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
