If it had not been for the lurking hope of some fresh exciting
experience with a woman, he would have been unconscionably lonely.
As it was, this thought with him—quite as the confirmed drunkard's
thought of whiskey—buoyed him up, kept him from despairing utterly,
gave his mind the only diversion it had from the ever present
thought of failure. If by chance he should meet some truly
beautiful girl, gay, enticing, who would fall in love with him!
that would be happiness. Only, Angela was constantly watching him
these days and, besides, more girls would simply mean that his
condition would be aggravated. Yet so powerful was the illusion of
desire, the sheer animal magnetism of beauty, that when it came
near him in the form of a lovely girl of his own temperamental
inclinations he could not resist it. One look into an inviting eye,
one glance at a face whose outlines were soft and delicate—full of
that subtle suggestion of youth and health which is so
characteristic of girlhood—and the spell was cast. It was as though
the very form of the face, without will or intention on the part of
the possessor, acted hypnotically upon its beholder. The Arabians
believed in the magic power of the word Abracadabra to cast a
spell. For Eugene the form of a woman's face and body was quite as
powerful.
While he and Angela were in Alexandria from February to May, he
met one night at his sister's house a girl who, from the point of
view of the beauty which he admired and to which he was so
susceptible, was extremely hypnotic, and who for the ease and
convenience of a flirtation was very favorably situated. She was
the daughter of a traveling man, George Roth by name, whose wife,
the child's mother, was dead, but who lived with his sister in an
old tree-shaded house on the edge of Green Lake not far from the
spot where Eugene had once attempted to caress his first love,
Stella Appleton. Frieda was the girl's name. She was extremely
attractive, not more than eighteen years of age, with large, clear,
blue eyes, a wealth of yellowish-brown hair and a plump but shapely
figure. She was a graduate of the local high school, well developed
for her years, bright, rosy-cheeked, vivacious and with a great
deal of natural intelligence which attracted the attention of
Eugene at once. Normally he was extremely fond of a natural,
cheerful, laughing disposition. In his present state he was
abnormally so. This girl and her foster mother had heard of him a
long time since through his parents and his sister, whom they knew
well and whom they visited frequently. George Roth had moved here
since Eugene had first left for Chicago, and because he was so much
on the road he had not seen him since. Frieda, on all his previous
visits, had been too young to take an interest in men, but now at
this age, when she was just blossoming into womanhood, her mind was
fixed on them. She did not expect to be interested in Eugene
because she knew he was married, but because of his reputation as
an artist she was curious about him. Everybody knew who he was. The
local papers had written up his success and published his portrait.
Frieda expected to see a man of about forty, stern and sober.
Instead she met a smiling youth of twenty-nine, rather gaunt and
hollow-eyed, but none the less attractive for that. Eugene, with
Angela's approval, still affected a loose, flowing tie, a soft
turn-down collar, brown corduroy suits as a rule, the coat cut with
a belt, shooting jacket fashion, a black iron ring of very curious
design upon one of his fingers, and a soft hat. His hands were very
thin and white, his skin pale. Frieda, rosy, as thoughtless as a
butterfly, charmingly clothed in a dress of blue linen, laughing,
afraid of him because of his reputation, attracted his attention at
once. She was like all the young, healthy, laughing girls he had
ever known, delightful. He wished he were single again that he
might fall into a jesting conversation with her. She seemed
inclined to be friendly from the first.
Angela being present, however, and Frieda's foster mother, it
was necessary for him to be circumspect and distant. The latter,
Sylvia and Angela, talked of art and listened to Angela's
descriptions of Eugene's eccentricities, idiosyncrasies and
experiences, which were a never-failing source of interest to the
common run of mortals whom they met. Eugene would sit by in a
comfortable chair with a weary, genial or indifferent look on his
face as his mood happened to be. To-night he was bored and a little
indifferent in his manner. No one here interested him save this
girl, the beauty of whose face nourished his secret dreams. He
longed to have some such spirit of youth near him always. Why could
not women remain young?
