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.