He had so completely destroyed them in spirit that he had taken the act for granted, and he was now reminded of the orderly stages of which an intention must consist to be sincere.Baron went at the papers with all his sincerity, and at his empty grate (where there lately had been no fire and he had only to remove a horrible ornament of tissue-paper dear to Mrs.Bundy) he burned the collection with infinite method.It made him feel happier to watch the worst pages turn to illegible ashes--if happiness be the right word to apply to his sense, in the process, of something so crisp and crackling that it suggested the death-rustle of bank-notes.
When ten minutes later he came back into his sitting-room, he seemed to himself oddly, unexpectedly in the presence of a bigger view.It was as if some interfering mass had been so displaced that he could see more sky and more country.Yet the opposite houses were naturally still there, and if the grimy little place looked lighter it was doubtless only because the rain had indeed stopped and the sun was pouring in.Peter went to the window to open it to the altered air, and in doing so beheld at the garden gate the humble "growler"in which a few hours before he had seen Mrs.Ryves take her departure.It was unmistakable--he remembered the knock-kneed white horse; but this made the fact that his friend's luggage no longer surmounted it only the more mystifying.Perhaps the cabman had already removed the luggage--he was now on his box smoking the short pipe that derived relish from inaction paid for.As Peter turned into the room again his ears caught a knock at his own door, a knock explained, as soon as he had responded, by the hard breathing of Mrs.
Bundy.
"Please, sir, it's to say she've come back.""What has she come back for?" Baron's question sounded ungracious, but his heartache had given another throb, and he felt a dread of another wound.It was like a practical joke.
"I think it's for you, sir," said Mrs.Bundy."She'll see you for a moment, if you'll be so good, in the old place."Peter followed his hostess downstairs, and Mrs.Bundy ushered him, with her company flourish, into the apartment she had fondly designated.
"I went away this morning, and I've only returned for an instant,"said Mrs.Ryves, as soon as Mrs.Bundy had closed the door.He saw that she was different now; something had happened that had made her indulgent.
"Have you been all the way to Dover and back?""No, but I've been to Victoria.I've left my luggage there--I've been driving about.""I hope you've enjoyed it."
"Very much.I've been to see Mr.Morrish.""Mr.Morrish?"
"The musical publisher.I showed him our song.I played it for him, and he's delighted with it.He declares it's just the thing.He has given me fifty pounds.I think he believes in us," Mrs.Ryves went on, while Baron stared at the wonder--too sweet to be safe, it seemed to him as yet--of her standing there again before him and speaking of what they had in common."Fifty pounds! fifty pounds!" she exclaimed, fluttering at him her happy cheque.She had come back, the first thing, to tell him, and of course his share of the money would be the half.She was rosy, jubilant, natural, she chattered like a happy woman.She said they must do more, ever so much more.
Mr.Morrish had practically promised he would take anything that was as good as that.She had kept her cab because she was going to Dover; she couldn't leave the others alone.It was a vehicle infirm and inert, but Baron, after a little, appreciated its pace, for she had consented to his getting in with her and driving, this time in earnest, to Victoria.She had only come to tell him the good news--she repeated this assurance more than once.They talked of it so profoundly that it drove everything else for the time out of his head--his duty to Mr.Locket, the remarkable sacrifice he had just achieved, and even the odd coincidence, matching with the oddity of all the others, of her having reverted to the house again, as if with one of her famous divinations, at the very moment the trumpery papers, the origin really of their intimacy, had ceased to exist.
But she, on her side, also had evidently forgotten the trumpery papers: she never mentioned them again, and Peter Baron never boasted of what he had done with them.He was silent for a while, from curiosity to see if her fine nerves had really given her a hint;and then later, when it came to be a question of his permanent attitude, he was silent, prodigiously, religiously, tremulously silent, in consequence of an extraordinary conversation that he had with her.