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?