Barford Abbey Part 16

_Barford Abbey_.

Full of joy! full of surprize! I dispatch a line by Robert.--Fly, Molesworth, to Mr. Smith's, in _Bloomsbury-Square_:--tell my dearest, dear Miss Warley, but tell her of it by degrees, that Mr. Powis is her _father!_--Yes! her _father_, George;--and the most desirable woman on earth, her mother!--Don't tell her of it neither; you will kill her with surprise.--Confounded luck! that I did not know she was in London.

I shall be with you in less than two hours, after Robert:--I send him on, with orders to ride every horse to death, lest he should be set out for Dover.

Jenkings is now on the road, but he travels too slow for my wishes.--If she is gone, prepare swift horses for me to follow:--I am kept by force to refresh myself.--What refreshment can I want!--Fly, I say, to Miss Powis, now no longer Miss Warley.--Leave her not, I charge you;--stir not from her;--by our friends.h.i.+p, Molesworth, stir not from her 'till you see

DARCEY.

LETTER XXIX.

The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to RICHARD RISBY, Esq;

_Dover_.

Oh d.i.c.k! the most dreadful affair has happen'd!--Lord Darcey is distracted and dying; I am little better--Good G.o.d! what shall I do?--what can I do?--He lies on the floor in the next room, with half his hair torn off.--Unhappy man! fatigue had near kill'd him, before the melancholy account reach'd his ears.--Miss Warley, I mean Miss Powis, is gone to the bottom.--She sunk in the yacht that sailed yesterday from Dover for Calais.--Every soul is lost.--The fatal accident was confirm'd by a boat which came in not ten minutes before we arriv'd.--There was no keeping it from Lord Darcey.--The woman of the Inn we are at has a son lost in the same vessel: she was in fits when we alighted.--Some of the wreck is drove on sh.o.r.e.--What can equal this scene!--Oh, Miss Powis!

most amiable of women, I tremble for your relations!--But Darcey, poor Darcey, what do I feel for you!--He speaks:--he calls for me:--I go to him.

Oh, Risby! my heart is breaking; for once let it be said a man's heart can break.--Whilst he rav'd, whilst his sorrows were loud, there was some chance; but now all is over. He is absolutely dying;--death is in every feature.--His convulsions how dreadful!--how dreadful the pale horror of his countenance!--But then so calm,--so compos'd!--I repeat, there can, be no chance.--

Where is Molesworth? I heard him say as I enter'd his apartment: come to me, my friend,--_holding out his hand_--come to me, my friend.--Don't weep--don't let me leave you in tears.--If you wish me well, rejoice:--think how I should have dragg'd out a miserable number of days, after--oh, George! after--Here he stopp'd.--The surgeon desir'd he would suffer us to lift him on the bed.--No, he said, in a faultering accent, if I move I shall die before I have made known to my friend my last request.--Upon which the physician and surgeon retir'd to a distant part of the room, to give him an opportunity of speaking with greater freedom.

He caught hold of my hand with the grasp of anguish, saying, Go, go. I entreat you, by that steady regard which has subsisted between us,--_go_ to the unhappy family:--if they can be comforted; ay, if they _can_, you must undertake the task.--_I_ will die without you.--Tell them I send the thanks, the duty, of a dying man;--that they must consider me as their own. A few, a _very_ few hours! and I shall be their own;--I shall be united to their angel daughter.--Dear soul, he cried, is it for this,--for this, I tore myself from you!--But stop, I will not repine; the reward of my sufferings is at hand.

_Now_, you may lift me on the bed;--_now_, my friend, pointing to the door,--_now_, my dear Molesworth, if you wish I should die in--_there fainted_.--He lay without signs of life so long, that I thought, all was over.--

I cannot comply with his last request;--it is his last I am convinc'd;--he will never speak more, Risby!--he will never _more_ p.r.o.nounce the name of Molesworth.

Be yours the task he a.s.sign'd me.--Go instantly to the friends you revere;--go to Mr. and Mrs. Powis, the poor unfortunate parents.--Abroad they were to you as tender relations;--in England, your first returns of grat.i.tude will be mournful.--You have seen Miss Powis:--it could be no other than that lovely creature whom you met so accidentally at ----: the likeness she bore to her father startled you.

She was then going with Mr. Jenkings into Oxfords.h.i.+re:--you admired her;--but had you known her mind, how would you have felt for Darcey!

Be cautious, tender, and circ.u.mspect, in your sad undertaking.--Go first to the old steward's, about a mile from the Abbey; if he is not return'd, break it to his wife and son.--They will advise, they will a.s.sist you, in the dreadful affair;--I hope the poor old gentleman has not proceeded farther than London.--Write the moment you have seen the family; write every melancholy particular: my mind is only fit for such gloomy recitals.--Farewel! I go to my dying friend.

Yours,

MOLESWORTH.

LETTER x.x.x.

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 circ.u.mstantial!--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.--d.i.c.k, 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 Lords.h.i.+p 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 n.o.ble 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?