His eyes fell first of all upon Mrs. Moorhouse, who advanced to welcome him. He was aware of three other persons in the room. The nearest, he could perceive without regarding her, was Sidwell's friend; the other two, on whom he did not yet venture to cast a glance, sat--or rather had just risen--in a dim background. As he shook hands with Sylvia, they drew nearer; one of them was a man, and, as his voice at once declared, no other than Buckland Warricombe. Peak returned his greeting, and, in the same moment, gazed at the last of the party. Mrs. Moorhouse was speaking.
'Mr. Peak--Miss Moxey.'
A compression of the lips was the only sign of disturbance that anyone could have perceived on Godwin's countenance. Already he had strung himself against his wonted agitation, and the added trial did not sensibly enhance what he suffered. In discovering that he had rightly identified the figure at the window, he experienced no renewal of the dread which brought him to a stand-still. Already half prepared for this stroke of fate, he felt a satisfaction in being able to meet it so steadily. Tumult of thought was his only trouble; it seemed as if his brain must burst with the stress of its lightning operations. In three seconds, he re-lived the past, made several distinct anticipations of the future, and still discussed with himself how he should behave this moment. He noted that Marcella's face was bloodless; that her attempt to smile resulted in a very painful distortion of brow and lips. And he had leisure to pity her. This emotion prevailed. With a sense of magnanimity, which afterwards excited his wonder, he pressed the cold hand and said in a cheerful tone:
'Our introduction took place long ago, if I'm not mistaken. I had no idea, Miss Moxey, that you were among Mrs. Moorhouse's friends.'
'Nor I that you were, Mr. Peak,' came the answer, in a steadier voice than Godwin had expected.
Mrs. Moorhouse and her daughter made the pleasant exclamations that were called for. Buckland Warricombe, with a doubtful smile on his lips, kept glancing from Miss Moxey to her acquaintance and back again. Peak at length faced him.
'I hoped we should meet down here this autumn.'
'I should have looked you up in a day or two,' Buckland replied, seating himself. 'Do you propose to stay in Exeter through the winter?'
'I'm not quite sure--but I think it likely.'
Godwin turned to the neighbour of whose presence he was most conscious.
'I hope your brother is well, Miss Moxey?'
Their eyes encountered steadily.
'Yes, he is quite well, thank you. He often says that it seems very long since he heard from you.'
'I'm a bad correspondent.--Is he also in Devonshire?'
'No. In London.'
'What a storm we are going to have!' exclaimed Sylvia, looking to the window. 'They predicted it yesterday. I should like to be on the top of Westdown Beacon--wouldn't you, Miss Moxey?'
'I am quite willing to go with you.'
'And what pleasure do you look for up there?' asked Warricombe, in a blunt, matter-of-fact tone.
'Now, there's a question!' cried Sylvia, appealing to the rest of the company.
'I agree with Mr. Warricombe,' remarked her mother. 'It's better to be in a comfortable room.'
'Oh, you Radicals! What a world you will make of it in time!'
Sylvia affected to turn away in disgust, and happening to glance through the window she saw two young ladies approaching from the road.
'The Walworths--struggling desperately with their umbrellas.'
'I shouldn't wonder if you think it unworthy of an artist to carry an umbrella,' said Buckland.
'Now you suggest it, I certainly do. They should get nobly drenched.'
She went out into the hall, and soon returned with her friends--Miss Walworth the artist, Miss Muriel Walworth, and a youth, their brother. In the course of conversation Peak learnt that Miss Moxey was the guest of this family, and that she had been at Budleigh Salterton with them only a day or two. For the time he listened and observed, endeavouring to postpone consideration of the dangers into which he had suddenly fallen. Marcella had made herself his accomplice, thus far, in disguising the real significance of their meeting, and whether she would betray him in her subsequent talk with the Moorhouses remained a matter of doubt. Of course he must have assurance of her disposition--but the issues involved were too desperate for instant scrutiny. He felt the gambler's excitement, an irrational pleasure in the consciousness that his whole future was at stake. Buckland Warricombe had a keen eye upon him, and doubtless was eager to strike a train of suspicious circumstances. His face, at all events, should give no sign of discomposure. Indeed, he found so much enjoyment in the bright gossip of this assembly of ladies that the smile he wore was perfectly natural.
The Walworths, he gathered, were to return to London in a week's time. This meant, in all probability, that Marcella's stay here would not be prolonged beyond that date. Perhaps he could find an opportunity of seeing her apart from her friends. In reply to a question from Mrs. Moorhouse, he made known that he proposed staying at the Rolle Arms for several days, and when he had spoken he glanced at Marcella. She understood him; he felt sure. An invitation to lunch here on the morrow was of course accepted.
Before leaving, he exchanged a few words with Buckland.
'Your relatives will be going to town very soon, I understand.
Warricombe nodded.
'Shall I see you at Exeter?' Godwin continued.
'I'm not sure. I shall go over to-morrow, but it's uncertain whether I shall still be there when you return.'
The Radical was distinctly less amicable than even on the last occasion of their meeting. They shook hands in rather a perfunctory way.
Early in the evening there was a temporary lull in the storm; rain no longer fell, and in spaces of the rushing sky a few stars showed themselves. Unable to rest at the hotel, Peak set out for a walk towards the cliff summit called Westdown Beacon; he could see little more than black vacancies, but a struggle with the wind suited his temper, and he enjoyed the incessant roar of surf in the darkness. After an hour of this buffeting he returned to the beach, and stood as close as possible to the fierce breakers. No person was in sight. But when he began to move towards the upper shore, three female figures detached themselves from the gloom and advanced in his direction. They came so near that their voices were audible, and thereupon he stepped up to them.
'Are you going to the Beacon after all, Miss Moorhouse?'
Sylvia was accompanied by Agatha Walworth and Miss Moxey. She explained laughingly that they had stolen out, by agreement, whilst the males of their respective households still lingered at the dinner-table.
'But Mr. Warricombe was right after all. We shall be blown to pieces. A very little of the romantic goes a long way, nowadays.'
Godwin was determined to draw Marcella aside. Seemingly she met his wish, for as all turned to regain the shelter of houses she fell behind her female companions, and stood close by him.
'I want to see you before you go back to London,' he said, bending his head near to hers.
'I wrote a letter to you this morning,' was her reply.
'A letter? To what address?'
'Your address at Exeter.'
'But how did you know it?'
'I'll explain afterwards.'
'When can I see you?'
'Not here. It's impossible.