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 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.