A Circle In The Sand

A Circle in the Sand

by Kate Jordan

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

"You are worn out, dear."

"It seems a year since I have slept," said David. "I could sleep now."

"Suppose I call Robbins and tell him to get your bath and bed ready. You need a good sound sleep to set you up. Shall I tell him?"

"No, no," he said drowsily. "Don't go away from me."

"Let me stay here. You 're so soft nd warm and sweet." With a sigh he laid his head upon her knee and lifted her cool hand to his eyelids. She passed the other very gently across his forehead and let the fingers move lightly in his hair.

"So," he murmured. "Oh, this is peace, peace, rest" -

The room became silent. Olga looked rom David's haggard profile on her knee to the hands of the clock, stealing on relentlessly. If she left at 10 sharp, she would be in time. The pupils of her eyes had grown large from excitement. A small, intensely scarlet spot burned unusually on her cheeks. She felt a desire to shriek, to get into the air at once. But with the remarkable purpose which had never failed her she kept the meaningless smile on her lips as she trailed her fingers over David's forehead.

The stillness deepened. There were no sounds save the clock's tick and David's even breathing. Sometimes a cab rattled by. A laugh, a footstep, the distant call of a newsboy shouting news of the election disturbed without dispelling the dead quiet.

It seemed a weary time to Olga before David's hold on her hand, shielding his eyes, loosened. She watched his fingers slip down his cheek, his arm fall to his side. She bent over him and listened to the deep, weighted breaths telling of an exhausted body. Her task was done. Sleep as inexorable as death conquered him for the time.

Olga gently lifted his head, and with no sound save the rustle of her crisp skirt slid from beneath the pressing shoulders. With the same caution she lowered his cheek to the leather hollow of the chair. She stood above him, holding her breath, waiting. There was nothing to fear. The face on which oblivion had set its mark stared up at her. She gave a short sign of satisfaction, lifted gloves and cloak and, retreating backward, reached the door. For a second she paused, a bit of brilliant coloring against the curtains. They closed after her, and David was alone.

As if at that moment a meddlesome spirit had whispered the truth to him in a dream, he sighed deeply and throwing his arms upward made a pillow of them. Unconsciously his body had assumed the pose of one who had said goodby to hope.

CHAPTER XX.

After this David made no further attempts to win or soften Olga. When a servant awakened him hours afterward, he had faced not only the knowledge of her desertion, but the reiterations of his sick heart - useless, hopeless. He would never cheat himself again. Olga had been wholly consistent with his estimate of her. The folly of hoping too much had been his.

In the dark days following this accepted realization of failure he was cold and silent. He was gentle with Olga, but he lived within himself, and his heart was like a stone. He could feel a pity for her occasional outbreaks of disappointment and rage, but a capability of actively regretting what he had lost seemed dead. The changes following within two months found him complacent.

The town house was sold together with everything else, and for the time being, at Olga's request, they made their home with her father. When The Citizen passed into other hands, David retained his editorial position as an employee.

This latter sacrifice was a bitter one. Had he permitted himself to dwell upon it his hours at the familiar desk would have been tinctured with anguish. But he had a force in him, a grandeur of spirit, that made defeat imposing. Even Anne might have been deceived by his unchanged manner but for the one night of self betrayal when she had stood on the bridge, silent, within reach of his hand.

She went frequently to Dr. Ericsson's during these trying days. Life there was like a creature which bad received a blinding blow between the eyes and stood dazed, miserably uncertain on which path to advance.

Mrs. Ericsson had a grievance against fate, but fate was too impersonal for attacks. It was more satisfying to pour her regrets and accusations into ears which heard. She was like a gnat, never stinging deep, never alighting on the game spot twice, yet stinging always.

Anne often wondered at David's forbearance, for her most spiteful outbursts were leveled at him. Through him, in some way, by something done or left undone, the money for which she had worked so long with Olga as a bait had beet lost. Olga was the wife of a poor man. There was nothing worse to happen.

