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.