XXV

Hurrying into the town as fast as her pony could take her, Felise was in deep anxiety, for she had bought the horse without the money to pay for him. She was so fearful lest Godwin should sell to someone else, lest Ruy should be sent away to some market at a distance and disappear, that she bid for him before she had made arrangements to obtain the money.

When she was brought a child to Mr. Goring, her fortune consisted of some fifty pounds and a set of pearls. Of the fifty pounds Goring had been obliged to spend four from time to time on necessities for his charge. At sixteen, he placed the remainder in a private savings-bank for her, and gave her the passbook. Since then she had drawn four more; there were consequently forty-two pounds remaining. The value of the pearls was one hundred and fifty, so they had been estimated; in fact, they had originally cost more. If only she could find someone to advance her twenty-eight pounds on these pearls, she could complete her purchase. She feared the difficulty arising from her sex, and from the fact that she was not yet of age.

She had no choice of persons, for there was but one to whom she could apply⁠—a silversmith who was known to be wealthy. He hopped a little, or halted in some way in his gait; after advancing a step he paused, and drew his other foot up level in a sort of plaintive style, as much as to say, “I should indeed be a man if it were not for this infirmity.” This deliberative motion, extending into his ideas, had enabled him to accumulate a considerable fortune.

Now the silversmith had always shown a kind of friendship for Mr. Goring, inviting him into his private room if the latter brought his watch to be repaired, and now and then calling at Beechknoll as he drove past to regulate someone’s clock. Secretly he gave Mr. Goring to understand that, although his business position forbade him to openly take any part, their views really coincided. He looked on the Cornleigh family as an incubus, and their ways as despotic.

At heart he owned he was a radical, though Mrs. Cornleigh herself sometimes called at the shop if she wanted a pin put in a brooch, or some similar trifle; for all their silver and electro “the family” went to London, and never spent a pound in the town.

The fact was the silversmith, halting at every step and considering, had noticed that Mr. Goring’s little property lay like a wedge between two sections of the Cornleigh estate. The little property was so small he thought Goring could never live on it long without borrowing money, and who should he go to for a loan but his friend the silversmith?

Loans mount up; in time, Goring would have to part with the place at a low price⁠—the silversmith’s price; then, once in possession, the silversmith could resell to the Cornleighs at a great advance⁠—perhaps double, for it was well known to him that the Squire, or the Squire’s agent, Robert Godwin, had fixed his heart on this fragment of land to round off the estate.

The silversmith dwelt much in secret upon this idea, for it promised in one coup to give him more than he could make in ten years’ sale of the goods in his shopwindow. More than once he had hinted at an advance; but Goring either had not understood him, or purposely turned the subject. The years were rolling on; the silversmith’s hair was as white now as the frosted silver in his cases, and his ingenious scheme had not visibly progressed a jot. With increasing age he drew his lame foot forward with a slower and more pathetic limp, and waited. By-and-by it would happen. To this man Felise was hastening with her pearls.

As she drove into the precincts of the town, she glanced at a fine display of flowers in the bow-window of a private residence. The flowers suggested unusual skill in selection, and unlimited care. Felise saw the blue, and yellow, and scarlet of the flowers, but did not observe the face behind them.

It was the face of Rosa Wood. The merchant’s daughter, in her unhappiness, had taken to passing much of her time at this window, which commanded a view of the street, to enjoy the poor pleasure⁠—if pleasure it was⁠—of seeing Martial pass at rare intervals. Unless upon some necessary business he never entered the town, the very name of which was now distasteful to him.

But, as she had no other means of seeing him, Rosa kept a constant watch at the window, or in the garden in front of it; and, lest people should notice her being there so much, and to while away the time, she occupied herself with flowers. It was not so sad as the story of the pot of basil, and yet there was a dead hope concealed under the coloured petals so sedulously tended. Flowers so often screen unhappiness.

For many days Rosa had endeavoured to discover for whom Martial had deserted her; a woman herself, she never doubted but that his conduct was due to some other woman. A woman always blames a woman.

