LETTER XXX.
Captain RISBY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH,
Barford Abbey.
What is the sight of thousands slain in the field of battle, compar'd with the scene I am just escap'd from!—How can I be circumstantial!—where am I to begin!—whose distress shall I paint first!—can there be precedence in sorrow!
What a weight will human nature support before it sinks!—The distress'd inhabitants of this house are still alive; it is proclaim'd from every room by dreadful groans.—You sent me on a raven's message:—like that ill-boding bird I flew from house to house, afraid to croak my direful tidings.
By your directions I went to the steward's;—at the gate stood my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Powis, arm in arm.—I thought I should have sunk;—I thought I should have died instantly.—I was turning my horse to go back, and leave my black errand to be executed by another.
They were instantly at my side;—a hand was seiz'd by each,—and the words Risby!—captain Risby!—ecchoed in my ears.—What with their joyous welcomes,—and transported countenances, I felt as if a flash of lightning had just darted on my head.—Mrs. Powis first perceiv'd the alteration and ask'd if I was well;—if any thing had happen'd to give me concern?
Certainly there has, said Mr. Powis, or you are not the same man you was, Risby.—It is true, Sir, return'd I;—it is true, I am not so happy as when I last saw you;—my mind is disagreeably situated;—could I receive joy, it would be in knowing this amiable woman to be Mrs. Powis.
You both surprise and affect us, replied he.
Indeed you do, join'd in his Lady; but we will try to remove your uneasiness:—pray let us conduct you to the Abbey; you are come to the best house in the world to heal grievances.—Ah, Risby! said my friend, all there is happiness.—Dick, I have the sweetest daughter: but Lord Darcey, I suppose, has told you every thing; we desir'd he would; and that we might see you immediately.—Can you tell us if his Lordship is gone on to Dover?
He is, returned I.—I did not wait his coming down, wanting to discover to you the reason of my perplexities.
What excuse after saying this, could I make, for going into the steward's?—For my soul, I could not think of any.—Fortunately it enter'd my head to say, that I had been wrong directed;—that a foolish boy had told me this was the strait road to the Abbey.
Mr. and Mrs. Powis importun'd me to let the servant lead my horse, that I might walk home with them.—This would never do.—I could not longer trust myself in their company, 'till I had reconnoitred the family;—'till I had examin'd who there was best fitted to bear the first onset of sorrow.—I brought myself off by saying, one of my legs was hurt with a tight boot.
Well then, go on, Risby, said Mr. Powis: you see the Abbey just before you; my wife and I will walk fast;—we shall be but a few minutes behind.
My faculties were quite unhing'd, the sight of the noble structure.—I stopp'd, paus'd, then rode on; stopp'd again, irresolute whether to proceed.—Recollecting your strict injunctions, I reach'd the gate which leads to the back entrance; there I saw a well-looking gentleman and the game-keeper just got off their horses:—the former, after paying me the compliment of his hat, took a brace of hares from the keeper, and went into the house.—I ask'd of a servant who stood by, if that was Sir James Powis?
No, Sir, he replied; but Sir James is within.
Who is that gentleman? return'd I.
His name is Morgan, Sir,
Very intimate here, I suppose—is he not?
Yes, very intimate, Sir.
Then he is the person I have business with; pray tell him so.
The servant obey'd.—Mr. Morgan came to me, before I had dismounted; and accosting me very genteely, ask'd what my commands were with him?
Be so obliging, Sir, I replied; to go a small distance from the house; and I will unfold an affair which I am sorry to be the messenger of.
Nothing is amiss, Sir, I hope: you look strangely terrified; but I'll go with you this instant.—On that he led me by a little path to a walk planted thick with elms; at one end of which was a bench, where we seated ourselves.—Now, Sir, said Mr. Morgan, you may here deliver what you have to say with secrecy.—I don't recollect to have had the honour of seeing you before;—but I wait with impatience to be inform'd the occasion of this visit.
You are a friend, I presume, of Sir James Powis?
Yes, Sir, I am: he has few of longer standing, and, as times go, more sincere, I believe.—But what of that?—do you know any harm, Sir, of me, or of my friend?
God knows I do not;—but I am acquainted, Mr. Morgan, with an unfortunate circumstance relative to Sir James.
Sir James! Zounds, do speak out:—Sir James, to my knowledge, does not owe a shilling.
It is not money matters, Sir, that brought me here:—heaven grant it was!
The devil, Sir!—tell me at once, what is this damn'd affair? Upon my soul, you must tell me immediately.
Behold!—read, Sir—what a task is mine! (putting your letter into his hands.)