While they were laughing and talking, Eugene picked up a copy of
Howard Pyle's "Knights of the Round Table" with its warm heavy
illustrations of the Arthurian heroes and heroines, and began to
study the stately and exaggerated characteristics of the various
characters. Sylvia had purchased it for her seven-year old boy
Jack, asleep upstairs, but Frieda had read it in her girlhood a few
years before. She had been moving restlessly about, conscious of an
interest in Eugene but not knowing how to find an opportunity for
conversation. His smile, which he sometimes directed toward her,
was to her entrancing.
"Oh, I read that," she said, when she saw him looking at it. She
had drifted to a position not far behind his chair and near one of
the windows. She pretended to be looking out at first, but now
began to talk to him. "I used to be crazy about every one of the
Knights and Ladies—Sir Launcelot, Sir Galahad, Sir Tristram, Sir
Gawaine, Queen Guinevere."
"Did you ever hear of Sir Bluff?" he asked teasingly, "or Sir
Stuff? or Sir Dub?" He looked at her with a mocking light of humor
in his eyes.
"Oh, there aren't such people," laughed Frieda, surprised at the
titles but tickled at the thought of them.
"Don't you let him mock you, Frieda," put in Angela, who was
pleased at the girl's gayety and glad that Eugene had found someone
in whom he could take an interest. She did not fear the simple
Western type of girl like Frieda and her own sister Marietta. They
were franker, more kindly, better intentioned than the Eastern
studio type, and besides they did not consider themselves superior.
She was playing the rôle of the condescending leader here.
"Certainly there are," replied Eugene solemnly, addressing
Frieda. "They are the new Knights of the Round Table. Haven't you
ever heard of that book?"
"No, I haven't," answered Frieda gaily, "and there isn't any
such. You're just teasing me."
"Teasing you? Why I wouldn't think of such a thing. And there is
such a book. It's published by Harper and Brothers and is called
'The New Knights of the Round Table.' You simply haven't heard of
it, that's all."
Frieda was impressed. She didn't know whether to believe him or
not. She opened her eyes in a curiously inquiring girlish way which
appealed to Eugene strongly. He wished he were free to kiss her
pretty, red, thoughtlessly-parted lips. Angela herself was faintly
doubtful as to whether he was speaking of a real book or not.
"Sir Stuff is a very famous Knight," he went on, "and so is Sir
Bluff. They're inseparable companions in the book. As for Sir Dub
and Sir Hack, and the Lady Dope—"
"Oh, hush, Eugene," called Angela gaily. "Just listen to what
he's telling Frieda," she remarked to Miss Roth. "You mustn't mind
him though. He's always teasing someone. Why didn't you raise him
better, Sylvia?" she asked of Eugene's sister.
"Oh, don't ask me. We never could do anything with Gene. I never
knew he had much jesting in him until he came back this time."
"They're very wonderful," they heard him telling Frieda, "all
fine rosy gentlemen and ladies."
Frieda was impressed by this charming, good-natured man. His
spirit was evidently as youthful and gay as her own. She sat before
him looking into his smiling eyes while he teased her about this,
that and the other foible of youth. Who were her sweethearts? How
did she make love? How many boys lined up to see her come out of
church on Sunday? He knew. "I'll bet they look like a line of
soldiers on dress parade," he volunteered, "all with nice new ties
and clean pocket handkerchiefs and their shoes polished and—"
"Oh, ha! ha!" laughed Frieda. The idea appealed to her
immensely. She started giggling and bantering with him and their
friendship was definitely sealed. She thought he was
delightful.
The opportunity for further meetings seemed to come about quite
naturally. The Witla boathouse, where the family kept one small
boat, was at the foot of the Roth lawn, reached by a slightly used
lane which came down that side of the house; and also by a
grape-arbor which concealed the lake from the lower end of the
house and made a sheltered walk to the waterside, at the end of
which was a weather-beaten wooden bench. Eugene came here sometimes
to get the boat to row or to fish. On several occasions Angela had
accompanied him, but she did not care much for rowing or fishing
and was perfectly willing that he should go alone if he wanted to.