Some one obtained a reputation for astuteness by remarking when he heard of mischief, “Who is the woman?” Instead of which he thereby proved the inferiority of the masculine intellect, since it required great talent to point out a clue which has always been obvious to the feminine mind. Let a man be, in fact, never so innocent⁠—let him be really at his club, or in Paris on business, or gone to see a fellow about a dog⁠—his wife, or his fiancée is sure to suspect a woman.

Rosa could not find the woman. Though she no longer visited at the Manor House, the Misses Barnard called upon her just the same as during their brother’s engagement; but these ladies, too, were at fault. Three of them together could not find out the other woman.

That afternoon however, at the sound of wheels, Rosa looked up, saw Felise, and said to herself instantly, “There she is.”

It is impossible for me to explain how she arrived at this conclusion, for no one but a woman could experience such intuition.

Rosa turned pale, then she started up; her knees failed her, and she sat down again. But the next moment she recovered herself, and hastened, still trembling, into the garden; whence, behind the shrubs, she could see where the pony-carriage stopped. It stopped about midway up the street; she could not distinguish the shop. She called a man who worked in the garden, and despatched him to find out to whom the pony-carriage belonged. He returned in a few minutes, having recognised it as Mr. Goring’s.

Miss Goring, then, was the other woman.

Felise never attended the concerts, balls, or amusements which were given in Maasbury, nor did Mr. Goring ever enter the place except on business. Consequently Rosa had not remembered this family when she ran over, time after time, all the families of the neighbourhood, and checked them on her fingers.

Although the Manor House was no great distance from Maasbury, there was a range of downs between, and the people of the two places seemed to belong to different provinces, having so little intercourse. Everything is very local in the country. The Misses Barnard had scarcely heard of Felise, even by name, till that day when, overcome by fatigue, she walked up to the front-door.

But without doubt this was the woman.

Her face burning, her hands cold, her heart throbbing, Rosa returned to the window and waited to catch another view of her rival as she left the town.

Felise drove straight to the silversmith’s door, and was received with beaming politeness. The old gentleman really possessed a certain air of fashion, an impressive, magnificent kind of courtesy⁠—there was a style in the very way he placed a chair for his visitor. His frosted hair, his faultless dress, his exquisite limp and plaintive expression were far above the stage on which he played his part. Felise was shown into the private room behind the counter⁠—a room elegantly furnished⁠—before she could utter a word on business.

The silversmith’s expectations were high.

“At last,” he thought, “she has come to open negotiations⁠—to prepare the way; just as I expected. Now for the loan!”

At this moment Felise produced a casket from her bag, and placed it on the table. The silversmith’s heart fell; it was not the loan then, only some trifling repairs.

But at the sight of the pearls which she drew forth and placed upon the table, the eye of the old usurer (for such, in fact, he was) glistened again. Felise went to the point at once, and asked him to advance upon them as much money as he could. Here by her inexperience she committed a mistake by leaving him to fix the amount; she should have fixed it herself, and as high as possible. Felise was happily ignorant of the craft and subtleity of the world.

Humming and hawing as he handled the pearls, the silversmith raised his eyebrows in his most plaintive and deprecatory manner, and regretted that it would not be possible to advance much upon them. Pearls had dropped, pearls were not nearly so valuable; another pearl-fishery had just been discovered; there were large stocks now that could not be sold, and so forth.

“But they are worth a hundred and fifty pounds,” said Felise, beginning to feel very miserable. “Tell me now how much you can lend me.”

“Well,” said the silversmith, very, very deliberately, “it is unpleasant⁠—it is hard to refuse; but really, Miss Goring, as a matter of business I don’t think I could advance anything.”

“Nothing!” said Felise, in blank despair.

“Not in the way of business,” said the silversmith, in the most caressing tones of a naturally low voice. “But still with a friend it is different.”

Felise began to sit very upright in her chair; she had a sense of insult, as if she was being put under an obligation.

“And for you or Mr. Goring’s convenience,” he continued, “of course I shall be most happy if you will permit me, as a favour to me, to advance a small sum upon them.”

Felise sank back again in her chair; he had put it the other way, as if he should be under an obligation to her.

“I should be very glad,” she said. “And how much?”

“Would now, let me see⁠—ten pounds⁠—”

“Oh dear no!” cried Felise. “Not nearly enough.”

“Fifteen pounds⁠—”

“I want twice as much,” said Felise hastily, “I want thirty pounds⁠—I mean I want twenty-eight pounds, if you please.”

