The next morning was bright and crisp, and the artist felt better than
he had for many weeks. He arose happy in the thought that he should
again see Eva Delorme so soon, and in the confidence that she would
accept his offer of marriage. He was happier still in the prospect of
cutting free from all the feverish torture of the past few months; of
leaving behind all the unpleasant associations that clouded both their
lives, along with the soot, and fumes, and temptations of this grimy
city; 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 restaurant
was near the heart of the city; he would go there for breakfast. The
distance was considerable, but the brisk exercise was in harmony with
his thoughts. The blood was circulating rhythmically through his veins;
he threw back his shoulders and breathed in the fresh frosty air. He
wanted to sing. In another week he would be away from all that was
disagreeable and disgraceful--perhaps to-morrow. They would spend a
whole year in Europe; may be they would not come back at all.
After breakfast he met two or three acquaintances; they remarked his
unusual 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 would
come early. As he opened the street door he saw a long, thin, delicately
tinted envelope that had been pushed beneath it in his absence. He knew
instinctively that it was from Eva, and hastened into the studio to read
it. It was not sealed and there was no address. Trembling with agitation
he 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 with
anxiety. Surely she meant to accept him or she would not have written
thus; she would not have appointed a meeting with him at this old
mansion. And why at this old mansion? Was it her home? No, that was not
likely, or why was he to wait until she came? If her home, she would be
waiting there for him. Probably the home of some friend of whom she had
made a confidant, and who was in sympathy with her love affair. Yes, it
must be this; and the mystery of her life, what could that be but some
pre-natal pledge of marriage with one whom she despised, or tyrannical
guardians, 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 take
her away from it all; his precious darling, and she was ill, too; she
was 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 disappointed
at not seeing her to-day, but he almost forgot that, now, as he thought
of 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 a
headache brought on by her mental strain.
By and by, something else about this letter began to puzzle him. He had
not thought of it at first, but gradually it dawned upon him that the
handwriting was not exactly like that upon the card of Eva Delorme. It
seemed to him that it was less delicate and more irregular. He took her
card from the little tray on the table, and compared them. He decided
that they were the same, after all. The letter was written hurriedly and
she was ill; but the formation of the characters was much the same. As
he replaced the card his eye fell upon that of Evelin March. There was
no similarity between the writing on the two cards, but as he glanced
now from that of Evelin March to the letter he fancied one suggested
faintly the nervous, dashing style of the other. The haunting curiosity
that had once possessed him returned for a moment. There was a strange
fear in his heart which he could not name. He compared the two more
closely, and as he did so the fancy disappeared. It was like certain
faint odors that are only perceptible at a distance. He heaved a sigh of
relief.
"I am a consummate ass, among other things," he muttered.
His mind reverted to Eva. How would he get through the time until
to-morrow? To-morrow there would be a sitting with Evelin. As he thought
of her his face flushed with shame, and a feeling of dread came upon
him. He would send her portrait to the dealer to-day--it was
finished--then there would be no excuse for her staying. No, he would go
away and lock the studio all day. What a fool he had been to allow
himself to be fascinated by her dashing beauty. What a traitor he had
been to make even a semblance of love to this bold, flashy woman of the
world--a woman who, until recently, had not even commanded his respect.
"I have been a villain," he muttered, to himself; "a villain and a
traitor, but I will be so no more. I will curb this savage nature within
me. I will abstain from drink. I will be a new man."
He sealed his resolution with a kiss pressed upon the little, tinted
letter, then placing it in an inner pocket he arranged the canvas of Eva
Delorme on the easel before him and walked backward and forward in front
of 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 something
about the lips and the expression that I have not caught. It is too
minute; I must darken the ground; there is not enough relief--not enough
depth."
Hastily removing his coat and the wide felt hat which he always wore on
the street, he hung them on a rack in the adjoining room, and donning
his velvet studio jacket, returned to the easel. Seizing his palette and
brushes he fell to work rapidly, and with the enthusiasm of one who is
in love with his task.
As he dashed on the broad sweeps of color from his palette, the
background gradually assumed the effect of having faded away, and the
rare face before it to have become a thing of flesh and blood. It was a
marvel of skill. He had never done anything like this before. He became
so absorbed in his work that he forgot the passing hours. The background
of the portrait complete, he began adding touches of light and shadow
and color to the drapery, to the hair, to the perfect features. He felt
that he had never painted half so well. It seemed to him that he was
inspired. He remembered the story of the artist who had painted the
portrait of his beloved, drawing the tints so truly from her life, that
when he had finished and turned to look at her with an exclamation of
triumph on his lips, she was dead. It seemed to him at this moment that
he was drawing his tints from her very life. That the intense workings
of his brain must in some manner affect her own. He paused and his hand
trembled. She was ill; what if she were to die! Pshaw! it was but a
fable. He would paint the picture as truly, but only that the world
might bow before the beauty of his mistress. He would exhibit it in
Paris, and the multitude would worship the beautiful face that should
win him a world-wide fame. Then he would take it away from the gaping
throng 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 hour
hand had crept around the circle nearly to five before he finally laid
aside his brushes and palette, and stepped back to view his finished
work.
"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 stood
face to face with Evelin March. She was very pale, and her eyes burned
like two stars.
"Who is that woman?" she said, fiercely.
