



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, dark-grey eyes, full of candour, but
searching and firm beneath the well-marked brows.  Was her mouth too
large?  Perhaps so; but what a curve to that upper lip, what a bend to
the lower over that retreating dimpled chin.  If it had been smaller the
beauty of the regular teeth would have been more hidden, and there would
have been less of the pleasant smile that came as Claire brushed aside
her wavy brown hair, turned simply back, and knotted low down upon her
neck.

Pages might be written in Claire Denville's praise: let it suffice that
she was a tall, graceful woman, and that even the most disparaging
scandalmonger of the place owned that she was "not amiss."

Claire Denville's gaze out to sea was but a short one.  Then her face
disappeared; the stems and blossoms darted back to form a screen, and
the tenant of the barely-furnished bedroom was busy for some time,
making the bed and placing all in order before drawing a tambour frame
to the window, and unpinning a piece of paper that guarded the gay silks
and wools.  Then for the next hour Claire bent over her work, the
glistening needle passing rapidly in and out as she gazed intently at
the pattern rapidly approaching completion, a piece of work that was to
be taken surreptitiously to Miss Clode's library and fancy bazaar for
sale, money being a scarce commodity in the MC's home.

From below, time after time, came up sounds of preparation for the
breakfast of the domestics, then for their own, and Claire sighed as she
thought of the expenses incurred for three servants, and how much
happier they might be if they lived in simpler style.

The chiming of the old church clock sounded sweetly on the morning air.

_Ting-dong_--quarter-past; and Claire listened attentively.

_Ting-dong_--half-past.

_Ting-dong_--quarter to eight.

"How time goes!" she cried, with a wistful look at her work, which she
hurriedly covered, and then her print dress rustled as she ran
downstairs to find her father already in the little pinched parlour,
dubbed breakfast-room, standing thin and pensive in a long faded
dressing-gown, one arm resting upon the chimney-piece, snuff-box in
hand, the other raised level with his face, holding the
freshly-dipped-for pinch--in fact, standing in a studied attitude, as if
for his portrait to be limned.

Volume One, Chapter II.

HIS BREAKFAST.

"Ah, my child, you are late," said the Master of the Ceremonies, as
Claire ran to meet him and kissed his cheek.  "`Early to bed and early
to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.'  It will do the same
for you, my child, and add bloom to your cheek, though, of course, we
cannot be early in the season."

"I am a little late, papa dear," said Claire, ringing a tinkling bell,
with the result that Isaac, in his striped jacket and the stiffest of
white cravats, entered, closed the door behind him, and then stood
statuesque, holding a brightly-polished kettle, emitting plenty of
steam.

"Any letters, Isaac?"

"No, sir, none this morning," and then Isaac carefully poured a small
quantity of the boiling water into the teapot, whose lid Claire had
raised, and stood motionless while she poured it out again, and then
unlocked a very small tea-caddy and spooned out three very small
spoonfuls--one apiece, and none for the over-cleaned and de-silvered
plated pot.  This done, Isaac filled up, placed the kettle on the hob,
fetched a Bible and prayer-book from a sideboard, placed them at one end
of the table and went out.

"Why is not Morton down?" said the MC sternly.

"He came down quite an hour ago, papa.  He must have gone for a walk.
Shall we wait?"

"Certainly not, my child."

At that moment there was a little scuffling outside the door, which was
opened directly after by Isaac, who admitted Eliza and a very
angular-looking woman with two pins tightly held between her lips--pins
that she had intended to transfer to some portion of her garments, but
had not had time.  These three placed themselves before three chairs by
the door, and waited till the MC had gracefully replaced his snuff-box,
and taken two steps to the table, where he and Claire sat down.  Then
the servants took their seats, and then "Master" opened the Bible to
read in a slow, deliberate way, and as if he enjoyed the names, that New
Testament chapter on genealogies which to youthful ears seemed to be
made up of a constant repetition of the two words, "which was."