Never was grief, surprize, and disappointment so strongly painted as in him.—At first, he stood quite silent; every feature distorted:—then starting back some paces, threw his hat over the hedge:—stamp'd on his wig;—and was stripping himself naked, to fling his clothes into a pond just by, when I prevented him.
Stop, Sir, I cried: do not alarm the family before they are prepar'd.—Think of the dreadful consequences;—think of the unhappy parents!—Let us consult how to break it to them, without severing their hearts at one blow.
Zounds, Sir, don't talk to me of breaking it; I shall go mad:—you did not know her.—Oh! she was the most lovely, gentle creature!—What an old blockhead have I been!—Why did I not give her my fortune?—then Darcey would have married her;—then she would not have gone abroad;—then we should have sav'd her. Oh, she was a sweet, dear soul!—What good will my curst estates do me now?—You shall have them, Sir;—any body shall have them—I don't care what becomes of me.—Do order my horse, Sir—I say again, do order my horse. I'll never see this place more.—Oh! my dear, sweet, smiling girl, why would you go to France?
Here I interrupted him.
Think not, talk not, Sir, of leaving the family in such a melancholy situation.—Pray recollect yourself.—You ought not to run from your friends;—you ought to redouble your affection at this hour of trial.—Who can be call'd friends, but those who press forward, when all the satisfactions of life draw back.—You are not;—your feeling heart tells me you are not one of the many that retire with such visionary enjoyments.—Come, Sir, for the present forget the part you bear in this disaster:—consider,—pray, consider her poor parents; consider what will be their sufferings:—let it be our task to prepare them.
What you say is very right, Sir, return'd he.—I believe you are a good christian;—God direct us,—God direct us.—I wish I had a dram:—faith, I shall be choak'd.—Sweet creature!—what will become of Lord Darcey!—I never wanted a dram so much before.—Your name, Sir, if you please.—I perceive we shall make matters worse by staying out so long.
I told him my name; and that I had the honour of being intimately acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Powis.
He continued,—You will go in with me, Sir.—How am I to act!—I'll follow your advice—We must expect it will be a dreadful piece of work.—
Caution and tenderness, Mr. Morgan, will be absolutely necessary.
But where is my hat?—where is my wig?—have I thrown them into the pond?
It is well the poor distress'd man recollected he had them not; or, bare-headed as he was, I should have gone with him to the house.—I pick'd them up, all over dirt; and, well as I could, clean'd them with my handkerchief.
Now, Sir, said I, if you will wipe your face,—for the sweat was standing on it in large drops,—I am ready to attend you.
So I must really go in, captain.—I don't think I can stand it;—you had better go without me.—Upon my soul, I had sooner face the mouth of a cannon—If you would blow my brains out, it would be the kindest thing you ever did in your life.
Poh! don't talk at this rate, Sir.—Do we live only for ourselves?—
But will you not leave us, captain;—will you not run from us, when all is out?
Rather, Sir, suspect me of cowardice.—I should receive greater satisfaction from administering the smallest consolation to people in distress, than from whole nations govern'd by my nod.
Well, captain, I will go;—I will do any thing you desire me, since you are so good to say you will not leave us.
But, notwithstanding his fair promise, I never expected to get him within the doors.—He was shifting from side to side:—sometimes he would stand still,—sometimes attempt to retreat.—When we were just at the house, a servant appear'd:—of whom he enquir'd, if Mr. and Mrs. Powis were return'd; and was inform'd the latter was within;—the former gone out in pursuit of us. We likewise found the Ladies were with Sir James in the library. I sent in my name: it was in vain for me to expect any introduction from my companion.
Mrs. Powis flew to meet me at the door:—Mr. Morgan lifted up his eyes, and shook his head.—I never was so put to it:—I knew not what to say; or how to look.—Welcome, Mr. Risby, said the amiable, unfortunate, unsuspecting mother;—doubly welcome at this happy juncture.—Let me lead you to parents, introducing me to Sir James and Lady Powis, from whom I have receiv'd all my felicity.
You need not be told my reception:—it is sufficient that you know Sir James and her Ladyship.—My eyes instantly turn'd on the venerable chaplin: I thought I never discover'd so much of the angel in a human form.
Mrs. Powis ask'd me a thousand questions;—except answering them, I sat stupidly silent.—It was not so with Mr. Morgan: he walk'd, or rather ran up and down;—his eyes fix'd on the floor,—his lips in motion.—The Ladies spoke to him: he did not answer; and I could perceive them look on each other with surprize.
