Robson gently opened the door and
presented a letter. "Here, sir," said she, "is a letter which a
servant has just left; he told me it required no answer."
Thaddeus sprang from his seat at sight of the paper, and almost
catching it from her, his former gloomy cogitations dispersed before
the hopes and fond emotions of friendship which now lit up in his
bosom. Mrs. Robson withdrew. He looked at the superscription--it was
the handwriting of his friend. Tearing it asunder, two folded papers
presented themselves. He opened them, and they were his own letters,
returned without a word. His beating heart was suddenly checked.
Letting the papers fall from his hand, he dropped back on his seat
and closed his eyes, as if he would shut them from the world and its
ingratitude.
Unable to recover from his astonishment, his thoughts whirled about
in a succession of accusations, surmises and doubts, which seemed for
a few minutes to drive him to distraction.
"Was it really the hand of Somerset?"
Again he examined the envelope. It was; and the enclosures were his
own letters, without one word of apology for such incomprehensible
conduct.
"Could he make one? No," replied Thaddeus to himself. "Unhappy that I
am, to have been induced to apply twice to so despicable a man! Oh,
Somerset," cried he, looking at the papers as they lay before him;
"was it necessary that insult should be added to unfaithfulness and
ingratitude, to throw me off entirely? Good heavens! did he think
because I wrote twice, I would persecute him with applications? I
have been told this of mankind; but, that I should find it in him?"
In this way, agitated and muttering, and walking up and down the
room, he spent another wakeful and cheerless night.
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