VI.
The next morning was bright and crisp, and the artist felt better thanhe had for many weeks. He arose happy in the thought that he shouldagain see Eva Delorme so soon, and in the confidence that she wouldaccept his offer of marriage. He was happier still in the prospect ofcutting free from all the feverish torture of the past few months; ofleaving behind all the unpleasant associations that clouded both theirlives, along with the soot, and fumes, and temptations of this grimycity; and of dreaming away the winter with Eva on the coast of France.
He rose early and set out for a morning walk. His favorite restaurantwas near the heart of the city; he would go there for breakfast. Thedistance was considerable, but the brisk exercise was in harmony withhis thoughts. The blood was circulating rhythmically through his veins;he threw back his shoulders and breathed in the fresh frosty air. Hewanted to sing. In another week he would be away from all that wasdisagreeable and disgraceful--perhaps to-morrow. They would spend awhole year in Europe; may be they would not come back at all.
After breakfast he met two or three acquaintances; they remarked hisunusual spirits.
"You must have made a big strike, Goetze; can't you tell us?"
"Yes, by and by; not now--later."
"Congratulations are in order, of course."
"Hardly yet; pretty soon."
He returned to his studio. Eva had named no hour, but he hoped she wouldcome early. As he opened the street door he saw a long, thin, delicatelytinted envelope that had been pushed beneath it in his absence. He knewinstinctively that it was from Eva, and hastened into the studio to readit. It was not sealed and there was no address. Trembling with agitationhe tore off the covering and read:
"DEAREST JULIAN:
"I am feeling badly this morning, so will not come for my sitting to-day, and since my portrait is so nearly finished I suppose there is really no need of my coming again for that purpose. I should have come, however, as I promised, had it been possible. And now, my dear friend, as regards the decision which so concerns us both, I will ask your kind patience until to-morrow eve.
"On West L---- Street, between 18th and 19th, near the park, there is a large, old-fashioned, brick mansion. It is No. 74, east side--you cannot miss it. There is an arc electric light directly in front of it.
"Go to this place to-morrow night, exactly at six o'clock. If the door is fastened, ring, and the servant will admit you. There wait in the hall-way until I come. If the door is unlocked, enter and wait likewise, unless I am already within to meet you. Then I will give you my answer; and oh, my friend, if it be possible I will unfold to you the history and sad mystery of my poor life, which you have so kindly never sought to know.
"EVA."
Julian read this note again and again now with pleasure, again withanxiety. Surely she meant to accept him or she would not have writtenthus; she would not have appointed a meeting with him at this oldmansion. And why at this old mansion? Was it her home? No, that was notlikely, or why was he to wait until she came? If her home, she would bewaiting there for him. Probably the home of some friend of whom she hadmade a confidant, and who was in sympathy with her love affair. Yes, itmust be this; and the mystery of her life, what could that be but somepre-natal pledge of marriage with one whom she despised, or tyrannicalguardians, or both. She would probably be disinherited if she disobeyed.What did he care; money was not the end of God's judgment. He would takeher away from it all; his precious darling, and she was ill, too; shewas in pain and he could not go to her. He longed to sit by her side,and hold her hand and pour out his love. He was bitterly disappointedat not seeing her to-day, but he almost forgot that, now, as he thoughtof her ill and suffering. He read and re-read the lines of her letter,and tried to comfort himself with the thought that it was no more than aheadache brought on by her mental strain.
By and by, something else about this letter began to puzzle him. He hadnot thought of it at first, but gradually it dawned upon him that thehandwriting was not exactly like that upon the card of Eva Delorme. Itseemed to him that it was less delicate and more irregular. He took hercard from the little tray on the table, and compared them. He decidedthat they were the same, after all. The letter was written hurriedly andshe was ill; but the formation of the characters was much the same. Ashe replaced the card his eye fell upon that of Evelin March. There wasno similarity between the writing on the two cards, but as he glancednow from that of Evelin March to the letter he fancied one suggestedfaintly the nervous, dashing style of the other. The haunting curiositythat had once possessed him returned for a moment. There was a strangefear in his heart which he could not name. He compared the two moreclosely, and as he did so the fancy disappeared. It was like certainfaint odors that are only perceptible at a distance. He heaved a sigh ofrelief.
"I am a consummate ass, among other things," he muttered.