Mr. Powis enter'd:—the room seem'd to lift up:—I quite rambled when I rose to receive his salute.—Mr. Morgan was giving me the slip.—I look'd at him significantly,—then at Mr. Watson,—as much as to say, Take him out; acquaint him with the sorrowful tidings.—He understood the hint, and immediately they withdrew together.
Come, dear Risby, pluck up, said Mr. Powis:—do not you, my friend, be the only low-spirited person amongst us.—I fear Mr. Risby is not well, return'd Lady Powis.—We must not expect to see every one in high spirits, because we are:—our blessings must be consider'd as very singular.—You have not mention'd Fanny to your friends.
Indeed, Madam, I have, replied he.—Risby knows, I every minute expect my belov'd daughter.—But tell me, Dick;—tell me, my friend;—all present are myself;—fear not to be candid;—what accident has thrown a cloud of sadness over your once chearful countenance?—Can I assist you?—My advice, my interest, my purse are all your own.—Nay, dear Risby, you must not turn from me.—I did turn, I could hold it no longer.—
Pray Sir, said Mrs. Powis, do speak;—do command us; and she condescended to lay her hand on mine—Lady Powis, Sir James too, both intreated I would suffer them to make me happy.—Dear worthy creatures, how my heart bled! how it still bleeds for them!—
I was attempting some awkward acknowledgment, when Mr. Watson enter'd, led by Mr. Morgan.—I saw he had executed the task, which made me shudder.—Never did the likeness of a being celestial shine more than in the former! He mov'd gently forward,—plac'd himself next Lady Powis;—pale,—trembling,—sinking.—Mr. Morgan retir'd to the window.—
Now,—now,—the dreadful discovery was at a crisis.—Mr. Watson sigh'd.—Lady Powis eyed him with attention; then starting up, cried, Bless me! I hear wheels: suppose, Mr. Watson, it should be Fanny!—and after looking into the lawn resum'd her chair.
Pardon me, Lady Powis said. Mr. Watson in a low-voice; why this impatience?—Ah Madam! I could rather wish you to check than encourage it.
Hold, hold, my worthy friend, return'd Sir James; do you forget four hours since how you stood listening at a gate by the road-side, saying, you could hear, tho' not see?
We must vary our hopes and inclinations, reply'd Mr. Watson.—Divine Providence—there stopp'd;—not another word.—He stopp'd;—he groan'd;—and was silent.—Great God! cried Mr. Powis, is my child ill?—Is my child dead? frantickly echoed Mrs. Powis—Heaven forbid! exclaim'd Sir James and his Lady, arising.—Tell us, Mr. Watson;—tell us, Mr. Ruby.
When you are compos'd,—return'd the former—Then, our child is dead,—really dead! shriek'd the parents.—No, no, cried Lady Powis, clasping her son and daughter in her arms,—she is, not dead; I am sure she is not dead.
Mr. Watson, after many efforts to speak, said in a faultering voice,—Consider we are christians:—let that bless'd name fortify our souls.
Mrs. Powis fell on her knees before him,—heart-rending sight!—her cap torn off,—her hair dishevell'd,—her eyes fix'd;—not a tear,—not a single tear to relieve the bitter anguish of her soul.
Sir James had left the room;—Lady Powis was sunk almost senseless on the sopha;—Mr. Powis kneeling by his wife, clasping her to his bosom;—Mr. Morgan in a corner roaring out his affliction;—Mr. Watson with the voice of an angel speaking consolation.—I say nothing of my own feelings.—God, how great!—how inexpressible! when Mrs. Powis, still on her knees, turn'd to me with uplifted hands,—Oh Mr. Risby! cried she,—can you,—can you speak comfort to the miserable?—Then again addressing Mr. Watson,—Dear, saint, only say she lives:—I ask no more; only say she lives.—My best love!—my life!—my Fanny! said Mr. Powis, lifting her to the sopha;—live,—live,—for my sake.—Oh!—Risby, are you the messenger?—his head fell on my shoulder, and he sobb'd aloud.
Lady Powis beckon'd him towards her, and, looking at Mrs. Powis with an expressive glance of tenderness,—said Compose yourself, my son;—what will become of you, if—He took the meaning of her words, and wrapping his arms about his wife, seem'd for a moment to forget his own sorrow in endeavours to.
What an exalted woman is Lady Powis!
My children, said she; taking a hand from each,—I am thankful: whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.—Let us follow his great example of patience,—of resignation.—What is a poor span?—Ours will be eternity.
