Owen Ford sat in the empty parlor of the Moore house, in front of him on a small lion-legged chair was a notebook and a small blue teapot and a steaming teacup, and a piece of toast.
It was quiet.
The rays of the morning sun glistened between the thin muslin curtains. Suddenly heavy, clumsy steps broke the idyll, as Dick Moore, in a stained shirt and hay-stained trousers, strode in, on his head was a striped sailor's cap, as always
Owen glanced thoughtfully at the hulking figure who was no man, not anymore. The look on Dick Moore's tanned, bronze-brown face was vague, a look from which it was difficult to make out anything.
There was no hum, in his usual way, there were no fractured baritone humming old seashantys. Owen's chair creaked beneath him, and suddenly Dick Moore swung, straight at Owen, like a big cat ready to pounce - the threat of violence hung in the air, like a poisonous miasma.
Owen found his pulse rising as Dick Moore coolly glanced at him, his different colored eyes were very unsettling, as he only grunted, in Gravelly way, " Tenants always goes away. Pretty, is light and laughing, now. Pretty stays with me, not for you she is not. I promised to take care, and so I will."
Owen carefully glanced at Dick Moore's sturdy shoulders, and said in his most charming, lively manner, "Just so, Mrs. Moore is the light to us all, isn't she."
Disgust twisted Owen's stomach as he thought about Leslie's life with that creature. Dick Moore, twirling his sailor cap dreamily in his hairy hands, as he straightened to his full height, he was taller and bulkier than Owen, as he started to hum again, - something that sounded just like a version of Musset's Les filles de Cadix.
And as a test, Owen took a deep breath and remarked, in a singularly mild way, just as he had previously soothed the disgruntled editors, "Castanets and bolero dancing is a long way from these ruddy shores, isn't it Mr. Moore?"
Dick Moore, lowered his sailor's cap, his hands stopped, in mid-motion, and a fixed, almost fervent look rose into his eyes, as he murmured still gruffly, like a bear that has been disturbed, "Himself said, there is nowhere like Pretty, not even among the women of Cuba. Castanets played and the song played, and we walked, along streets Himself was feeling poorly and his temper was up, as the card game had gone badly, he only had a pocket watch and a letter, and a picture, so beautiful."
Owen Ford frowned, because that surprising, almost disconnected monologue seemed like a hazy fragmentary memory, from something past, like a carousing night gone wrong, it seemed. Dick Moore had fallen silent, and there was something sinister in that silence.
Shrugging, Owen Ford picked up his bag. He was about to walk out of the parlor when Dick Moore's gruff voice stopped him again, "There's going to be a storm this afternoon - the clouds tell it, one can smell it. No catch today, from the gulf."
Owen was in a thoughtful mood as he took his usual seat in Captain Jim's side room and set to work. The hours passed, and at exactly half past three, Owen saw Captain Jim struggling to pull his boat further up the beach. Huge greenish-metallic, foam-headed waves crashed on the shore, and a fierce wind howled.
Wiping the water from his face, Captain Jim said in an apologetic tone, "Well lad, our boat-trip, it's not going to be anything today, as you can see. The sea is too rough now."
As they drank tea, Owen found himself recounting the morning's scene, partly to Captain Jim. Captain Jim's expression turned a little pensive, and he swept his long gray hair, and taking a worn ribbon, tied it up in a perfect sailors-club, as he said with wry temperamental irony, " Leslie has been like a woman transformed, this summer, her nature is so rich and bountiful, and Mistress Blythe's friendship has been an influential factor, but I think that is not the only reason. All Moores have possessive-trait bred deep in that family, and Dick is still Moore, despite all his vagueness, and tempers. A moment like that you told about they crop up, occasionally, rarely, I think."
Owen tried not to flinch as he met the steady gaze of Captain Jim's wise eyes as he said stiffly, slightly defensively, "Mrs. Moore is lovely, but she's my boardinghouse mistress." Captain Jim's expression was inscrutable as he set his teacup down on the worn table. First Mate's soft purring could be heard quietly soothingly in the room.
The light had changed, it was soft clear, bright, as it always is after a storm. The resin-scented conifers hummed in the gentle breeze as Owen strode lightly across the marguerite field toward Moore's house.
It was the golden hour of the afternoon.
And suddenly, impulsively, Owen decided to go around the house, towards the veranda. The veranda of Moore House was bathed in warm sunlight, and Owen stopped as if rooted to the ground, as a few paces from him stood Leslie. Her hair was flowing freely that abundant curtain of living gold and ripe wheat falling almost to the ground, as she combed the thick mass dry Owen saw with a worn silver-coated hairbrush in her hand that shone like a diamond, a tarnished one.
Owen was sure he hadn't made a sound, but suddenly Leslie turned and looked at him. That blue, deep look was inscrutable, and then it suddenly softened, as Leslie took a step back, at the same moment a whimsical gust of wind flew to the verandah, and Owen saw how Leslie's hair entwined around her, a slender, stately figure, in golden light, all marble, and gold, against a shadowy silver-gray background, willow leaves quivering in the wind, they created their own power to a scene that had lasted only a few heartbeats.
Leslie leaned against her door, exhausted. Mr. Ford's expression had spoken volumes when he had earlier surprised her at the verandah. The look in 's bright gray eyes had pierced Leslies heart, and restlessly, Leslie glanced at her small mirror, combing her hair, into a hairstyle from which no unruly hair could escape. Cautiously, Leslie glanced at her cream blouse and dark skirt, and tied her usual crimson colored scarf around her waist, the only change was the crimson silk flower she decorated her hair with.
The dimly tinkling bell announced that the food was ready. Moore House was filled with the aromatic scent of herbal meat stew, and with hesitant steps, Owen stepped into the kitchen. glanced at him and said, "Just leftovers today." Her voice, that coolness was like a sudden sting, but looking up, Owen noticed that Leslie had a red silk flower in her hair, it suited her extremely well. Owen smiled and took a generous portion and said, "I happen to love this kind of cooking, it is homely."
As weeks went onwards Owen tried to coax out that delicious laughter, as the August evenings grew velvety dark around them, as they walked together more often to watch the fireflies fly, as Persis Leigh's late blooming roses spread their intoxicating fragrance in the garden of the House of Dreams.
Anne Blythes silver laugh was light and heartwarming, as Leslie leaned her splendid head on Anne's shoulder with girlish grace, as she remarked, "Anne, how precious these moments are, but they´ll vanish, so soon." Anne, gently stroking Leslie's hair with her fingertips, playfully remarked, "But we can enjoy ourselves thoroughly." Owen Ford's heart ached as he heard Leslie's mesmerizing laugh burst out in the shadows of the garden, for he knew that his vacation would soon be over, and his manuscript would soon be finished, but thankfully not quite yet. There were still time.