In the meantime Anne found herself studying Olga. She mystified her more completely every day. Her spasms of despair, sharp and short lived, were over now. For hours she would lie dreaming, her hands behind her head, the faintest smile sometimes fluttering around her lips. Except for a walk or drive, she seemed to enjoy letting the days brush by her. Dinner hour often found her lounging in the loose gown of the morning. She never spoke of what she thought so constantly nor what her plans were, if she had any. No one questioned her, David least of all. She showed no desire to found a home based upon their changed conditions. He was willing to wait until she had familiarized herself with her new future and had roused herself to active interest in it.

"My dear, God Iets some of us live too long," Dr. Ericsson said to Anne one day as she leaned over his library chair. "I am one of these. I can't contemplate the lives which this one roof covers without a feeling of dismay for the future. Better for me if I didn't live to see that which I must see, I fear. Oh, why weren't you my child?" he said, with longing. "You have a heart, a mind; real human blood goes through your arteries. You are a woman, not a finely articulated piece of flesh. You understand me? I wish you were my child."

"Uncle, why do you say this? You make me afraid of something. Has anything happened you haven't told me about?"

"I'm afraid of Olga," he said shortly.

"Why? She seems not to care any more," replied Anne, while she knew he was about to express some of the fear she had felt without understanding.

"That's just it; she seems not to care. But she does, and I know her." He sat with his eyes fixed on his veinous hand as it thoughtfully tapped the table. "At least when I say I know Olga I go too far. But I know the signs of storm in her. She is silent, thinking - of what? She writes a lot of letters. She always goes out alone. I'm afraid of her," he said, with a sigh.

But Anne soon forgot these words, for during several weeks following life at the old house took on a more cheerful color.

Olga ceased dreaming and seemed satisfied. She was often the gayest of companions and assumed a whimsical tyranny over David vastly preferable to her settled indifference. Sometimes during these days her eyes had an almost celestial light in them, her smile was confiding.

David almost dared hope again for that which he had decided could never be his. He found himself wondering if she could be content with the little he now had after all; if in her own fashion, which never could be anticipated, she would come to help him, love him a little. He put the hope from him, yet knew he was hoping, and he waited.

In January in the busy morning hours a note was brought to Anne at the office. It was from David, and very short.

"I hate to send you this, dear Anne. You have been drawn into my misfortunes too much of late. Forgive it, but away at the head of a theatrical company. The blow has prostrated Mrs. Ericsson and she's dangerously ill. Can you go to the house when you get this?"

Anne sat with the letter in her hands, conscious only of unbelief in the words written there. The woman who had done this thing, having smiled and lied harmoniously as she made her unhurried way to the goal of her desires, became suddenly hateful. Anne could not judge of her by herself or measure her by familiar rules. Comprehension was beyond her.

"A liar!" she said aloud. "A cruel liar!"

The noisy streets might have been a desert for all heed she took of them as she hurried to Dr. Ericsson's. She was absorbed in her thoughts. She knew how the papers would seize on this departure and flourish the real and imaginary details of David's private life under big headings, how ably Olga would assist them. Soon her face would stare from every shop window and decorate tobacco signs; she would be exploited by every bombastic venture dear to the managerial heart. She was not one to succeed by the sovereignty of talent alone and retire from the limelight to privacy as exclusive as a queen's. Instinct and education made her delight in the clamor of brass. Her mother had been eager to advertise her socially; she would trumpet herself professionally.

When Anne entered her aunt's bedroom, a pang of remorse shot through her heart. Mrs. Ericsson's nervous vigilance and activity had often irritated her, but now her outflung arms expressed apathy, her small, shrunken face was almost hidden in the bulging pillow and her eyes stared at one spot. She was in a sort of syncope. It seemed brutal that all the physician's efforts were to bring her out of it to a realization of Olga's decisive arrow which had struck down her last hope.

It was dusk before the nurse came and Anne could leave the sickroom. She was tired and her head ached. In the hall she met a maid and asked for a cup of tea.

"Shall I fetch it to the doctor's study, Miss Garrick? Mr. Temple is there now. He's just got in. Perhaps he'd like a cup of tea too."

"Yes, and Dr. Ericsson - hasn't he come back yet?"

"Not yet, miss."

(To be continued)