A Circle In The Sand

A Circle in the Sand
by Kate Jordan, Author of “The Kiss of Goki,” “The Other House,” etc. etc.

copyright 1898, by the author

“I suppose I shouldn’t have asked you to come,” he said, lifting the snowy cloak from her shoulders, “but Joe wanted you. Only a few moments after the messenger had gone he died.” There was a defiant, unhappy smile on his lips. “His reprieve was short lived, wasn’t it? And I had meant to make him happy. I was not permitted, you see. Perhaps I was not fit.

“Don’t – don’t – Donald” – And Anne, unable to say more, sat down beside the bed.

The room was silent. Mrs. Mulligan had stopped the clock, and the hands pointed to the last moment of Joe’s life. The old woman who had so sincerely loved the waif drew the cloth to the sharp chin and stood like a figure of fate, drearily nodding. The boy’s face wore the look of fixed appeal with which the dead can disarm even hate.

“A wild night to die!” sighed Mrs. Mulligan, striking her palms softly together. “He was a small gossoon to go so far alone. Poor Joe! Ye’ll never hould me yarn for me again. I’ll miss ye, ‘cushla, sore I’ll miss ye.” Breaking into sobs, she went out.

“Anne, I want to speak to you.”

The words were a breath and spoken over her shoulder. She half turned, when Donald’s hand was laid upon her arm.

“No,” he said quietly, “don’t look at me. Let me say what I must here.”

His dark, agonized face was bent above her as she sat in a waiting attitude, her eyes on the silent clock. A lock of hair lay on her shoulder, and Donald’s fingers touched it stealthily during a moment’s pause.

“How can I say what I want to?” he asked helplessly. “But I needn’t say all. You know what you’ve been to me. Anne, this room holds all my worse than useless life has known – you and what was Joe. His eyes are forever closed, the first whose worship I felt I deserved. You don’t know what that meant to me. His look was like a waiting pardon, no matter what my sins.”

She tried to lift her band and speak, but he pressed it back, still avoiding her gaze.

“What I was to Joe,” he said, “you’ve been to me – that and more. The bond between us makes me know that in some dear sense I belong to you – that you will be made glad or sad by what I may become. Well, far away from you in a land where I shall be alone and lonely I’m going to work thinking of you. After tonight I may not see you again for years. When I am fit, I’ll come back, and I may say to you then, Anne, what now I must only whisper from shadow and without a hope. I love you. You are more to me than creed or church or prayers, for you’ve done what these couldn’t. And I love you for yourself, apart from this altogether. I love you, Anne. I love you.”

His voice faltered. Anne rose and faced him. It seemed as if chords in her soul had been struck harshly that night, but in some insolvable way a wondrous harmony had resulted. The yearning sentiment which Donald had always inspired in her rose to something more. In being hope, desire and strength to him there was a responsibility of joy and pain she could not wholly accept, yet would not repulse. She gave him her hands, her mouth quivering like a child’s. Her eyes were all tenderness and confidence.

“I don’t deserve a love like this,” she said seriously. “How little I deserve it! But I’ll remember, Donald.”

She sighed and looked at him intently.

“I’ll remember all you’ve said.” But when his eyes grew more wistful she looked away.

It was after 2 o’ clock when Donald left her at her door and said goodby. She watched him down the street and saw him stand once in the drifting snow and look back.

She went slowly up the stairs and into the sitting room, where the fire had been kept bright. A mocking presence seemed to greet her. Just within the door she leaned against the wall. There was the snow padded window, the curtain drawn back as her hand had placed it. By the fire was the chair in which David Temple had sat. She saw the book on which her elbow had rested as she listened to him.

In the shock of Joe’s death and Donald’s unexpected words the memory of the bitter hour spent there had been crowded back. Now it started into full life, and apprehensive disgust of the days to come nullified other feeling within her.

“Oh, to forget, to forget, to forget!”

She flung off cloak and hat and sat down at her desk before the window. Her lips were set and seemed to have been brushed with ashes. Her eyes were shut beneath frowning brows. She would forget – she must. She could not bear the days to come unless she did forget.

