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.