His mind reverted to Eva. How would he get through the time untilto-morrow? To-morrow there would be a sitting with Evelin. As he thoughtof her his face flushed with shame, and a feeling of dread came uponhim. He would send her portrait to the dealer to-day--it wasfinished--then there would be no excuse for her staying. No, he would goaway and lock the studio all day. What a fool he had been to allowhimself to be fascinated by her dashing beauty. What a traitor he hadbeen to make even a semblance of love to this bold, flashy woman of theworld--a woman who, until recently, had not even commanded his respect.
"I have been a villain," he muttered, to himself; "a villain and atraitor, but I will be so no more. I will curb this savage nature withinme. I will abstain from drink. I will be a new man."
He sealed his resolution with a kiss pressed upon the little, tintedletter, then placing it in an inner pocket he arranged the canvas of EvaDelorme on the easel before him and walked backward and forward in frontof it thinking, pausing now and then to gaze long upon the beautiful,saintly features.
"It does not do her justice," he said, at last; "there is somethingabout the lips and the expression that I have not caught. It is toominute; I must darken the ground; there is not enough relief--not enoughdepth."
Hastily removing his coat and the wide felt hat which he always wore onthe street, he hung them on a rack in the adjoining room, and donninghis velvet studio jacket, returned to the easel. Seizing his palette andbrushes he fell to work rapidly, and with the enthusiasm of one who isin love with his task.
As he dashed on the broad sweeps of color from his palette, thebackground gradually assumed the effect of having faded away, and therare face before it to have become a thing of flesh and blood. It was amarvel of skill. He had never done anything like this before. He becameso absorbed in his work that he forgot the passing hours. The backgroundof the portrait complete, he began adding touches of light and shadowand color to the drapery, to the hair, to the perfect features. He feltthat he had never painted half so well. It seemed to him that he wasinspired. He remembered the story of the artist who had painted theportrait of his beloved, drawing the tints so truly from her life, thatwhen he had finished and turned to look at her with an exclamation oftriumph on his lips, she was dead. It seemed to him at this moment thathe was drawing his tints from her very life. That the intense workingsof his brain must in some manner affect her own. He paused and his handtrembled. She was ill; what if she were to die! Pshaw! it was but afable. He would paint the picture as truly, but only that the worldmight bow before the beauty of his mistress. He would exhibit it inParis, and the multitude would worship the beautiful face that shouldwin him a world-wide fame. Then he would take it away from the gapingthrong and lay it, with the fame it brought him, at her feet.
The little clock on the mantel had long since chimed noon, and the hourhand had crept around the circle nearly to five before he finally laidaside his brushes and palette, and stepped back to view his finishedwork.
"It is wonderful--wonderful," he said, aloud. "Oh, my precious darling!"
; There was a sound behind him as of some one choking. He turned and stoodface to face with Evelin March. She was very pale, and her eyes burnedlike two stars.
"Who is that woman?" she said, fiercely.
He knew that she had overheard him, but he endeavored to address hercalmly. He felt the cowardliness of his nature rising, and he cursedhimself inwardly.
"I--I was not expecting you to-day, Evelin," he stammered; "to-morrow,you know, is the day for your sitting."
She did not take her eyes from the portrait; she had gone very close toit and as she turned upon him to reply there was a mingled look ofterror and ferocity in her face.
"No, it is quite evident that you did not expect me, and that you weretoo much absorbed to remember or care when my sitting was due. And nowyou will please to answer my question. _Who is that woman?_"
What would he not have given, at that moment, to have had courage tosay, "She is to be my wife;" but the magnificent fury of the womanbefore him, and the recollection of the shameful words of love he hadspoken to her, overwhelmed him.
"She is a--a Miss Delorme, I believe; a sitter of mine," he managed tosay at last.
"You believe! You lie! You know who she is, and you love her! You lovethat nun-faced baby! I heard your words. You believe--you"--
"Evelin, stop!"
"Don't speak to me, you traitor! 'Your precious darling.' Oh, I couldkill her! I _will_ kill her!"
He could not understand this wild fury, that seemed to be half inspiredby a sort of terror. She had turned to the portrait again and wasexamining it, oblivious, for the moment, to all else. Then suddenly sheturned upon him again with blazing eyes.
"I will kill her!" she hissed. "I could kill her with _that_," and shepointed to the jeweled stiletto on the wall.
She was so magnificent in her rage that he could not help admiring herthrough it all. The love for him which had aroused this tempest was sofierce that he felt his savage blood beginning to throb with ananswering glow. He felt that once more he was about to be a traitor toall that was good within him. The ground was slipping from under hisfeet. The glamour of her voluptuous beauty was ruling his brain like thefumes of liquor. His eyes, too, were beginning to shine fiercely, butnot with anger.
