The Mystery of Evelin Delorme: A Hypnotic Story

Hastily the mother gathers up the sleeping child, and bidding the other cling close to her skirts, hurries out into the night, past the fiery-eyed Polyphemus, on toward the coaches behind.

The people that are going somewhere jostle against her in their haste to get 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 is fastened to its back, to ring wildly.

The men who are loading baggage shout and swear and hurl coarse jokes at each other, and the midnight train begins to move. The bell still clangs frantically, the demon puffs and grunts faster and faster, and the light from its one fearful eye penetrates farther and farther into the darkness ahead.

Faster, and faster, and faster – the sound of the wheels falling into a regular 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-curdling scream, and the one-eyed demon – the faded and soiled woman – the sobbing baby – the sleeping child – the marching child with the big, round eyes – the people who are going somewhere, and the artist who is going nowhere, are on their way.

He has taken a seat facing the faded woman, and is unconsciously studying her face. She is still hushing the babe to rest. On one side the sleeper is huddled up against her. On the other, next to the window and resting upon its knees, the child with the big, round eyes stares out into the darkness.

The coach is warm. The heat and the strong liquor are beginning to tell on him. The face before him begins to mingle with all sorts of impossible fancies. The roar of the flying train is in his ears, but it seems the roar of some mighty sea that is about to overwhelm him. The conductor, 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 wretched face before him and is studying it; but always between them are those other faces – the face of Eva Delorme and of Evelin March – and the piteous, frightened look that rests now upon one, now upon the other, – and now the two are melting – melting into one, like the blending outlines of a dissolving view – and both fade out into the little white globe with its whirling black words, that the hum of the train flying through the night keeps repeating over, and over, and over, – "Gentlemen's shoes – Gentlemen's shoes – Gentlemen's shoes."

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 into a little station and halted a moment for water, panting and fretting to be on its way. A figure stepped from it to the platform, staggering a little as from the motion of the train. It was a young man. His eyes were bloodshot, his face stained with the grime of travel. His soft felt hat and his short, velvet coat were covered with cinders and dust. One would hardly have recognized the artist, Julian Goetze.

The station agent stood a few feet away with a lantern. He looked up somewhat astonished as this odd figure approached him. "Some drunken showman," 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 soon as this one leaves."

"And what time will that reach Saint Louis?"

"No telling, depends upon what luck it has; possibly by four or five o'clock."

The artist did not wait to hear more. Anything was better than remaining here on an uncertainty. He sped away up the track to where lay the long line of waiting cars.

He had been awakened by the stopping of the train, and a realization of affairs had flashed over him like lightning. He was far away from Saint Louis, and at six o'clock that night he had an appointment with Eva Delorme.

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 would hasten back to Eva. He had sinned – fallen almost to the lowest depth – but it was over now. He would see Evelin March no more. If Eva accepted him they would go away at once. Oh, if kind Providence would but help him to reach the appointment in time!

The conductor whom he asked, noting his anxiety, assured him that it was quite 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 the train crept along like a farm wagon. For a long time he looked out at the gray monotonous landscape, then he lay down on the cushioned benches of 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, sick and frightened.

And so through that dreary autumn day the heavy train rumbled along across the wide stretch of country that divided him from that which fate was 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. All through the forenoon no one entered, although the street door was unlocked and the studio door was open. As the afternoon wore away, the clouds and smoke that hung heavily over the city seemed to settle lower and 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, a cloaked figure passed through the hall and entered the studio. It was Evelin March. Her eye fell upon the portrait of Eva Delorme still resting upon the easel, and she glanced about hastily for the artist. He was not there. For some reason she did not remove her wrap, but stood still, 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 back presently."

She approached the face on the easel, cautiously, as though it were alive.

"I wonder who she is," she muttered; "I have seen her somewhere before – or I have dreamed it. He said it was his masterpiece. I hate her!"

She seated herself before the picture, studying it silently. Little by little a fear invaded her bosom – a strange fear, such as she had never known before. A fear of this portrait, of the lonely room, of the weapons upon the wall. It seemed to her that something horrible was about to happen.

She started up and began to pace up and down the room to drive away this feeling. Why did the artist not come? She parted back the draperies and looked into the room beyond. He could not have gone far; his coat was hanging 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 offered insult of yesterday. Turning back the garment she touched her lips to the silk lining where it had covered his heart. As she did so she noticed the tinted edge of a narrow envelope in the inner pocket. In an instant she was seized with a passion of curiosity. All her jealousy and suspicions of the sweet-faced girl in gray came rushing back. She listened at the curtained arch for a moment, but there was no sound of approaching footsteps; then, her eyes flashing, and her cheeks flaming guiltily, she snatched the delicate missive from its concealment, and with trembling hands tore it from its covering. In another instant her suspicions were verified. The woman reading seemed suddenly to have become deranged.

"Coward! – liar! – cur!" she screamed.

She tore the letter in halves, crumpled it in her hands, and flung it upon the floor. Then suddenly becoming calm she gathered up the pieces hastily and concealed them in her bosom. A look of peculiar cunning had come into her eyes.

"So he is going to meet her," she muttered, savagely; "but they will not meet 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 like lightning. She seized upon what appeared to her the most feasible.

"If I will counterfeit her," she said, feverishly; "I will disguise myself."

She hurried back into the studio and stood for a moment before the easel. Yes, yes; she could do it. Her figure was much the same, dress gray and plain, hair low upon the forehead – a veil would make it complete.

"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 upon her. Hastily turning from the portrait she listened a second for the artist'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 from its place, and concealing it beneath her cloak hurried from the house.

An hour later the artist burst into the studio. His bloodshot eyes, and face blackened with travel, made him almost unrecognizable. Hurrying through to his room beyond he glanced eagerly at the clock. It was on the stroke of five.

