'He was of course mistaken.'
Marcella's voice had an indistinctness very unlike her ordinary tone. As a rule she spoke with that clearness and decision which corresponds to qualities of mind not commonly found in women. But confidence seemed to have utterly deserted her; she had lost her individuality, and was weakly feminine.
'I have been here since last Christmas,' said Godwin, after a pause.
'Yes. I know.'
Their eyes met.
'No doubt your friends have told you as much as they know of me?'
'Yes--they have spoken of you.'
'And what does it amount to?'
He regarded her steadily, with a smile of indifference.
'They say'--she gazed at him as if constrained to do so--'that you are going into the Church.' And as soon as she uttered the last word, a painful laugh escaped her.
'Nothing else? No comments?'
'I think Miss Moorhouse finds it difficult to understand.'
'Miss Moorhouse?' He reflected, still smiling. 'I shouldn't wonder. She has a sceptical mind, and she doesn't know me well enough to understand me.'
'Doesn't know you well enough?'
She repeated the words mechanically. Peak gave her a keen glance.
'Has she led you to suppose,' he asked, 'that we are on intimate terms?'
'No.' The word fell from her, absently, despondently.
'Miss Moxey, would anything be gained by our discussing my position? If you think it a mystery, hadn't we better leave it so?'
She made no answer.
'But perhaps,' he went on, 'you have told them--the Walworths and the Moorhouses--that I owe my friends an explanation? When I see them again, perhaps I shall be confronted with cold, questioning faces?'
'I haven't said a word that could injure you,' Marcella replied, with something of her usual self-possession, passing her eyes distantly over his face as she spoke.
'I knew the suggestion was unjust, when I made it.'
'Then why should you refuse me your confidence?'
She bent forward slightly, but with her eyes cast down. Tone and features intimated a sense of shame, due partly to the feeling that she offered complicity in deceit.
'What can I tell you more than you know?' said Godwin, coldly. 'I propose to become a clergyman, and I have acknowledged to you that my motive is ambition. As the matter concerns my conscience, that must rest with myself; I have spoken of it to no one. But you may depend upon it that I am prepared for every difficulty that may spring up. I knew, of course, that sooner or later some one would discover me here. Well, I have changed my opinions, that's all; who can demand more than that?'
Marcella answered in a tone of forced composure.
'You owe me no explanation at all. Yet we have known each other for a long time, and it pains me that--to be suddenly told that we are no more to each other than strangers.'
'Are we talking like strangers, Marcella?'
She flushed, and her eyes gleamed as they fixed themselves upon him for an instant. He had never before dreamt of addressing her so familiarly, and least of all in this moment was she prepared for it. Godwin despised himself for the impulse to which he had yielded, but its policy was justified. He had taken one more step in disingenuousness--a small matter.
'Let it be one of those things on which even friends don't open their minds to each other,' he pursued. 'I am living in solitude, and perhaps must do so for several years yet. If I succeed in my purposes, you will see me again on the old terms; if I fail, then too we shall be friends--if you are willing.'
'You won't tell me what those purposes are?'
'Surely you can imagine them.'
'Will you let me ask you--do you look for help to anyone that I have seen here?' She spoke with effort and with shame.
'To no one that you have met,' he answered, shortly.
'Then to some one in Exeter? I have been told that you have friends.'
He was irritated by her persistency, and his own inability to decide upon the most prudent way of answering.
'You mean the Warricombe family, I suppose?'
'Yes.'
'I think it very likely that Mr. Warricombe may be able to help me substantially.'
Marcella kept silence. Then, without raising her eyes, she murmured:
'You will tell me no more?'
'There is nothing more to tell.'
She bit her lips, as if to compel them to muteness. Her breath came quickly; she glanced this way and that, like one who sought an escape. After eyeing her askance for a moment, Peak rose.
'You are going?' she said.
'Yes; but surely there is no reason why we shouldn't say good-bye in a natural and friendly way?'
'Can you forgive me for that deceit I practised?'
Peak laughed.
'What does it matter? We should in any case have met at Budleigh Salterton.'
'No. I had no serious thought of accepting their invitation.'
She stood looking away from him, endeavouring to speak as though the denial had but slight significance. Godwin stirred impatiently.
'I should never have gone to Twybridge,' Marcella continued, 'but for Mr. Malkin's story.'
He turned to her.
'You mean that his story had a disagreeable sound?'
Marcella kept silence, her fingers working together.
'And is your mind relieved?' he added.
'I wish you were back in London. I wish this change had never come to pass.'
'I wish that several things in my life had never come to pass. But I am here, and my resolve is unalterable. One thing I must ask you--how shall you represent my position to your brother?'
For a moment Marcella hesitated. Then, meeting his look, she answered with nervous haste:
'I shall not mention you to him.'
Ashamed to give any sign of satisfaction, and oppressed by the feeling that he owed her gratitude, Peak stood gazing towards the windows with an air of half-indifferent abstractedness. It was better to let the interview end thus, without comment or further question; so he turned abruptly, and offered his hand.
'Good-bye. You will hear of me, or from me.'
'Good-bye!'
He tried to smile; but Marcella had a cold face, expressive of more dignity than she had hitherto shown. As he closed the door she was still looking towards him.
He knew what the look meant. In his position, a man of ordinary fibre would long ago have nursed the flattering conviction that Marcella loved him. Godwin had suspected it, but in a vague, unemotional way, never attaching importance to the matter. What he _had_ clearly understood was, that Christian wished to inspire him with interest in Marcella, and on that account,