This was another mistake; twenty-eight pounds, he saw at once, was the sum she would be satisfied with.

He paused and seemed to weigh the matter in his mind.

“Does Mr. Goring⁠—excuse me⁠—does Mr. Goring know you are bringing me these pearls?” he asked.

“No⁠—no⁠—that is⁠—but they are mine, quite mine. They were my mother’s; I can do as I like with them.”

“And, pardon me again, are you of age?”

Felise’s heart fell as she faltered a negative.

“I am obliged to make these inquiries,” said the silversmith; “you must really pardon me. Under the circumstances, I think we had better let this be a purely friendly transaction, without any formal record. If I am willing to trust you with my money on your word that these are your pearls, will you trust them to me?”

“Of course I will⁠—of course I will trust them to you.”

“Then there need be no writing at all; I will give you the twenty-eight pounds; you shall yourself put the pearls in my safe, and there they will remain. In six months’ time you will repay me the twenty-eight pounds with five percent interest, and I will restore you the pearls. Will that do?”

“Yes,” said Felise, though at the same time it occurred to her that there was no prospect whatever of her possessing the money at that date.

The silversmith had considered within himself that this transaction was one of those which could not be made valid by any ingenuity of terms. He looked for his profit in the influence he should possess with Miss Goring, who would forward his views if the little scheme alluded to came to be realised; he protected himself and would escape obloquy, if the transaction became known, by charging a merely nominal interest (for usurers); he further protected himself because there was not a scrap of writing to show that he had ever had the pearls. He felt certain they were worth fully two hundred pounds.

With her own hands Felise placed the casket in the safe, as if permission to personally deposit them was a guarantee of good faith on behalf of the receiver, and twenty-eight sovereigns were counted down on the table. The usurer in his most courtier-like manner took her to her pony-carriage, gave her the reins, and bowed in good style as she drove off.

Round the corner of the street Felise stopped at the private savings bank; she was barely in time; in fact, the hour for closing had struck, and to an ordinary customer it would have been too late. Felise’s presence seemed to fill the dingy room with so unusual a light that the cashier, dumb and nervous, hurried to carry out her wishes. Forty pounds were paid to her in notes, two pounds in gold; this made up the seventy pounds for Ruy. The pony-carriage went rattling down the street; Felise was happy, she had succeeded. Had the pearls been worth a thousand pounds, she would have left them for the twenty-eight.

For the craft and subtleity of this world are too deep for most of us. For instance, who would suspect an oyster of deceit? Yet the other afternoon, while looking at some red mullet in a fishmonger’s shop⁠—red mullet are very nice, if you can persuade the cook to split them and remove the bitter substance which generally spoils them; you must have this done most carefully⁠—while I was looking at the red mullet and feeling the slenderness of my purse, and thinking of Lucullus and Trimalchio’s banquet, and how red mullet really are very good⁠—in short, while temptation trod on the heels of prudence, in steps an important old gentleman.

He had an air of wrath and ire; a rich, nervous, irritable, insist-upon-my-rights sort of personage; a gold-mounted eyeglass swung on his chest one moment, and was up at his eye the next; his Java cane came down thump on the sanded floor; a man no fishmonger dared baulk of his whim.

“Oysters,” he said.

The fishmonger bowed, rubbed his hands, quite shone with obsequiousness.

“Natives,” continued the old gentleman. “Two dozen, and mind, they are to be opened at my door.”

“Certainly, sir; with pleasure, sir. Anything else, sir; fine turbot, sir⁠—ah⁠—hum!”

The old gentleman had gone down the street.

“Don’t see how it’s to be done,” said a shop-assistant.

“Take a knife with you and open them on the area windowsill.”

But why should the old gentleman wish the oysters opened at his door? Could they possess the power of transforming themselves on the way from natives into bluepoints? Or could it be possible that mistakes occasionally occur when quantities are opened at shops, and “natives” and other varieties get mixed? The old gentleman wanted them to arrive at his house in the shell they had been dredged up in; he feared the craft and subtleity of the wicked oyster.

The lame silversmith was a sort of person with whom, if you had dealings, it was as well to have the oysters opened at your door.