The seat was unendurably
hard, his back ached, his head whirled, the confounded sherry, slight as
was his portion, had made him feverish, and he felt at once excited
and exhausted. He was sad, too; very depressed. Alone, and no longer
surrounded with that splendour which had hitherto made solitude
precious, life seemed stripped of all its ennobling spirit. His energy
vanished. He repented his rashness; and the impulse of the previous
night, which had gathered fresh power from the dewy moon, vanished. He
felt alone, and without a friend, and night passed without a moment's
slumber, watching the driving clouds.
The last fifteen miles seemed longer than the whole journey. At St.
Alban's he got out, took a cup of coffee with Tom Rawlins, and, although
the morning was raw, again seated himself by his side. In the first
gloomy little suburb Mrs. Burnet got out. The Duke sent Rawlins after
her with the parcel, with peremptory instructions to leave it. He
watched the widow protesting it was not hers, his faithful emissary
appealing to the direction, and with delight he observed it left in
her hands.
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