VII.
The sky was beginning to get gray with morning when the night express,more than a hundred and fifty miles from its starting point, rushed intoa little station and halted a moment for water, panting and fretting tobe on its way. A figure stepped from it to the platform, staggering alittle as from the motion of the train. It was a young man. His eyeswere bloodshot, his face stained with the grime of travel. His soft felthat and his short, velvet coat were covered with cinders and dust. Onewould hardly have recognized the artist, Julian Goetze.
The station agent stood a few feet away with a lantern. He looked upsomewhat astonished as this odd figure approached him. "Some drunkenshowman," he thought.
The man came closer, as if to speak to him.
"How far back to Saint Louis?" he asked, anxiously.
"One hundred and fifty-three miles."
"When can I get a train?"
"At eleven-thirty, if it's on time."
"Is it usually on time?"
"Hardly ever; four hours late yesterday."
"Good God! Is there no other train?"
"There's a cattle train lying up there on the switch now. Pulls out soonas this one leaves."
"And what time will that reach Saint Louis?"
"No telling, depends upon what luck it has; possibly by four or fiveo'clock."
The artist did not wait to hear more. Anything was better than remaininghere on an uncertainty. He sped away up the track to where lay the longline of waiting cars.
He had been awakened by the stopping of the train, and a realization ofaffairs had flashed over him like lightning. He was far away from SaintLouis, and at six o'clock that night he had an appointment with EvaDelorme.
The effects of his self-abasement and the strong liquor had worn away.The fever and the delirium of last night were as a bad dream. He wouldhasten back to Eva. He had sinned--fallen almost to the lowestdepth--but it was over now. He would see Evelin March no more. If Evaaccepted him they would go away at once. Oh, if kind Providence wouldbut help him to reach the appointment in time!
The conductor whom he asked, noting his anxiety, assured him that it wasquite probable they would reach the city by five o'clock.
It was growing light rather slowly. The sky was overcast with clouds,and the air had the feeling of a storm. It seemed to Julian that thetrain crept along like a farm wagon. For a long time he looked out atthe gray monotonous landscape, then he lay down on the cushioned benchesof the caboose and tried to sleep. Now and then he would doze a little,but his mind was too full of anxiety and impatience to obtain rest.Terrifying dreams forced themselves upon him, and he awoke often, sickand frightened.
And so through that dreary autumn day the heavy train rumbled alongacross the wide stretch of country that divided him from that which fatewas at that moment busily preparing--an experience as strange, as weird,as terribly fantastic as was ever accorded to human being before.
The little Swiss cottage of Julian Goetze was very silent that day. Allthrough the forenoon no one entered, although the street door wasunlocked and the studio door was open. As the afternoon wore away, theclouds and smoke that hung heavily over the city seemed to settle lowerand lower, until within the narrow hall-way it was almost dark.
Just after the clock on the mantel of the inner room had chimed three, acloaked figure passed through the hall and entered the studio. It wasEvelin March. Her eye fell upon the portrait of Eva Delorme stillresting upon the easel, and she glanced about hastily for the artist. Hewas not there. For some reason she did not remove her wrap, but stoodstill, listening. A wagon rattled by outside, but within all was silent.
"Paul!" she called, softly.
There was no reply.
"He has stepped out for a moment," she thought; "he will be backpresently."
She approached the face on the easel, cautiously, as though it werealive.
"I wonder who she is," she muttered; "I have seen her somewherebefore--or I have dreamed it. He said it was his masterpiece. I hateher!"
She seated herself before the picture, studying it silently. Little bylittle a fear invaded her bosom--a strange fear, such as she had neverknown before. A fear of this portrait, of the lonely room, of theweapons upon the wall. It seemed to her that something horrible wasabout to happen.
She started up and began to pace up and down the room to drive away thisfeeling. Why did the artist not come? She parted back the draperies andlooked into the room beyond. He could not have gone far; his coat washanging upon the rack, and his velvet studio jacket was gone. Entering,she approached the coat and put her hand against it in a sort of caress.
