_
"_P.S._ Inquire for me by the name of Mr. Constantine."
[Footnote: The humble, English home of Thaddeus Sobieski is now
totally vanished, along with the whole row of houses of which it was
one.] With the most delightful emotions, Thaddeus sealed this letter
and gave it to Nanny, with orders to inquire at the post-office "when
he might expect an answer?" The child returned with information that
it would reach Grosvenor Square in an hour, and he could have a reply
by three o'clock.
Three o'clock arrived, and no letter. Thaddeus counted the hours
until midnight, but they brought him nothing but disappointment. The
whole of the succeeding day wore away in the same uncomfortable
manner. His heart bounded at every step in the passage; and throwing
open his room-door, he listened to every person that spoke, but no
voice bore any resemblance to that of Somerset.
Night again shut in; and overcome by a train of doubts, in which
despondence held the greatest share he threw himself on his bed,
though unable to close his eyes.
Whatever be our afflictions, not one human creature who has endured
misfortune will hesitate to aver, that of all the tortures incident
to mortality, there are none like the rackings of suspense. It is the
hell which Milton describes with such horrible accuracy; in its hot
and cold regions, the anxious soul is alternately tossed from the
ardors of hope to the petrifying rigors of doubt and dread.
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