He knew that she had overheard him, but he endeavored to address her
calmly. He felt the cowardliness of his nature rising, and he cursed
himself 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 to
it and as she turned upon him to reply there was a mingled look of
terror and ferocity in her face.
"No, it is quite evident that you did not expect me, and that you were
too much absorbed to remember or care when my sitting was due. And now
you will please to answer my question. _Who is that woman?_"
What would he not have given, at that moment, to have had courage to
say, "She is to be my wife;" but the magnificent fury of the woman
before him, and the recollection of the shameful words of love he had
spoken to her, overwhelmed him.
"She is a--a Miss Delorme, I believe; a sitter of mine," he managed to
say at last.
"You believe! You lie! You know who she is, and you love her! You love
that nun-faced baby! I heard your words. You believe--you"--
"Evelin, stop!"
"Don't speak to me, you traitor! 'Your precious darling.' Oh, I could
kill her! I _will_ kill her!"
He could not understand this wild fury, that seemed to be half inspired
by a sort of terror. She had turned to the portrait again and was
examining it, oblivious, for the moment, to all else. Then suddenly she
turned upon him again with blazing eyes.
"I will kill her!" she hissed. "I could kill her with _that_," and she
pointed to the jeweled stiletto on the wall.
She was so magnificent in her rage that he could not help admiring her
through it all. The love for him which had aroused this tempest was so
fierce that he felt his savage blood beginning to throb with an
answering glow. He felt that once more he was about to be a traitor to
all that was good within him. The ground was slipping from under his
feet. The glamour of her voluptuous beauty was ruling his brain like the
fumes of liquor. His eyes, too, were beginning to shine fiercely, but
not 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 only
to the picture. It is my masterpiece. I was not thinking of the
original." 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 he
heeded 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 eyes
softened. He saw his advantage and followed it up.
"Evelin," he said, huskily, "I love you-- I love you!" Again he laid his
hand upon her and this time she allowed it to remain. They were standing
near the curtained arch of the adjoining room. He parted back the heavy
draperies, and gently drew her within.
The savage blood was rioting fiercely within him. He caught both her
hands in his and drew her to his embrace. She hid her face upon his
shoulder, and would not let him touch her lips. Other than this she made
no further resistance. Half dragging, and half carrying her he
approached a large divan that stood in a little alcove on the opposite
side of the room. Suddenly he took her bodily in his arms and they sank
down upon it together. For a second, only; then, with a quick powerful
effort she threw him backward and sprang to her feet, staring about her
with a wild, startled look in her eyes.
Goetze, wholly at a loss to account for the suddenness and fierceness of
the resistance, was for a moment stunned. As he recovered himself and
made a movement toward her, she gave him one quick, piteous look--a look
that recalled to him suddenly and strangely the beautiful, innocent girl
whom he had wronged and forgotten--the _face of Eva Delorme_--then, as
if seized with sudden panic she sped from the room, out through the dim
studio and into the dusky hall-way beyond.
He heard the opening and closing of the outside door, and knew that she
was gone. Then the tide of reaction swept over him. The glamour of
conquest had passed, and there remained only the shame, the treachery
and the remorse.
With a curse of anguish he flung himself down upon the floor, and lay
groveling with his face in the dust. The moments flew by unheeded. An
hour passed. The electric lamps were turned on, and a white ray of light
shot in through the half-curtained window. The little clock on the
mantel chimed the hour.
The sound roused him. Starting to his feet he gazed stupidly about him
for a moment as if undecided what to do, then seizing his hat from the
wall rack he hurried out through the studio and the dark hall-way
without pausing to remove his working jacket, or to lock the door. Out
into the street where people were hurrying home, chattering and
laughing, and glancing only for a second at the figure in the velvet
studio coat and broad hat, wondering a little at the dark, intense face
that flashed so swiftly past them toward the glare and confusion of the
business center.
He did not know where he was going. He did not care. He was trying to
get away from himself. He walked faster and faster; twice he started to
run.
He was drawing nearer to the bustle of the city. Small shops were
scattered along between the rows of brick dwellings, and at one corner
the light of a saloon flared out upon the pavement. Entering, he called
for brandy. The bar-keeper stared at him and set out a bottle and a
glass. Twice he filled it to the brim and drank it off with hardly a
pause between. Then, throwing down a silver dollar, he hastened out
without waiting for change.
The shops were getting thicker and larger. Dwelling-houses were fewer
and more old fashioned. Here and there newsboys were crying the evening
papers. Street-cars, filled with lights and faces, rolled swiftly by him
and in front of him, jangling their bells. The buzz and whirl of the
city was around him. He was drawing near to its great, throbbing heart.
Splendid shop windows threw a flood of light upon the pavement, making
it like day. The shouts of the newsboys and street venders, the jangling
of the car-bells, the rushing cabs and carriages, the hurrying crowds,
the brilliant lights, the liquor in his brain, all whirled together and
sent the blood racing through his arteries, tingling to the surface now
and again in burning waves of misery and shame.
People paused for a moment to look at the strange figure, and hurried
on. 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 not
know. There was nothing there to attract him. It was a place where they
sold shoes. Numberless shoes were arranged for display, and in the midst
of them a little white lamp-globe revolving by clock-work with two words
painted on it in black letters: