



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Volume One, Chapter I.

HIS HOUSE.

Early morning at Saltinville, with the tide down, and the calm sea
shimmering like damasked and deadened silver in the sunshine.  Here and
there a lugger was ashore, delivering its take of iris-hued mackerel to
cart and basket, as a busy throng stood round, some upon the sands, some
knee-deep in water, and all eager to obtain a portion of the fresh fish
that fetched so good a price amongst the visitors to the town.

The trawler was coming in, too, with its freight of fine thick soles and
turbot, with a few gaily-scaled red mullet; and perhaps a staring-eyed
John Dory or two, from the trammel net set overnight amongst the rocks:
all choice fish, these, to be bought up ready for royal and noble use,
for London would see no scale of any of the fish caught that night.

The unclouded sun flashed from the windows of the houses on the cliff,
giving them vivid colours that the decorator had spared, and lighting up
the downs beyond, so that from the sea Saltinville looked a very picture
of all that was peaceful and bright.  There were no huge stucco palaces
to mar the landscape, for all was modest as to architecture, and as
fresh as green and stone- paint applied to window-frame, veranda
and shutter could make it.  Flowers of variety were not plentiful, but
great clusters of orange marigolds flourished bravely, and, with
broad-disked sunflowers, did no little towards giving warmth of colour
to the place.  There had been no storms of late--no windy nights when
the spray was torn from the tops of waves to fly in showers over the
houses, and beat the window-panes, crusting them afterwards with a coat
of dingy salt.  The windows, then, were flashing in the sun; but all the
same, by six o'clock, Isaac Monkley, the valet, body-servant, and
footman-in-ordinary to Stuart Denville, Esquire, MC, was busy, dressed
in a striped jacket, and standing on the very top of a pair of steps,
cloth in one hand and wash-leather in the other, carefully cleaning
windows that were already spotless.  For there was something in the
exterior of the MC's house that suggested its tenant.  Paint, glass,
walls, and doorstep were so scrupulously clean that they recalled the
master's face, and seemed to have been clean-shaven but an hour before.

Isaac was not alone in his task, for, neat in a print dress and snowy
cap, Eliza, the housemaid, was standing on a chair within; and as they
cleaned the windows in concert, they courted in a special way.

There is no accounting for the pleasure people find in very ordinary
ways.  Isaac and Eliza found theirs in making the glass so clear that
they could smile softly at each other without let or hindrance produced
by smear or speck in any single pane.  Their hands, too, were kept in
contact, saving for cloth and glass, and moved in unison, describing
circles and a variety of other figures, going into the corners together,
changing from cloth to wash-leather, and moving, as it were, by one set
of muscles till the task was concluded with a chaste salute--a kiss
through the glass.

Meanwhile, anyone curious about the house would, if he had raised his
eyes, have seen that one of the upstairs windows had a perfect screen of
flowers, that grew from a broad, green box along the sill.  Sweet peas
clustered, roses bloomed, geraniums dotted it with brilliant tiny
pointless stars of scarlet, and at one side there was a string that ran
up from a peg to a nail, hammered, unknown to the MC, into the wall.
That peg was an old tooth-brush handle, and the nail had been driven in
with the back of a hairbrush; but bone handle and string were invisible
now, covered by the twining strands of so many ipomaeas, whose
heart-shaped leaves and trumpet blossoms formed one of the most lovely
objects of the scene.  Here they were of richest purple, fading into
lavender and grey; there of delicate pink with well-formed starry
markings in the inner bell, and moist with the soft air of early
morning.  Each blossom was a thing of beauty soon to fade, for, as the
warm beams of the sun kissed them, the edges began to curl; then there
would be a fit of shrivelling, and the bloom of the virgin flower passed
under the sun-god's too ardent caress.

About and above this screen of flowers, a something ivory white, and
tinged with peachy pink, kept darting in and out.  Now it touched a
rose, and a shower of petals fell softly down; now a geranium leaf that
was turning yellow disappeared; now again a twig that had borne roses
was taken away, after a sound that resembled a steely click.  Then the
little crimson and purple blossoms of a fuchsia were touched, and
shivered and twinkled in the light at the soft movements among the
graceful stems as dying flowers were swept away.

For a minute again all was still, but the next, there was a fresh
vibration amongst the flowers as this ivory whiteness appeared in a new
place, curving round a plant as if in loving embrace; and at such times
the blooms seemed drawn towards another and larger flower of thicker
petal and of coral hue, that peeped out amongst the fresh green leaves,
and then it was that a watcher would have seen that this ivory something
playing about the window garden was a soft white hand.

Again a fresh vibration amongst the clustering flowers, as if they were
trembling with delight at the touches that were once more to come.  Then
there was a brilliant flash as the sun's rays glanced from a bright
vessel, the pleasant gurgle of water from a glass carafe, and once more
stillness before the stems were slowly parted, and a larger flower
peeped out from the leafy screen--the soft, sweet face of Claire
Denville--to gaze at the sea and sky, and inhale the morning air.

Richard Linnell was not there to look up and watch the changes in the
sweet, candid face, with its high white forehead, veined with blue, its
soft, peachy cheeks and clear,