Before her lay the portfolio holding the pages of her neglected novel. Scarcely knowing what she did, she opened it and laid her hands upon the leaves. A phrase here and there caught her eyes, the name of the characters she had created. A deeper attraction for the work awoke in her, desire for sleep departed, and she felt alive to her finger tips.

She bent over the pages, and her pen went haltingly at first, but by degrees a new desire dominated her, and nothing but the thought and the word born of the thought was real to her. All else had failed. This power in herself was strong and true. Though all other delights forsake her, this never would.

Her cheek was gray, and the light had gone from her eyes, whose lashes were stiffened with tears. But she was no longer unhappy. The drifting mists of that strange dawn fled under the full sunlight and found her still writing.

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CHAPTER XIV.

Seven months had passed between David’s marriage in April and the foggy afternoon when he and Olga with some other hundred souls arrived in New York on board the Lucania.

Dr. Ericsson was at the wharf to meet them. They were to dine that night en famille at the old house in Waverly place.

“Anne can’t be with us,” said the old man regretfully as the carriage took them up Broadway. “Her old home in the country is without a tenant at present, and she’s taking a rest there. She’s been working too hard, too steadily, night and day.”

“She’s a fool,” said Olga from her corner, where she sat wrapped in furs to the nose. “She’ll be used up in five years.”

David felt his heart grow warm at the mention of Anne’s name. The old life would be delightful again. He had lost many ideals during the long honeymoon and now longed for work, the rush of The Citizen’s rooms, where discussions on life’s verities shot to and fro like a weaver’s shuttle. He longed for a sight of Anne at her corner desk with bent profile or cheek resting in her hand. His marriage should not alter the friendship which had been in its way more satisfying, as it surely was rarer, than love. A comrade of a pretty, clever woman was the best gift a man could have in life. And he knew Anne would be glad to have him back. She had missed him, for she chose few friends, and none had been to her like him.

“Tell me about Anne, he said eagerly, while he gazed with pleasure at the familiar street scenes framed in the carriage Windows. “She’s well, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yes, indeed!” said Dr. Ericsson, with a bright smile. “Why shouldn’t she be? If, as they say, a woman thrives on admiration, she’s had quite enough to turn that dark tressed head of hers. You know about her book.”

“No. Is it finished? You don’t mean she’s had her book published? She did not write that bit of news. I call it sly of her.”

“Perhaps she doubted its merit, its reception. She doubts no longer. There are plenty of books chucked at the public, but seldom one like hers. Everybody is recommending it to everybody else.”

“This is great news. Do you hear, Olga?”

But Olga was asleep.

“Morgan did a good thing for himself when he got her for The Planet, didn’t he?” asked Dr. Ericsson. “You’ll miss her on The Citizen.”

“What do you mean;” asked David. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But you knew Anna was no longer with The Citizen.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“She wrote you ten days – two weeks ago.”

“I didn’t get the letter, then.” And David sat back, making no effort to hide his disappointment. After learning the particulars he was silent. He could not realize Anne was gone, and with her to a great extent the influence in his life he desired and loved in the purest sense. He longed to see her again that night. There was much he wanted to talk to her about. He wanted her to come down a room and welcome him. He wanted to hear her bright account of the multitude of incidents which had happened during the months he had been away. She had a pretty trick when talking of bringing her fist down upon her knee in the most gentle way that had always reminded him of a flower striking its head against a wall – he wanted to see that, and her uplifted face, and to hear her quick laugh. He had felt a similar but less intricate craving for a chum at school after the division of the holidays.

The feeling strengthened during the night, and long after Olga had gone to her first land sleep on a bed that didn’t wabble he found himself treading the stairs leading to The Citizen offices. It was close upon midnight. He had not been expected until morning, and his coming made a sensation. In a twinkling he was in the midst of the old life, finding at that unexpected moment a score of questions to decide and the usual turmoil singing in the air. He flung himself into the work, his disappointment about Anne almost forgotten in the earnestness of the hour.

But in the early morning, with the wet, first copy of the paper in his hand, he stood before her deserted desk. A sense of loss crept coldly over him. Would he never see her sitting there again?