A Circle In The Sand

A Circle in the Sand

by Kate Jordan

Author of "The Kiss of Gold," "The Other House," Etc. Etc.

Copyright 1989, By The Author ...

CHAPTER XV.

The old Temple mansion on lower Fifth avenue seemed to wink surprise from its windows at the changes which had taken place within its walls for months before and weeks after its master's return. Staircases had been reversed, rooms halved or multiplied, windows made over and the furniture of many generations removed to make room for the treasures Olga had brought with her from Europe.

When completed at Christmas tune, it was as beautiful as rare rugs, china and genuine antiquities could make it.

Since her earliest memory Olga had never been given a penny to spend without the accompaniment of a caution to use it to the best advantage, as there were few to follow. Later her insatiable need of luxuries beyond her reach had been gratified by the mounting up of bills, but the unpleasantness of debt had followed and eaten half the pleasure. As David Temple's wife she found herself for the first time able to command money, and she spent it. Luxuries became needs, fashionable rivalries troubled her, and she lay awake devising competitive extravagances. It was her ambition to be not only the beauty of her set, but a famous beauty and the most talked of woman of her time. Celebrated belles of the past had found a place in history either by their splendid gallantries, wit or by the originality of their caprices.

The age she lived in did not view the first with the palliative wink belonging to the days of Charles II and Louis XV, the second was beyond her; but a startling outlay of money by a beauty of good position could create a heroine in this money worshiping time.

"You are splendid," Smedley Joyce said to her, surveying her with monocle held up. "You need splendor. You're the very one to set the pace in society. We have no social successes here worth mentioning unless I except myself. But you can become leader and attract rivals. That sort of thing gives verve to society. The day will come when American society will not be the vapid thing it is now, and even self complacent, nontraveled France will at least have heard our names. You are beautiful, young, rich and a capital actress. Use your gifts well, startle by your originalities, make a feature of the drama in the drawing room, spend all the money you can command in a way that will create notice -- do these things, and you will be a success."

Olga laid the lesson to heart. Her country house on the sound, purchased from a fallen millionaire, soon outdid in cost and display her town house. Her next craze was for horses, and she had tables built with stalls of oak and trimmings of copper. A chic Marie Antoinette boudoir on the upper floor was the most bizarre touch, and a small musicale given there attracted the reporters of society gossip.

She produced at her own house an old comedy of sufficient frankness to create a sensation among her familiars and make the curious of humbler status ache for a sight of her. She made sensational hits by unique methods of bestowing charity. She became one of the most talked of women in New York.

David lived with her, watched her. Every day he learned something new of the shallow, self centered nature masked by a loveliness which despite his reasoning subdued him still. He could have checked her extravagance, controlled her. He preferred to do neither, for he knew that in becoming her master her fear of him would have to be the weapon in his hand, her secret hate the result.

His fortune was a splendid one. The actual money spent, great though it was, troubled him little, but Olga's insensate desire for spending helped to reveal her to him. Her vanity, which she took no pains to hide, was a continua! affront.

They never quarreled, seldom disagreed. Olga was affectionate, soft, gentle as of old. No man could be insensible to her charm. But David divined how quickly the amiable smile would have changed to stolid dislike had her whims been interfered with. She went her own way serenely, no soul in her life, none in her kiss, loving nothing in the world save her own white and perfect body.

David was conscious of these truths, yet chose not to see them too clearly. He remained willfully dull sighted. He did not dare to think, decide, accept! Why fight the irremediable? Why plunge his mind in shadows? Why face the fact that in the most serious relation of life be had committed an amazing piece of folly? Rather let him accept Olga as she was, not the woman of

I think of the queer sights we saw together when you were directing my instruction. Didn't we enjoy them, Donald -- that old Russian exile -- I can hear his violin now -- the first time I saw The Citizen's presses going like mad, the nook in the degenerate back street whore we had tea and speculated about Paris?

You see what your command to talk about myself has done. I have talked of nothing else. Did you get the papers I sent about the dinner and cotillion at Olga's? I can't tell you how beautiful she looked. Why, by the way, do you think David isn't happy? Why shouldn't he be? He has married the woman he loves and is able to surround her with the luxury she requires to be content. Perhaps he would prefer not to be the husband of a society beauty on whom the lens is always fixed. In fact, I know Olga's display must jar upon him. But he is wise enough to know that no life holds all. If he loves her, the rest is mere detail. If he doesn't -- well, I don't know, Donald. David is a man to hide well what he wishes to hide and have an inner life without a hint betraying it. They act in society as do all people with a proper idea of form -- pay not the slightest attention to each other. Let us hope the tone of David's letter to you was only the result of a passing mood.

And now to talk of yourself. I hope you are keeping well and feel more happy now on that sleepy plantation. I feel so happy when you write with courage. Try not to be homesick. The sketches you sent are beautiful, and you are right to keep up your sketching.

You are unfair to say I don't miss you. I do indeed, and think of you often. Write a happy letter next time. I'll look for it. Tell me more about the business and don't be disappointed if you can't make money as fast as you'd like. You are sure to win if you are patient. With good wishes from my heart,

ANNE.

his impassioned fancy. Let him demand only what she could give and learn to subdue his hunger for an existence she could not be part of nor understand. Let him refrain from fathoming the muddy shallows of her soul, by degrees need her less and draw around himself the comfort of an irresistible indifference. Better so for the peace of his life.

But sometimes a memory would trouble David Temple and leave his heart sad. He would think of the night he had heard the pale single whisper of the damosel who watched from heaven for her lover, and he would remember how in that moment his heart had grown large with joy as he looked at Olga's face. It had really been but the stir of the upper waves of passion, and be had fancied the sea depths troubled, but from that moment's ache and rapture he had known what love might be in a life when it staid.

CHAPTER XVI.

MY DEAR DONALD -- You want me to tell you just where I am and how I look whenever I write to you -- a habit, by the way, which may make me very conceited.

Well, then, it is a wet Sunday, but soft and hazy as wet June days are. The windows are open and the big tree outside drips a burden of rain tears. The sky is all mist, with the blue only a little way beyond. I have had a lazy morning and now after a cold plunge and a cup of tea I am sitting in a white morning gown and my hair hangs down my back in a long plait. Are these details satisfactory? I have a big bunch of roses in the copper bowl you gave me, and the bell of the French church is calling the people to worship. Oh, it's good to be at peace with everything created! Hours like this are the heaven of my week. Woman is a luxurious animal, and when she spends six days with discipline and routine as I do she is very apt to go to pieces on the seventh. Behold me, then, today degenerate, not going to church, not improving my mind, not in a stiff collar and guiltless of a hairpin.

The new Planet gets on famously. I have a little room and a big desk all to myself. Proofreaders and others "confer" with me. Think of it. I feel quite a personage, Donald, but I think my expression is not changed in consequence. I go to the office every day and leave at about 3. Generally I write on my new book until dinner. Of course this programme is frequently changed. I go out a good deal and have met lots of people who simply suggest "copy" with every turn of the head, created for no other purpose, I'm sure, than to have me write about them. Yes, I am still a "student of life." Will you never stop teasing me about that phrase? How oft-