How she loved him! She seemed to have forgotten or forgiven the offeredinsult of yesterday. Turning back the garment she touched her lips tothe silk lining where it had covered his heart. As she did so shenoticed the tinted edge of a narrow envelope in the inner pocket. In aninstant she was seized with a passion of curiosity. All her jealousy andsuspicions of the sweet-faced girl in gray came rushing back. Shelistened at the curtained arch for a moment, but there was no sound ofapproaching footsteps; then, her eyes flashing, and her cheeks flamingguiltily, she snatched the delicate missive from its concealment, andwith trembling hands tore it from its covering. In another instant hersuspicions were verified. The woman reading seemed suddenly to havebecome deranged.
"Coward!--liar!--cur!" she screamed.
She tore the letter in halves, crumpled it in her hands, and flung itupon the floor. Then suddenly becoming calm she gathered up the pieceshastily and concealed them in her bosom. A look of peculiar cunning hadcome into her eyes.
"So he is going to meet her," she muttered, savagely; "but they will notmeet alone. I, too, will go to No. 74 West L---- Street, east side."Then she hesitated. "Perhaps I would not be admitted," she thought.
Plans for overcoming this obstacle flashed through her brain likelightning. She seized upon what appeared to her the most feasible.
"If I will counterfeit her," she said, feverishly; "I will disguisemyself."
She hurried back into the studio and stood for a moment before theeasel. Yes, yes; she could do it. Her figure was much the same, dressgray and plain, hair low upon the forehead--a veil would make itcomplete.
"Oh," she muttered, "how I hate your baby face! Look! I will kill you,you fool--you fool!"
Again that sickening, fascinating terror of this unknown woman came uponher. Hastily turning from the portrait she listened a second for theartist's step. As she did so her eye caught the weapons on the wall.Without a moment's hesitation she plucked the jewel-hilted stiletto fromits place, and concealing it beneath her cloak hurried from the house.
* * * * *
An hour later the artist burst into the studio. His bloodshot eyes, andface blackened with travel, made him almost unrecognizable. Hurryingthrough to his room beyond he glanced eagerly at the clock. It was onthe stroke of five.
"Just time to make myself presentable and reach the place by six," hethought.
Then, turning, he surveyed himself in a mirror.
"Good heavens, what a spectacle I am! People must have thought I was amaniac--and they were not far from wrong--but I am all right now. I amgoing to Eva and confess my villainy, and ask her forgiveness. I willswear my faith to her. She will forgive me--she must forgive me. And asfor Evelin, all is over with her after what passed last night. Lastnight! was it only last night? It seemed an age."
He made a quick motion as if to drive away an unpleasant memory, thenthrowing off his outer garments he opened the door of a littledressing-room.
"I will bathe, and confess, and be born again," he said, with a littlelaugh.
Twenty minutes afterward he emerged a new man in reality--as far asoutward appearances were concerned. Cleanly shaven and scrupulouslyattired, no one would have recognized in him the dusty, wild-lookingfigure of an hour before. He glanced at the clock.
"Yes--I have plenty of time," he thought. "No. 74 West L----Street, eastside; I w
ill look at her letter again to make sure. Bless her sweetface! I can hardly wait until I see it again. If she only is not ill,but--good God, it is gone!"
He had looked in the breast pocket of his street coat, that still hungon the rack; it was empty. He stood holding the coat, with a puzzledexpression on his face, trying to think.
"I know I put it in that pocket--I recollect it distinctly," he said,aloud; "perhaps it fell out when I took off my coat."
He looked hastily about the floor, then hurried out into the studio,searching rapidly and carefully. His face grew more and more troubled.Could anyone have come in during his absence and picked it up? PerhapsHarry had been here; if so, it was safe. As he stood there reflecting,trying to solve the mystery, he was looking directly at the weapons uponthe wall. All at once he noticed that there was something differentabout their arrangement. Something was missing. It was the dagger! Thenit all came to him. "Evelin!" he shouted. "Good God!"
He had wasted valuable time searching for the letter. He could hardlyreach the place of appointment by six unless he could catch some kind ofa vehicle.
"My God--my God! she will kill her--she will kill her! and all throughmy treachery."
He had fled from the house and was now speeding wildly westward. No cabwas in sight and he could not wait to find one.
"She will kill her--she will kill her!" he groaned, over and over. "Oh,my God--my God!"