There was also the friendship of Miss Roth for Mr. and Mrs. Witla,
which occasionally brought her and Frieda to the house. And Frieda
came from time to time to his studio in the barn, to see him paint.
Because of her youth and innocence Angela thought very little of
her presence there, which struck Eugene as extremely fortunate. He
was interested in her charms, anxious to make love to her in a
philandering sort of way, without intending to do her any harm. It
struck him as a little curious that he should find her living so
near the spot where once upon a winter's night he had made love to
Stella. There was something not unlike Stella about her, though she
was softer, more whole souledly genial and pliable to his
moods.
He saw her one day, when he went for his boat, standing out in
the yard, and she came down to the waterside to greet him.
"Well," he said, smiling at her fresh morning appearance, and
addressing her with that easy familiarity with which he knew how to
take youth and life generally, "we're looking as bright as a
butterfly. I don't suppose we butterflies have to work very hard,
do we?"
"Oh, don't we," replied Frieda. "That's all you know."
"Well, I don't know, that's true, but perhaps one of these
butterflies will tell me. Now you, for instance."
Frieda smiled. She scarcely knew how to take him, but she
thought he was delightful. She hadn't the faintest conception
either of the depth and subtlety of his nature or of the genial,
kindly inconstancy of it. She only saw him as a handsome, smiling
man, not at all too old, witty, good-natured, here by the bright
green waters of this lake, pulling out his boat. He looked so
cheerful to her, so care free. She had him indissolubly mixed in
her impressions with the freshness of the ground, the newness of
the grass, the brightness of the sky, the chirping of the birds and
even the little scintillating ripples on the water.
"Butterflies never work, that I know," he said, refusing to take
her seriously. "They just dance around in the sunlight and have a
good time. Did you ever talk to a butterfly about that?"
Frieda merely smiled at him.
He pushed his boat into the water, holding it lightly by a rope,
got down a pair of oars from a rack and stepped into it. Then he
stood there looking at her.
"Have you lived in Alexandria long?" he asked.
"About eight years now."
"Do you like it?"
"Sometimes, not always. I wish we lived in Chicago. O-oh!" she
sniffed, turning up her pretty nose, "isn't that lovely!" She was
smelling some odor of flowers blown from a garden.
"Yes, I get it too. Geraniums, isn't it? They're blooming here,
I see. A day like this sets me crazy." He sat down in his boat and
put his oars in place.
"Well, I have to go and try my luck for whales. Wouldn't you
like to go fishing?"
"I would, all right," said Frieda, "only aunt wouldn't let me, I
think. I'd just love to go. It's lots of fun, catching fish."
"Yes,
catching
fish," laughed Eugene. "Well, I'll bring
you a nice little shark—one that bites. Would you like that? Down
in the Atlantic Ocean they have sharks that bite and bark. They
come up out of the water at night and bark like a dog."
"O-o-oh, dear! how funny!" giggled Frieda, and Eugene began
slowly rowing his boat lakeward.
"Be sure you bring me a nice fish," she called.
"Be sure you're here to get it when I come back," he
answered.
He saw her with the lattice of spring leaves behind her, the old
house showing pleasantly on its rise of ground, some house-martens
turning in the morning sky.
"What a lovely girl," he thought. "She's beautiful—as fresh as a
flower. That is the one great thing in the world—the beauty of
girlhood."
He came back after a time expecting to find her, but her
foster-mother had sent her on an errand. He felt a keen sense of
disappointment.
There were other meetings after this, once on a day when he came
back practically fishless and she laughed at him; once when he saw
her sunning her hair on the back porch after she had washed it and
she came down to stand under the trees near the water, looking like
a naiad. He wished then he could take her in his arms, but he was a
little uncertain of her and of himself. Once she came to his studio
in the barn to bring him a piece of left-over dough which his
mother had "turned" on the top of the stove.
