Born in Exile (40 page)

The fumes were dispelled from his brain, and as he walked
homeward he plotted and planned with hopeful energy. Sylvia
Moorhouse came into his mind; could he not in some way make use of
her? He had never yet been to see her at Budleigh Salterton. That
he would do forthwith, and perchance the visit might supply him
with suggestions.

On the morrow he set forth, going by train to Exmouth, and
thence by the coach which runs twice a day to the little seaside
town. The delightful drive, up hill and down dale, with its
magnificent views over the estuary, and its ever-changing wayside
beauties, put him into the best of spirits. About noon, he alighted
at the Rolle Arms, the hotel to which the coach conducts its
passengers, and entered to take a meal. He would call upon the
Moorhouses at the conventional hour. The intervening time was spent
pleasantly enough in loitering about the pebbled beach. A
south-west breeze which had begun to gather clouds drove on the
rising tide. By four o'clock there was an end of sunshine, and
spurts of rain mingled with flying foam. Peak turned inland,
pursued the leafy street up the close-sheltered valley, and came to
the house where his friends dwelt.

In crossing the garden he caught sight of a lady who sat in a
room on the ground floor; her back was turned to the window, and
before he could draw near enough to see her better she had moved
away, but the glimpse he had obtained of her head and shoulders
affected him with so distinct an alarm that his steps were checked.
It seemed to him that he had recognised the figure, and if he were
right.—But the supposition was ridiculous; at all events so vastly
improbable, that he would not entertain it. And now he descried
another face, that of Miss Moorhouse herself, and it gave him a
reassuring smile. He rang the door bell.

How happy—he said to himself—those men who go to call upon their
friends without a tremor! Even if he had not received that shock a
moment ago, he would still have needed to struggle against the
treacherous beating of his heart as he waited for admission. It was
always so when he visited the Warricombes, or any other family in
Exeter. Not merely in consequence of the dishonest part he was
playing, but because he had not quite overcome the nervousness
which so anguished him in earlier days. The first moment after his
entering a drawing-room cost him pangs of complex origin.

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. I shall go to Exeter, and there
write to you again.'

'Very well. You promise to do this?'

'Yes, I promise.'

There was danger even in the exchange of these hurried
sentences. Miss Walworth had glanced back, and might possibly have
caught a phrase that aroused curiosity. Having accompanied the
girls to within view of their destination, Peak said good-night,
and went home to spend the rest of the evening in thought which was
sufficiently absorbing.

The next day he had no sight of Marcella. At luncheon the
Moorhouses were alone. Afterwards Godwin accepted a proposal of the
mathematician (who was generally invisible amid his formulae) for a
walk up the Otter valley. Naturally they talked of Coleridge, whose
metaphysical side appealed to Moorhouse. Peak dwelt on the human
and poetical, and was led by that peculiar recklessness of mood,
which at times relieved his nervous tension, to defend opium
eating, as a source of pleasurable experience.

'You will hardly venture on that paradox in the pulpit,'
remarked his companion, with laughter.

'Perhaps not. But I have heard arguments from that place
decidedly more immoral.'

'No doubt.'

Godwin corrected the impression he perhaps had made by turning
with sudden seriousness to another subject. The ironic temptation
was terribly strong in him just now. One is occasionally possessed
by a desire to shout in the midst of a silent assembly; and impulse
of the same kind kept urging him to utter words which would
irretrievably ruin his prospects. The sense that life is an
intolerable mummery can with difficulty be controlled by certain
minds, even when circumstances offer no keen incitement to
rebellion. But Peak's position to-day demanded an incessant effort
to refrain from self-betrayal. What a joy to declare himself a
hypocrite, and snap mocking fingers in the world's face! As a
safeguard, he fixed his mind upon Sidwell, recalled her features
and her voice as clearly as possible, stamped into his heart the
conviction that she half loved him.

When he was alone again, he of a sudden determined to go to
Exeter. He could no longer endure uncertainty as to the contents of
Marcella's letter. As it was too late for the coach, he set off and
walked five miles to Exmouth, where he caught a train.

The letter lay on his table, and with it one on which he
recognised his mother's handwriting.

Marcella wrote in the simplest way, quite as if their
intercourse had never been disturbed. As she happened to be staying
with friends at Budleigh Salterton, it seemed possible for her to
meet him. Might she hope that he would call at the hotel in Exeter,
if she wrote again to make an appointment?

Well, that needed no reply. But how had she discovered the
address? Was his story known in London? In a paroxysm of fury, he
crushed the letter into a ball and flung it away. The veins of his
forehead swelled; he walked about the room with senseless violence,
striking his fist against furniture and walls. It would have
relieved him to sob and cry like a thwarted child, but only a harsh
sound, half-groan, half-laughter, burst from his throat.

The fit passed, and he was able to open the letter from
Twybridge, the first he had received from his mother for more than
a month. He expected to find nothing of interest, but his attention
was soon caught by a passage, which ran thus:

'Have you heard from some friends of yours, called Ward? Some
time ago a lady called here to ask for your address. She said her
name was Mrs. Ward, and that her husband, who had been abroad for a
long time, very much wished to find you again. Of course I told her
where you were to be found. It was just after I had written, or I
should have let you know about it before.'

Ward? He knew no one of that name. Could it be Marcella who had
done this? It looked more than likely; he believed her capable of
strange proceedings.