The first half-consciousness of such a
thought came to her when she heard from Olga of those letters,
obtained by him for a price, and given to the kinsfolk of the dead
woman. An interested generosity? She had repelled the suggestion as
unworthy, ignoble. Whether the giver was ever thanked, she did not
know. Dr. Derwent kept cold silence on the subject, after once
mentioning it to her in formal words. Thanks, undoubtedly, were due
to him. To-night it pained her keenly to think that perhaps her
father had said nothing.
She began to study Russian, and in secret; her impulse dark, or so
obscurely hinted that it caused her no more than a moment's reverie.
Looking back, she saw but one explanation of the energy, the zeal
which had carried her through these labours. It shone clear on the
day when a letter from Helen Borisoff told her that an article in a
Russian review, just published, bore the name of Piers Otway. Thence
onward, she was frank with herself. She recognised the meaning of
the intellectual process which had tended to harmonise her life with
that she imagined for her ideal man. There came a prompting of
emotion, and she wrote the letter which Piers received.
All things were made new to her; above all, her own self. She was
acting in a way which was no result of balanced purpose, yet, as she
perfectly understood, involved her in the gravest responsibilities.
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