"Eugene used to be crazy about that when he was a boy," his
mother had remarked.
"Oh, let me take it to him," said Frieda gaily, gleeful over the
idea of the adventure.
"That's a good idea," said Angela innocently. "Wait, I'll put it
on this saucer."
Frieda took it and ran. She found Eugene staring oddly at his
canvas, his face curiously dark. When her head came above the loft
floor his expression changed immediately. His guileless, kindly
smile returned.
"Guess what," she said, pulling a little white apron she had on
over the dish.
"Strawberries." They were in season.
"Oh, no."
"Peaches and cream."
"Where would we get peaches now?"
"At the grocery store."
"I'll give you one more guess."
"Angel cake!" He was fond of that, and Angela occasionally made
it.
"Your guesses are all gone. You can't have any."
He reached out his hand, but she drew back. He followed and she
laughed. "No, no, you can't have any now."
He caught her soft arm and drew her close to him. "Sure I
can't?"
Their faces were close together.
She looked into his eyes for a moment, then dropped her lashes.
Eugene's brain swirled with the sense of her beauty. It was the old
talisman. He covered her sweet lips with his own and she yielded
feverishly.
"There now, eat your dough," she exclaimed when he let her go,
pushing it shamefacedly toward him. She was flustered—so much so
that she failed to jest about it. "What would Mrs. Witla think,"
she added, "if she could see us?"
Eugene paused solemnly and listened. He was afraid of
Angela.
"I've always liked this stuff, ever since I was a boy," he said
in an offhand way.
"So your mother said," replied Frieda, somewhat recovered. "Let
me see what you're painting." She came round to his side and he
took her hand. "I'll have to go now," she said wisely. "They'll be
expecting me back."
Eugene speculated on the intelligence of girls—at least on that
of those he liked. Somehow they were all wise under these
circumstances—cautious. He could see that instinctively Frieda was
prepared to protect him and herself. She did not appear to be
suffering from any shock from this revelation. Rather she was
inclined to make the best of it.
He folded her in his arms again.
"You're the angel cake and the strawberries and the peaches and
cream," he said.
"Don't!" she pleaded. "Don't! I have to go now."
And when he released her she ran quickly down the stairs, giving
him a swift, parting smile.
So Frieda was added to the list of his conquests and he pondered
over it gravely. If Angela could have seen this scene, what a storm
there would have been! If she ever became conscious of what was
going on, what a period of wrath there would be! It would be
terrible. After her recent discovery of his letters he hated to
think of that. Still this bliss of caressing youth—was it not worth
any price? To have a bright, joyous girl of eighteen put her arms
about you—could you risk too much for it? The world said one life,
one love. Could he accede to that? Could any one woman satisfy him?
Could Frieda if he had her? He did not know. He did not care to
think about it. Only this walking in a garden of flowers—how
delicious it was. This having a rose to your lips!
Angela saw nothing of this attraction for some time. She was not
prepared yet to believe, poor little depender on the conventions as
she understood them, that the world was full of plots and
counter-plots, snares, pitfalls and gins. The way of the faithful
and well-meaning woman in marriage should be simple and easy. She
should not be harassed by uncertainty of affection, infelicities of
temper, indifference or infidelity. If she worked hard, as Angela
was trying to do, trying to be a good wife, saving, serving, making
a sacrifice of her time and services and moods and wishes for her
husband's sake, why shouldn't he do the same for her? She knew of
no double standard of virtue. If she had she would not have
believed in it. Her parents had raised her to see marriage in a
different light. Her father was faithful to her mother. Eugene's
father was faithful to his wife—that was perfectly plain. Her
brothers-in-law were faithful to her sisters, Eugene's
brothers-in-law were faithful to his sisters. Why should not Eugene
be faithful to her?