This ended, all rose and knelt down, Isaac with the point of his elbow
just touching the point of Eliza's elbow, for he comforted his
conscience over this tender advance by the reflection that marriage,
though distant, was a sacred thing; and he made up for his unspiritual
behaviour to a great extent by saying the "Amens" in a much louder voice
than Cook, and finished off in the short space of silence after the
Master of the Ceremonies had read the last Collect, and when all were
expected to continue their genuflexions till that personage sighed and
made a movement as if to rise, by adding a short extempore prayer of his
own, one which he had repeated religiously for the past four years
without effect, the supplication being:

"And finally, may we all get the arrears of our wages, evermore.  Amen."

Isaac had finished his supplementary prayer; the MC sighed and rose,
and, the door being opened by the footman, the two maids stepped out.
Isaac followed, and in a few minutes returned with a very coppery rack,
containing four thin pieces of toast, and a little dish whose contents
were hidden by a very battered cover.  These were placed with the
greatest form upon the table, and the cover removed with a flourish, to
reveal two very thin and very curly pieces of streaky bacon, each of
which had evidently been trying to inflate itself like the frog in the
fable, but with no other result than the production of a fatty bladdery
puff, supported by a couple of patches of brown.

Isaac handed the toast to father and daughter, and then went off with
the cover silently as a spirit, and the breakfast was commenced by the
MC softly breaking a piece of toast with his delicate fingers and
saying:

"I am displeased with Morton.  After yesterday's incident, he should
have been here to discuss with me the future of his campaign."

"Here he is, papa," cried Claire eagerly, and she rose to kiss her
brother affectionately as he came rather boisterously into the room,
looking tall, thin and pale, but healthy and hungry, as an overgrown boy
of nineteen would look who had been out at the seaside before breakfast.

"You were not here to prayers, Morton," said the MC sternly.

"No, father; didn't know it was so late," said the lad, beginning on the
toast as soon as he was seated.

"I trust that you have not been catching--er--er--dabs, this morning."
The word was distasteful when the fish was uncooked, and required an
effort to enunciate.

"Oh, but I have, though.  Rare sport this morning.  Got enough for
dinner."

The MC was silent for a few moments, and gracefully sipped his thin tea.
He was displeased, but there was a redeeming feature in his son's
announcement--enough fish for dinner.  There would be no need to order
anything of the butcher.

"Hush, Morton," said Claire softly, and she laid her soft little hand on
his, seeing their father about to speak.

"I am--er--sorry that you should be so thoughtless, Morton," said his
father; "at a time, too, when I am making unheard-of efforts to obtain
that cornetcy for you; how can you degrade yourself--you, the son of a--
er--man--a--er--gentleman in my position, by going like a common boy
down below that pier to catch--er--dabs!"

"Well, we want them," retorted the lad.  "A good dinner of dabs isn't to
be sneezed at.  I'm as hungry as hungry, sometimes.  See how thin I am.
Why, the boys laugh, and call me Lanky Denville."

"What is the opinion of boys to a young man with your prospects in
life?" said his father, carefully ignoring the question of food supply.
"Besides, you ought to be particular, sir, for the sake of your sister
May, who has married so well."

"What, to jerry-sneaky Frank Burnett?  A little humbug."

"Morton!"

"Well, so he is, father.  I asked him to lend me five shillings the day
before yesterday, and he called me an importunate beggar."

"You had no business to ask him for money, sir."

"Who am I to ask, then?  I must have money.  You won't let me go out to
work."

"No, sir; you are a gentleman's son, and must act as a gentleman."

"I can't act as a gentleman without money," cried the lad, eating away,
for, to hide the look of pain in her face, Claire kept diligently
attending to her brother's wants by supplying him with a fair amount of
thin tea and bread and butter, as well as her own share of the bacon.

"My dear son," said the MC with dignity, "everything comes to the man
who will wait.  Your sister May has made a wealthy marriage.  Claire
will, I have no doubt, do the same, and I have great hopes of your
prospects."

"Haven't any prospects," said the lad, in an ill-used tone.

"Not from me," said the MC, "for I am compelled to keep up appearances
before the world, and my fees and offerings are not nearly so much as
people imagine."

"Then why don't we live accordingly?" said the lad roughly.

