“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.
Chapter 14
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!