So far, of course, she had no evidence to the contrary. He
probably was faithful and would remain so. He had said so, but this
pre-matrimonial philandering of his looked very curious. It was an
astonishing thing that he could have deceived her so. She would
never forget it. He was a genius to be sure. The world was waiting
to hear what he had to say. He was a great man and should associate
with great men, or, failing that, should not want to associate with
anyone at all. It was ridiculous for him to be running around after
silly women. She thought of this and decided to do her best to
prevent it. The seat of the mighty was in her estimation the place
for Eugene, with her in the foreground as a faithful and
conspicuous acolyte, swinging the censer of praise and delight.
The days went on and various little meetings—some accidental,
some premeditated—took place between Eugene and Frieda. There was
one afternoon when he was at his sister's and she came there to get
a pattern for her foster-mother from Sylvia. She lingered for over
an hour, during which time Eugene had opportunities to kiss her a
dozen times. The beauty of her eyes and her smile haunted him after
she was gone. There was another time when he saw her at dusk near
his boathouse, and kissed her in the shadow of the sheltering
grape-arbor. In his own home there were clandestine moments and in
his studio, the barn loft, for Frieda made occasion a few times to
come to him—a promise to make a sketch of her being the excuse.
Angela resented this, but she could not prevent it. In the main
Frieda exhibited that curious patience in love which women so
customarily exhibit and which a man can never understand. She could
wait for her own to come to her—for him to find her; while he, with
that curious avidness of the male in love, burned as a fed fire to
see her. He was jealous of the little innocent walks she took with
boys she knew. The fact that it was necessary for her to be away
from him was a great deprivation. The fact that he was married to
Angela was a horrible disaster. He would look at Angela, when she
was with him, preventing him from his freedom in love, with almost
calculated hate in his eyes. Why had he married her? As for Frieda,
when she was near, and he could not draw near her, his eyes
followed her movements with a yearning, devouring glance. He was
fairly beside himself with anguish under the spell of her beauty.
Frieda had no notion of the consuming flame she had engendered.
It was a simple thing to walk home with her from the
post-office—quite accidentally on several occasions. It was a
fortuitous thing that Anna Roth should invite Angela and himself,
as well as his father and mother, to her house to dinner. On one
occasion when Frieda was visiting at the Witla homestead, Angela
thought Frieda stepped away from Eugene in a curiously disturbed
manner when she came into the parlor. She was not sure. Frieda hung
round him in a good-natured way most of the time when various
members of the family were present. She wondered if by any chance
he was making love to her, but she could not prove it. She tried to
watch them from then on, but Eugene was so subtle, Frieda so
circumspect, that she never did obtain any direct testimony.
Nevertheless, before they left Alexandria there was a weeping scene
over this, hysterical, tempestuous, in which she accused him of
making love to Frieda, he denying it stoutly.
"If it wasn't for your relatives' sake," she declared, "I would
accuse her to her face, here before your eyes. She couldn't dare
deny it."
"Oh, you're crazy," said Eugene. "You're the most suspicious
woman I ever knew. Good Lord! Can't I look at a woman any more?
This little girl! Can't I even be nice to her?"
"Nice to her? Nice to her? I know how you're nice to her. I can
see! I can feel! Oh, God! Why can't you give me a faithful
husband!"
"Oh, cut it out!" demanded Eugene defiantly. "You're always
watching. I can't turn around but you have your eye on me. I can
tell. Well, you go ahead and watch. That's all the good it will do
you. I'll give you some real reason for watching one of these days.
You make me tired!"
"Oh, hear how he talks to me," moaned Angela, "and we're only
married one year! Oh, Eugene, how can you? Have you no pity, no
shame? Here in your own home, too! Oh! oh! oh!"
To Eugene such hysterics were maddening. He could not understand
how anyone should want or find it possible to carry on in this
fashion. He was lying "out of the whole cloth" about Frieda, but
Angela didn't know and he knew she didn't know. All these tantrums
were based on suspicion. If she would do this on a mere suspicion,
what would she not do when she had a proved cause?