I was attempting some awkward acknowledgment, when Mr. Watson enter'd, led by Mr. Morgan.--I saw he had executed the task, which made me shudder.--Never did the likeness of a being celestial shine more than in the former! He mov'd gently forward,--plac'd himself next Lady Powis;--pale,--trembling,--sinking.--Mr. Morgan retir'd to the window.--
Now,--now,--the dreadful discovery was at a crisis.--Mr. Watson sigh'd.--Lady Powis eyed him with attention; then starting up, cried, Bless me! I hear wheels: suppose, Mr. Watson, it should be Fanny!--and after looking into the lawn resum'd her chair.
Pardon me, Lady Powis said. Mr. Watson in a low-voice; why _this_ impatience?--Ah Madam! I could rather wish you to check than encourage _it_.
Hold, hold, my worthy friend, return'd Sir James; do you forget four hours since how you stood listening at a gate by the road-side, saying, you could hear, tho' not see?
We must vary our hopes and inclinations, reply'd Mr. Watson.--Divine Providence--there stopp'd;--not another word.--He stopp'd;--he groan'd;--and was silent.--Great God! cried Mr. Powis, is my child ill?--Is my child dead? frantickly echoed Mrs. Powis--Heaven forbid! exclaim'd Sir James and his Lady, arising.--Tell us, Mr. Watson;--tell us, Mr. Ruby.
When you are compos'd,--return'd the former--Then, our child is dead,--really dead! shriek'd the parents.--No, no, cried Lady Powis, clasping her son and daughter in her arms,--she is, not dead; I am sure she is not dead.
Mr. Watson, after many efforts to speak, said in a faultering voice,--Consider we are christians:--let that bless'd name fortify our souls.
Mrs. Powis fell on her knees before him,--heart-rending sight!--her cap torn off,--her hair dishevell'd,--her eyes fix'd;--not a tear,--not a single tear to relieve the bitter anguish of her soul.
Sir James had left the room;--Lady Powis was sunk almost senseless on the sopha;--Mr. Powis kneeling by his wife, clasping her to his bosom;--Mr. Morgan in a corner roaring out his affliction;--Mr. Watson with the voice of an angel speaking consolation.--I say nothing of my own feelings.--God, how great!--how inexpressible! when Mrs. Powis, still on her knees, turn'd to me with uplifted hands,--Oh Mr. Risby! cried she,--can _you,_--can _you_ speak comfort to the miserable?--Then again addressing Mr. Watson,--Dear, saint, only say she lives:--I ask no more; only say she lives.--My best love!--my life!--my Fanny! said Mr. Powis, lifting her to the sopha;--live,--live,--for my sake.--Oh!--Risby, are _you_ the messenger?--his head fell on my shoulder, and he sobb'd aloud.