_Jar._ Yet why should I rejoice when a good man dies? Your uncle, madam, died yesterday. _Mrs. Bev._ My uncle!--O heavens! _Char._ How heard you of his death? _Jar._ His steward came express, madam: I met him in the street, enquiring for your lodgings. I should not rejoice, perhaps; but he was old, and my poor master a prisoner--Now he shall live again--O, 'tis a brave fortune! and 'twas death to me to see him a prisoner. _Char._ Where left you the steward? _Jar._ I would not bring him hither, to be a witness of your distresses--and besides, I wanted once before I die, to be the messenger of joy t'you. My good master will be a man again. _Mrs. Bev._ Haste, haste then; and let us fly to him!--We are delaying our own happiness. _Jar._ I had forgot a coach, madam; and Lucy has ordered one. _Mrs. Bev._ Where was the need of that? The news has given me wings. _Char._ I have no joy, till my poor brother shares it with me. How did he pass the night, Jarvis? _Jar._ Why now, madam, I can tell you. Like a man dreaming of death and horrors. When they led him to his cell--for 'twas a poor apartment for my master--he flung himself upon a wretched bed, and lay speechless till day-break. A sigh now and then, and a few tears that followed those sighs, were all that told me he was alive. I spoke to him, but he would not hear me; and when I persisted, he raised his hand at me, and knit his brow so--I thought he would have struck me. _Mrs. Bev._ O miserable! But what said he, Jarvis? Or was he silent all night? _Jar._ At day-break he started from the bed, and looking wildly at me, asked who I was. I told him, and bid him be of comfort--Begone, old wretch, says he--I have sworn never to know comfort--My wife! my child! my sister! I have undone them all, and will know no comfort--Then letting go his hold, and falling upon his knees, he imprecated curses on himself. _Mrs. Bev._ This is too horrible!--But you did not leave him so? _Char._ No, I am sure he did not. _Jar._ I had not the heart, madam. By degrees I brought him to himself. A shower of tears came to his relief; and then he called me his kindest friend, and begged forgiveness of me like a child--I was a child too, when he begged forgiveness of me; my heart throbbed so, I could not speak to him. He turned from me for a minute or two, and suppressing a few bitter sighs, enquired after his wretched family--Wretched was his word, madam--Asked how you bore the misery of last night--If you had goodness enough to see him in prison--And then begged me to hasten to you. I told him he must be more himself first--He promised me he would; and, bating a few sullen intervals, he became composed and easy. And then I left him; but not without an attendant; a servant in the prison, whom I hired to wait upon him. 'Tis an hour since we parted: I was prevented in my haste, to be the messenger of joy t'you. _Mrs. Bev._ What a tale is this?--But we have staid too long--A coach is needless.