"Just time to make myself presentable and reach the place by six," he thought.

Then, turning, he surveyed himself in a mirror.

"Good heavens, what a spectacle I am! People must have thought I was a maniac – and they were not far from wrong – but I am all right now. I am going to Eva and confess my villainy, and ask her forgiveness. I will swear my faith to her. She will forgive me – she must forgive me. And as for Evelin, all is over with her after what passed last night. Last night! was it only last night? It seemed an age."

He made a quick motion as if to drive away an unpleasant memory, then throwing off his outer garments he opened the door of a little dressing-room.

"I will bathe, and confess, and be born again," he said, with a little laugh.

Twenty minutes afterward he emerged a new man in reality – as far as outward appearances were concerned. Cleanly shaven and scrupulously attired, no one would have recognized in him the dusty, wild-looking figure of an hour before. He glanced at the clock.

"Yes – I have plenty of time," he thought. "No. 74 West L – Street, east side; I will look at her letter again to make sure. Bless her sweet face! 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 hung on the rack; it was empty. He stood holding the coat, with a puzzled expression 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? Perhaps Harry 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 upon the wall. All at once he noticed that there was something different about their arrangement. Something was missing. It was the dagger! Then it all came to him. "Evelin!" he shouted. "Good God!"

He had wasted valuable time searching for the letter. He could hardly reach the place of appointment by six unless he could catch some kind of a vehicle.

"My God – my God! she will kill her – she will kill her! and all through my treachery."

He had fled from the house and was now speeding wildly westward. No cab was 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!"

VIII

At a quarter before six, a woman ascended the marble steps of the old mansion at No. 74 West L – Street, east side. She wore a plain dress of silver-gray material, a rich Persian shawl, a neat walking hat, her face thickly veiled. Reaching the door, she laid her gloved hand on the knob, then hesitated, as if undecided whether to enter at once or ring.

The heavy clouds hung oppressively low, and it was already dusk. A few flakes of snow were falling, but it was not cold.

All at once the woman removed her hand from the door, slipped off her shawl and threw it across her arm. As she did so some thing glittered bright, which she hastily concealed beneath the shawl. As she stood now she was the exact counterpart of Eva Delorme. Then without further hesitation she laid hold of and turned the heavy knob of the massive black door. It yielded noiselessly, and she entered, closing it as noiselessly behind her.

Within all was dark. A faint ray of light crept in through the transom, penetrating a few feet into the blackness. She stood almost against the door, listening and hardly breathing. All was silent. She had expected the other to be there before her, waiting for his coming. She put out her hand and felt about her. She touched a chair at her left and softly laid her shawl upon it, keeping firm hold upon the keen weapon she had carried beneath it. She listened again; still no sound. She was growing impatient. She took a few steps forward, keeping one hand extended in front of her to avoid collision. Then she turned and retraced her steps.

She had been very cool, thus far, but she was losing control of herself. Why did she not come? She had said in her letter that she was ill – pshaw! it was but a trick to arouse his sympathy. She must come —she must come!

She paced back and forth in the small space which she had explored and found free from obstruction. Three steps forward and turn – three steps back and turn; pausing each time to hold her breath and listen, while the fingers of her left hand involuntarily crept down and pressed against the keen point of the dagger until it pierced through her glove and entered the tender flesh.

Suddenly a white ray of light shot through the transom above her, falling at an angle against a projection in the wall at her left, and dimly illuminating the entire place. It was six o'clock, and the large arc light just outside was turned on. Then, as she reached the door and whirled quickly in her march, she saw her for whom she waited standing at the extreme farther end of the long hall. Between them was what appeared to be a narrow and ornamented archway.

She could dimly distinguish the figure clad in gray. The face, like her own, was veiled. She noticed with quick satisfaction that her disguise was perfect – the counterpart was exact even to the smallest detail.

Without hesitation, and concealing the dagger in the folds of her dress, she advanced quickly and silently toward her rival, who, somewhat to her surprise, instead of fleeing or crying out, also advanced. She was going to try strength with her.

"I will kill her with a blow," she muttered.

They were now within a few feet of each other – the ornamented arch exactly between them. Suddenly Evelin March snatched the dagger from its concealment and raised it aloft to strike. As she did so her rival made precisely the same movement, and something glittered in her hand also. Both took a quick, forward step, and each, at the same instant, struck fiercely with a swinging, downward blow.

A hissing metallic report, a low moan and the sound of a falling body – then silence.

A moment later the hall door burst open for a second time, and in the flood of electric light that poured in, Julian Paul Goetze saw a gray, veiled figure, stretched upon the floor, the gloved hand clasping a jeweled hilt, the blade of which was buried in her bosom. A stream of crimson was discoloring the fabric of her dress, and spreading in a dark pool on the rich carpet.

Rushing forward he caught up the prostrate form and tore away the veil.

Then, as if by magic, a revelation swept over him in one mighty wave of horror. The strange, piteous look he had once seen on the face of Evelin March was again before him, and while he gazed he saw it melting – melting, almost insensibly, like the blending outlines of a dissolving view – into the saintly loveliness of Eva Delorme.

The mists of doubt, the shadows of suspicion, and the fever of curiosity that had troubled him during those feverish months, were suddenly swept away. Eva Delorme – Evelin March – one and the same. One body, one soul, one heart; by some strange freak of nature – some wild mental vagary or devilish witchery of which he could not know – made two in life, but only one in death.

Above her was a heavy French-plate mirror, in an ornamented frame, cracked entirely across. From its polished surface the self-aimed, glancing dagger had found its way to the one troubled heart of those two strange lives, and brought to it silence and restfulness forever.