"Allow me, with my experience, sir, to know best; and I desire that you
will not take that tone towards me.  Recollect, sir, that I am your
father."

"Indeed, dear papa, Morton does not mean to be disrespectful."

"Silence, Claire.  And you, Morton; I will be obeyed."

"All right, father.  I'll obey fast enough, but it does seem precious
hard to see Ikey down in the kitchen stuffing himself, and us up in the
parlour going short so as to keep up appearances."

"My boy," said the MC pathetically, "it is Spartan-like.  It is
self-denying and manly.  Have courage, and all will end well.  I know it
is hard.  It is my misfortune, but I appeal to you both, do I ever
indulge myself at your expense?  Do I ever spare myself in my efforts
for you?"

"No, no, no, dear," cried Claire, rising with tears in her eyes to throw
her arm round his neck and kiss him.

"Good girl!--good girl!" he said, smiling sadly, and returning the
embrace.  "But sit down, sit down now, and let us discuss these very
weighty matters.  Fortune is beginning to smile upon us, my dears.  May
is off my hands--well married."

Claire shook her head sadly.

"I say well married, Claire," said her father sternly, "and though we
have still that trouble ever facing us, of a member of our family
debauched by drunkenness, and sunk down to the degradation of a common
soldier--"

"Oh!  I say, father, leave poor old Fred alone," cried Morton.  "He
isn't a bad fellow; only unlucky."

"Be silent, sir, and do not mention his name again in my presence.  And
Claire, once for all, I forbid his coming to this house."

"He only came to the back door," grumbled Morton.

"A son who is so degraded that he cannot come to the front door, and
must lower himself to the position of one of our servants, is no
companion for my children.  I forbid all further communication with
him."

"Oh, papa!" cried Claire, with the tears in her eyes.

"Silence!  Morton, my son, I have hopes that by means of my interest a
certain person will give you a commission in the Light Dragoons, and--
For what we have received may the Lord make us truly thankful."

"Amen," said Morton.  "Claire, I want some more bread and butter."

"Claire," said the Master of the Ceremonies, rising from the table as a
faint tinkle was heard, "there is the Countess's bell."

He drew the girl aside and laid a thin white finger upon her shoulder.

"You must give her a broader hint this morning, Claire.  Six months, and
she has paid nothing whatever.  I cannot, I really cannot go on finding
her ladyship in apartments and board like this.  It is so unreasonable.
A woman, too, with her wealth.  Pray, speak to her again, but don't
offend her.  You must be careful.  Delicately, my child--delicately.  A
leader of fashion even now.  A woman of exquisite refinement.  Of the
highest aristocracy.  Speak delicately.  It would never do to cause her
annoyance about such a sordid thing as money--a few unsettled debts of
honour.  Ah, her bell again.  Don't keep her waiting."

"If you please, ma'am, her ladyship has rung twice," said Isaac,
entering the room; "and Eliza says shall she go?"

"No, Isaac, your mistress will visit her ladyship," said the MC with
dignity.  "You can clear away, Isaac--you can clear away."

Stuart Denville, Esquire, walked to the window and took a pinch of
snuff.  As soon as his back was turned Isaac grinned and winked at
Morton, making believe to capture and carry off the bread and butter;
while the lad hastily wrote on a piece of paper:

"Pour me out a cup of tea in the pantry, Ike, and I'll come down."

Five minutes later the room was cleared, and the MC turned from the
window to catch angrily from the table some half-dozen letters which the
footman had placed ready for him to see.

"Bills, bills, bills," he said, in a low, angry voice, thrusting them
unread into the drawer of a cabinet; "what am I to do?  How am I to
pay?"

He sat down gracefully, as if it were part of his daily life, and his
brow wrinkled, and an old look came into his face as he thought of the
six months' arrears of the lady who occupied his first floor, and his
hands began to tremble strangely as he seemed to see open before him an
old-fashioned casket, in which lay, glittering upon faded velvet,
necklet, tiara, brooch, earrings and bracelets--large diamonds of price;
a few of which, if sold, would be sufficient to pay his debts, and
enable him to keep up appearances, and struggle on, till Claire was well
married, and his son well placed.