I whisper'd Mr. Morgan, a female friend would be necessary to attend the Ladies;—one whom they lov'd,—whom they confided in, to be constantly with them in their apartments.—He knew just such a woman, he said; and went himself to fetch Mrs. Jenkings.—Lady Powis being unable longer to support herself, propos'd withdrawing.—I offered my arm, which she accepted, and led her to the dressing-room.—Mrs. Powis follow'd; almost lifeless, leaning on her husband: there I left them together, and walk'd out for a quarter of an hour to recover my confus'd senses.
At my return to the library, I found Sir James and Mr. Watson in conversation.—The former, with a countenance of horror and distraction,—Oh Sir! said he, as I came near him,—do I see you again?—are you kind enough not to run from our distress?
Run from it, Sir James! I reply'd;—no, I will stay and be a partaker.
Oh Sir! he continued, you know not my distress:—death only can relieve me—I am without hope, without comfort.
And is this, Sir James, what you are arriv'd at? said the good chaplain—Is this what you have been travelling sixty years after?—Wish for death yet say you have neither hope or comfort.—Your good Lady, Sir, is full of both;—she rejoices in affliction:—she has long look'd above this world.
So might I, he reply'd,—had I no more to charge myself with than she has.—You know, Mr. Watson,—you know how faulty I have been.
Your errors, dear Sir James, said he, are not remember'd.—Look back on the reception you gave your son and daughter.
He made no reply; but shedding a flood of tears, went to his afflicted family.
Mr. Watson, it seems, whilst I had been out, acquainted him with the contents of your letter;—judging it the most seasonable time, as their grief could not then admit of increase.
Sir James was scarce withdrawn, when Lady Powis sent her woman to request the sight of it.—As I rose to give it into her hand, I saw Mr. Morgan pass by the door, conducting an elderly woman, whom I knew afterward to be Mrs. Jenkings.—She had a handkerchief to her eyes, one hand lifted up;—and I heard her say, Good God! Sir, what shall I do?—how can I see the dear Ladies?—Oh Miss Powis!—the amiable Miss Powis!
Mr. Morgan join'd us immediately, with whom and Mr. Watson I spent the remainder of this melancholy evening: at twelve we retir'd.
So here I sit, like one just return'd from the funeral of his best friend;—alone, brooding over every misery I can call together.—The light of the moon, which shines with uncommon splendor, casts not one ray on my dark reflections:—nor do the objects which present themselves from the windows offer one pleasing idea;—rather an aggravation to my heart-felt anguish.—Miserable family!—miserable those who are interested in its sad disaster!—
I go to my bed, but not to my repose.
Nine o'clock in the morning.
How sad, how gloomy, has been the approach of morning!—About six, for I had not clos'd my eyes,—somebody enter'd my chamber. I suppos'd it Mr. Morgan, and drew aside my curtain.—It was not Mr. Morgan;—it was the poor disconsolate father of Miss Powis, more agitated, if possible, than the preceding night.—He flung himself on my bed with agony not to be express'd:—
Dear Risby, said he, do rise:—do come to my apartment.—Alas! my Fanny—
What new misfortune, my friend? ask'd I, starting up.—My wife! return'd! he!—she is in fits;—she has been in fits the whole night.—Oh Risby! if I should lose her, if I should lose my wife!—My parents too, I shall lose them!—
Words could not lessen his affliction. I was silent, making what haste I could to huddle on my clothes;—and at his repeated intreaties follow'd him to his wife,—She was sitting near the fire drowned; in tears, supported by her woman. I was pleas'd to see them drop so plentifully.—She lifted up her head a little, as I enter'd.—How alter'd!—how torn to pieces with grief!—Her complexion once so lovely,—how changed in a few hours.
My husband! said she, in a faint voice, as he drew near her.—Then looking at me,—Comfort him, Mr. Risby;—don't let him sob so.—Indeed he will be ill;—indeed he will.—Then addressing him, Consider, she who us'd to be your nurse is now incapable of the task.—His agitation was so much increas'd by her words and manner, that I attempted to draw him into another apartment.—Your intentions are kind, said she, Mr. Risby;—but I must not lose my husband:—you see how it is, Sir, shaking her head;—try to sooth him;—talk to him here but do not take him from me.—
Then turning to Mr. Powis,—I am better, my love,—don't frighten yourself:—we must learn to be resign'd.—Set the example, and I will be resign'd, said he,—wiping away the tears as they trickled down her cheek;—if my Fanny supports herself, I shall not be quite miserable. In this situation I left them, to close my letter.
What is become of poor Lord Darcey? For ever is he in my thoughts.—His death will be an aggravation to the general sorrow.—Write instantly:—I wait your account with impatience; yet dread to receive it.