"Evelin," he said, "listen. You know I love you and have from the first.She is nothing to me. The words that you overheard were addressed onlyto the picture. It is my masterpiece. I was not thinking of theoriginal." And down in his heart the small voice was whispering,"Coward--traitor--fool!"
But the hot blood of passion was sweeping through his veins, and heheeded it not. He put out his hand and laid it upon her arm.
"Don't touch me!" she said, angrily, but the expression in her eyessoftened. He saw his advantage and followed it up.
"Evelin," he said, huskily, "I love you-- I love you!" Again he laid hishand upon her and this time she allowed it to remain. They were standingnear the curtained arch of the adjoining room. He parted back the heavydraperies, and gently drew her within.
The savage blood was rioting fiercely within him. He caught both herhands in his and drew her to his embrace. She hid her face upon hisshoulder, and would not let him touch her lips. Other than this she madeno further resistance. Half dragging, and half carrying her heapproached a large divan that stood in a little alcove on the oppositeside of the room. Suddenly he took her bodily in his arms and they sankdown upon it together. For a second, only; then, with a quick powerfuleffort she threw him backward and sprang to her feet, staring about herwith a wild, startled look in her eyes.
Goetze, wholly at a loss to account for the suddenness and fierceness ofthe resistance, was for a moment stunned. As he recovered himself andmade a movement toward her, she gave him one quick, piteous look--a lookthat recalled to him suddenly and strangely the beautiful, innocent girlwhom he had wronged and forgotten--the _face of Eva Delorme_--then, asif seized with sudden panic she sped from the room, out through the dimstudio and into the dusky hall-way beyond.
He heard the opening and closing of the outside door, and knew that shewas gone. Then the tide of reaction swept over him. The glamour ofconquest had passed, and there remained only the shame, the treacheryand the remorse.
With a curse of anguish he flung himself down upon the floor, and laygroveling with his face in the dust. The moments flew by unheeded. Anhour passed. The electric lamps were turned on, and a white ray of lightshot in through the half-curtained window. The little clock on themantel chimed the hour.
The sound roused him. Starting to his feet he gazed stupidly about himfor a moment as if undecided what to do, then seizing his hat from thewall rack he hurried out through the studio and the dark hall-waywithout pausing to remove his working jacket, or to lock the door. Outinto the street where people were hurrying home, chattering andlaughing, and glancing only for a second at the figure in the velvetstudio coat and broad hat, wondering a little at the dark, intense facethat flashed so swiftly past them toward the glare and confusion of thebusiness center.
He did not know where he was going. He did not care. He was trying toget away from himself. He walked faster and faster; twice he started torun.
He was drawing nearer to the bustle of the city. Small shops werescattered along between the rows of brick dwellings, and at one cornerthe light of a saloon flared out upon the pavement. Entering, he calledfor brandy. The bar-keeper stared at him and set out a bottle and aglass. Twice he filled it to the brim and drank it off with hardly apause between. Then, throwing down a silver dollar, he hastened outwithout waiting for change.
The shops were getting thicker and larger. Dwelling-houses were fewerand more old fashioned. Here and there newsboys were crying the eveningpapers. Street-cars, filled with lights and faces, rolled swiftly by himand in front of him, jangling their bells. The buzz and whirl of thecity was around him. He was drawing near to its great, throbbing heart.
Splendid shop windows threw a flood of light upon the pavement, makingit like day. The shouts of the newsboys and street venders, the janglingof the car-bells, the rushing cabs and carriages, the hurrying crowds,the brilliant lights, the liquor in his brain, all whirled together andsent the blood racing through his arteries, tingling to the surface nowand again in burning waves of misery and shame.
People paused for a moment to look at the strange figure, and hurriedon. Everybody was hurrying--hurrying somewhere. He, too, was hurrying,as one pursued by furies; but where?
Suddenly, in front of an illuminated window, he paused; why, he did notknow. There was nothing there to attract him. It was a place where theysold shoes. Numberless shoes were arranged for display, and in the midstof them a little white lamp-globe revolving by clock-work with two wordspainted on it in black letters:
GENTLEMEN'S SHOES.
He read the words over and over as the little globe came round, andround, and round. "Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen'sshoes." The thing fascinated him. It was such a funny little globe. Itreminded him of a merry-go-round he had once ridden on as a child. Hewondered how many times a day it spelled out the words, and if it kepton going, there in the dark, after the place was closed. Then he hurriedon, but the little white globe and its black, flying letters were stillbefore him. They had impressed their image upon his brain. More thanonce he repeated the words aloud. They seemed to have blended themselvesinto his whirling senses and become a monotonous undertone.
"Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes."
Here and there he stopped at a saloon and drank. He drank deeply andthe liquor was strong.
The lights were beginning to grow fewer. He had turned in his walk, andwas leaving the whirl and glare behind him. He did not know whatdirection he had taken. He only knew that he was going, going, going, ina mad effort to get away from himself.
The people that passed him he did not see. He saw only the white face ofEva Delorme, and that piteous look in the eyes of the other, that had,in one instant, revived within him, and with ten-fold vigor, all thestrange, t
orturing suspicions he had once felt regarding these twomysterious lives. The faces that turned to look at him, he did notnotice; he saw only these two, and mingled with them, and whirlinground, and round, and round, the little white globe with its blackletters, "Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes."
After a long time he noticed that he was passing a small suburbanrailway station. There was a bustle of preparation as though a train wasexpected to arrive. He crossed the shining steel tracks and entered. Anumber of people were inside, chattering, laughing and waiting. Waitingto go somewhere. Everybody was going somewhere--everybody but him.Suddenly a group in one corner attracted him as had the lighted windowand the revolving globe.
A hatchet-faced woman, wearing a faded straw hat of antique pattern, acloak to match, and a soiled and largely plaided dress, was vainlyendeavoring to still the cries of a miserable babe swaddled in anassortment of dirty garments.
Two children, of ages evidently beginning at prompt and regularintervals from the one in her arms, extended from her at right-angles onthe bench, their legs straddled about with a childish disregard ofmodesty. They were asleep--at least one of them was, and the other wasequally silent.
By and by, the woman arose and walked the floor with the babe. At this,the child who was not asleep arose also and stared at its mother withwide, round eyes. Then, as she approached it and turned in her march, itbegan to follow her, keeping close behind and in step.
The other slept on unconsciously. The lamps flared and flickered; thebabe, partially soothed, sobbed and moaned, and the squalid pair marchedon.
Begotten in bliss--brought forth in suffering--retired in privation.
Suddenly there is a prolonged, shrill shriek in the night, a tramplingof many feet, a shouting of discordant voices, and the midnight train issnorting at the platform.
Hastily the mother gathers up the sleeping child, and bidding the othercling close to her skirts, hurries out into the night, past thefiery-eyed Polyphemus, on toward the coaches behind.
The people that are going somewhere jostle against her in their haste toget into the coaches and secure seats. Mechanically the artist follows.Everybody is going somewhere; he will go, too.
The monster ahead begins to puff and grunt, and the bell that isfastened to its back, to ring wildly.
The men who are loading baggage shout and swear and hurl coarse jokes ateach other, and the midnight train begins to move. The bell still clangsfrantically, the demon puffs and grunts faster and faster, and the lightfrom its one fearful eye penetrates farther and farther into thedarkness ahead.
Faster, and faster, and faster--the sound of the wheels falling into aregular measure, until it has become a weird, rhythmical monotone.
"Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes."
Then there is a momentary flare of light, a final, blood-curdlingscream, and the one-eyed demon--the faded and soiled woman--the sobbingbaby--the sleeping child--the marching child with the big, roundeyes--the people who are going somewhere, and the artist who is goingnowhere, are on their way.
He has taken a seat facing the faded woman, and is unconsciouslystudying her face. She is still hushing the babe to rest. On one sidethe sleeper is huddled up against her. On the other, next to the windowand resting upon its knees, the child with the big, round eyes staresout into the darkness.
The coach is warm. The heat and the strong liquor are beginning to tellon him. The face before him begins to mingle with all sorts ofimpossible fancies. The roar of the flying train is in his ears, but itseems the roar of some mighty sea that is about to overwhelm him. Theconductor, coming through, shakes his arm to rouse him.
"Tickets!"
"Oh, yes!"--he forgot. He thrusts a bill into the conductor's hand."Keep the change, I will ride it out."
The drowsiness is again stealing upon him. He still sees the wretchedface before him and is studying it; but always between them are thoseother faces--the face of Eva Delorme and of Evelin March--and thepiteous, frightened look that rests now upon one, now upon theother,--and now the two are melting--melting into one, like theblending outlines of a dissolving view--and both fade out into thelittle white globe with its whirling black words, that the hum of thetrain flying through the night keeps repeating over, and over, andover,--"Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes--Gentlemen's shoes."
The Mystery of Evelin Delorme: A Hypnotic Story Page 9