Money--money--always struggling on for money in this life of beggarly
gentility; while only on the next floor that old woman on the very brink
of the grave had trinkets, any one of which--

He made a hasty gesture, as if he were thrusting back some temptation,
and took up a newspaper, but let it fall upon his knees as his eyes lit
upon a list of bankrupts.

Was it come to that?  He was heavily in debt to many of the
tradespeople.  The epidemic in the place last year had kept so many
people away, and his fees had been less than ever.  Things still looked
bad.  Then there was the rent, and Barclay had said he would not wait,
and there were the bills that Barclay held--his acceptances for money
borrowed at a heavy rate to keep up appearances when his daughter May--
his idol--the pretty little sunbeam of his house--became Mrs Frank
Burnett.

"Barclay is hard, very hard," said the Master of the Ceremonies to
himself.  "Barclay said--"

He again made that gesture, a gracefully made gesture of repelling
something with his thin, white hands, but the thought came back.

"Barclay said that half the ladies of fashion when short of money,
through play, took their diamonds to their jeweller, sold some of the
best, and had them replaced with paste.  It took a connoisseur to tell
the difference by candlelight."

Stuart Denville, poverty-stricken gentleman, the poorest of men,
suffering as he did the misery of one struggling to keep up appearances,
rose to his feet with a red spot in each of his cheeks, and a curious
look in his eyes.

"No, no," he ejaculated excitedly as he walked up and down, "a
gentleman, sir--a gentleman, if poor.  Better one's razors or a pistol.
They would say it was all that I could do.  Not the first gentleman who
has gone to his grave like that."

He shuddered and stood gazing out of the window at the sea, which
glittered in the sunshine like--yes, like diamonds.

Barclay said he had often changed diamonds for paste, and no one but a
judge could tell what had been done.  Half a dozen of the stones from a
bracelet replaced with paste, and he would be able to hold up his head
for a year, and by that time how changed everything might be.

Curse the diamonds!  Was he mad?  Why did the sea dance and sparkle, and
keep on flashing like brilliants?  Was it the work of some devil to
tempt him with such thoughts?  Or was he going mad?

He took pinch after pinch of snuff, and walked up and down with studied
dancing-master strides as if he were being observed, instead of alone in
that shabby room, and as he walked he could hear the dull buzz of voices
and a light tread overhead.

He walked to the window again with a shudder, and the sea still seemed
to be all diamonds.

He could not bear it, but turned to his seat, into which he sank
heavily, and covered his face with his hands.

Diamonds again--glistening diamonds, half a dozen of which, taken--why
not borrowed for a time from the old woman who owed him so much, and
would not pay?  Just borrowed for the time, and paste substituted till
fate smiled upon him, and his plans were carried out.  How easy it would
be.  And she, old, helpless, would never know the difference--and it was
to benefit his children.

"I cannot bear it," he moaned; and then, "Barclay would do it for me.
He is secret as the tomb.  He never speaks.  If he did, what reputations
he could blast."

So easy; the old woman took her opiate every night, and slept till
morning.  She would not miss the cross--yes, that would be the one--no,
a bracelet better.  She never wore that broad bracelet, Claire said, now
she had realised that her arms were nothing but bone.

"Am I mad?" cried the old man, starting up again.  "Yes, what is it?"

"Messenger from Mr Barclay, sir, to say he will call to-morrow at
twelve, and he hopes you will be in."

"Yes, yes, Isaac; say yes, I will be in," said the wretched man, sinking
back in his chair with the perspiration starting out all over his brow.
And then, as he was left alone, "How am I to meet him?  What am I to
say?" he whispered.  "Oh, it is too horrible to bear!"

Once more he started to his feet and walked to the window and looked out
upon the sea.

Diamonds--glittering diamonds as far as eye could reach, and the Master
of the Ceremonies, realising more and more the meaning of the word
temptation, staggered away from the window with a groan.

Volume One, Chapter III.

THE FLICKERING FLAME.

"Draw the curtains, my dear, and then go into the next room, and throw
open the French window quite wide."

It was a mumbling