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Sir James was scarce withdrawn, when Lady Powis sent her woman to request the sight of it.—As I rose to give it into her hand, I saw Mr.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.