From the house at Campden Hill he came away in a strangely excited
mood; glad, sorry; cold, desirous; torn this way and that by
conflict of passions and reasons. The only clear thought in his mind
was that he had done a great act of justice. How often does it fall
to a man to enjoy this privilege? Not once in a lifetime to the
multitude such opportunity is the signal favour of fate. Had he let
it pass, Piers felt he must have sunk so in his own esteem, that no
light of noble hope would ever again have shone before him. He must
have gone plodding the very mire of existence--Daniel's brother,
never again anything but Daniel's brother.
Would Dr. Derwent give him a thought of thanks? Would Irene hear how
these letters were recovered?
Sunday passed, he knew not well how. He wrote a letter to Olga, but
destroyed it. On Monday he was very busy, chiefly at the warehouses
of the Commercial Docks; a man of affairs; to look upon, not
strikingly different from many another with whom he rubbed shoulders
in Fenchurch Street and elsewhere. On Tuesday he had to go to
Liverpool, to see an acquaintance of Moncharmont who might perchance
be useful to them. The journey, the change, were not unpleasant. He
passed the early evening with the man in question, who asked him at
what hotel he meant to sleep. Piers named the house he had
carelessly chosen, adding that he had not been there yet; his bag
was still at the station.
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