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 1898 by the Author

Many things that must have stung David were said of her in every paper except his own. But even to Anne's eyes he was impassive. He went into the world, particularly the society of men and clubs, and much as formerly, and those who found pleasure in discussing his affairs behind his back were careful to read the hint in his attitude and offer neither sympathy nor advice.

May was almost spent. At the corners of the streets barrel organs churned antiquated love songs; sparrows built their nests in the weakly budding trees; wagons heaped with glowing plants halted at area gates; the crannies between the paving stones held spears of grass as strengthless as the down on the boy's lip.

On a warm night Anne took a hansom to one of the big studio buildings on upper Fifth avenue to attend a dinner given by a celebrated artist just over from Paris on a visit to his native land.

A brilliant 14 sat down at the round table, and she found herself between the athletic young novelist who took her in and an Australian capitalist. As dessert came on there was a lull in the entertaining nonsense and piquant discussions between herself and her dinner companion and she listened to the scraps of conversation around her. The name "Temple," spoken soft, amused, scornful accents by the Australian, reached her. His big, bald head was turned from her, but owing to his slow, distinct utterance she could hear almost every word. He was speaking of Olga.

"They fade quickly, those very pale blonds, don't you think? Excitement and what not have spoiled a very pretty woman in Mrs. Temple. A shocking failure she is too. In Melbourne, where she tried to force Parthenia down our throats, I assure you she was laughed at. A playful little kitten style of woman in a comedy is as much as she should have attempted. These people never can measure their ability. After years and years of work and work she might have attempted parts, but, Lord, not now!"

"She was considered a great beauty here and a very good actress," came from the listener on the other side.

"Of course, of course. I fancy when she had everything her own way and didn't have to fag she was healthy and probably a beauty. But she's down on her luck. She's anaemic, too, or that dead white glassy skin of hers means arsenic" -

"Oh, I assure you, no! She was always as white as milk."

"Then she's organically unsound, bloodless, and she hasn't the stuff in her to last. They say she has hysterics, like insanity, and her temper's frightful. I know for a positive fact she boxed her coachman's ears in Melbourne."

"Really! And she always seemed so amiable! I can't fancy her even disturbed."

"Disappointment, my dear lady, is like a blistering sun on the sweetest milk - sure to turn it sour, eh?"

"She appeared in London last month. The reports say she made a failure there."

"One hasn't much 'go' playing a losing game. It will be a good thing for the society woman who talks and thinks nothing but stage, stage, stage, to remember one thing - the vast difference between playing to the big, cold hearted public whose eyes are all strabismus, and playing to Tom, Dick and Harry, with whom she has dined, flirted or had 5 o'clock tea. The public is a bulldog. If it doesn't get what it wants or expects, it bites.

During her drive home the words she had heard staid with Anne, but insisted on remaining beyond her belief. Olga pitied, ridiculed, faded - she who had been so secure, so envied! And but little more than a year had gone!

She sat with wide, speculative eyes, watching the sentinellike lamps flash past, and tried to picture Olga as she had been described. Failure had come and bitterness had followed. Exhausting travel, nervous days and nights and the pains of wounded vanity had done the rest. Prosperity and confidence in herself had been the qualities forming a foundation for Olga's winning unconcern and amiability. With defeat, with struggle, the real nature had peered like an ugly face from behind a mask and left her a bitter, turbulent woman, a logical development of the peevish child who scratched.

The house was wrapped in slumber when she reached it. But she knew by the light left burning in the library that David had not yet returned. For several days she had only seen him in the mornings.

She went to her aunt's room to see if she slept or needed anything. The light burned low and made big shadows among the bed curtains, the air was sweet with the odor of lilacs, and a cool wind swept like a sigh through the place.

Anne tiptoed to the bed and looked at the small, huddled figure, the hands lying palms upward on the counterpane, the face turned sideways, resting on the shoulder in the attitude of watching, which had become habitual. She brushed a lock of hair from the wet brow, placed the big fan which had fallen within reach of her hand and crept out, Olga's face haunting her.

A few nights later a letter came to Anne by the last post. It was from London, and she recognized Olga's handwriting. It was the first she had received since her departure. She carried it up to her own room, and even after the door was closed she hesitated with it in her hand, fearing what was written within it.

When she drew it from its cover, she read these words:

My Dear Anne- You've had very hard thoughts of me, I know. You never wrote To me yourself, and in the brief notes received from father there was no message from you. However, I'm going to ask you to let my humiliation brush all these thoughts from your mind, for I am humiliated, and it is bitter to say it, I can tell you. I've failed. There's no use mincing words or beating around the bush. I've failed, and l'm ill, very ill. Nobody seems to know just what's the matter with me, and I don't much care. I'm probably dying, and that doesn't matter either. But just now I've got a longing to go home. I have heart enough for that. I know mamma is all broken up, but still I keep thinking how pleasant it would be to lie in my cool, green room and have her fuss around me as she used to do when I had a cold or a headache. There's a comfort in this and in feeling that no matter what I've done I do belong to mamma and she'd never give me the cold shoulder.

But then, as I said, I hear she's not as she was, and perhaps no one else would care to see me at home. Do you think David would take me back? I don't expect his forgiveness, nor that he could the least bit regard me as he used to do. But he may forgive me enough to let me go back to my home, which is his now. I want to go home and rest, and this is all I care about. Will you ask him, Anne, and write to me? I'm so tired of myself. You never can know just how utterly sick and weary I am. My face in the glass frightens me, it is so lean and bloodless. I long so to rest, to fall asleep in a safe place and not think or care what the end may be. You won't believe it maybe, but I'm not a bit pretty any more. I've gone off horribly. At first I minded; but I don't now. Nothing seems to matter. I've had my cake and eaten it. It disappointed me, and there's no one to blame but myself. Cable me here at Langham's, and if I may return I'll go home at once. I wish now I'd never gone on the stage. But what's the use of crying when the harm's done? Do try and think kindly of me and welcome me back. Olga.

Anne read the letter twice, and the picture her fancy conjured of Olga made a pain rise in her throat. Of course she would speak to David as soon as he came in, and of course Olga would return. The pity in David's heart would let him receive back this wasted, disappointed woman and she would scarcely remind him of the splendid beauty who had failed him when he needed her most. Soon Olga would be home, creeping like the ghost of herself through the familiar rooms. Her soft step would be heard on the stairs. She might be changed in soul and heart, and in her weakness and defeat be to David what he had longed to make her.

As Anne stood with the letter in her hand she heard the street door close softly. Without giving herself time to think what she should say she went down to the study. The full gaslight poured on David as he stood by the table, his chin lowered. His face was more than fatigued. It was pinched, and she could see a moisture on his forehead. He looked up, but did not greet her or move.

"David," she said uncertainly, "don't be angry, but I must speak to you of Olga." He drew in his breath and closed his eyes.

"Ah, you know then, you know," he murmured.

"I've a letter from her." And she held it out to him. "She's very ill and wants to come home. She wants me to ask" - 

He seized the hand that held the letter and looked suffering, forbidding.

"You'll let her come home here, won't you? I was sure you would. She seems to want nothing else, she doesn't expect or ask for forgiveness" -

"Ob, hush!" he said wildly and with difficulty, opening his other hand and showing a crushed cablegram. "I can never tell her now that I would have pitied her, yes, even forgiven her the wrong she did me, for she's dead, Anne. You can read it there. She died today."

CHAPTER XXII.

It was a wild night. Au icy torrent of rain was tossed by a wind which seemed sent to wail over the world.

The study where David Temple sat was as cheery as firelight and shaded lamplight could make it. He was conscious only vaguely of the sputtering coals sending up fuchsia tinted sparks and of the torrential rain shaking the window casings, while his thoughts wandered into dreams of other places and times.

Save for the servants he now lived alone in the old Waverly place house. It was strange to sit there on this January night and hear neither voice nor footstep, to find himself listening gladly to the clock's light strokes, feeling depressed when the last vibration had whirred into the silence.

(To be continued)