biggs!"—a voice—McMaster's voice was calling.</p> + +<p>He staggered to the head of the wide, massive stairway and looked down. +There stood the banker, pale, emaciated, but smiling.</p> + +<p>And then, as from an endless distance, came more words:</p> + +<p>"I forgot to tell you that I had a trap-door in the end of the casket. +When you didn't answer the bell, I found I could come alone."</p> + +<p>With an inarticulate cry, Biggs stretched out his trembling arms.</p> + +<p>"My Master, I am coming now."</p> + +<p>Then he swayed, stumbled, clutched feebly at the rail and plunged +headlong to the foot of the stairs, a crumpled, lifeless form.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Doors of Death, by Arthur B. 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