The History of Emily Montague Part 29

Your Lords.h.i.+p's, &c.

W. Fermor.

LETTER 101.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Silleri, March 25.

Your brother, my dear Lucy, has made me happy in communicating to me the account he has received of your marriage. I know Temple; he is, besides being very handsome, a fine, sprightly, agreable fellow, and is particularly formed to keep a woman's mind in that kind of play, that gentle agitation, which will for ever secure her affection.

He has in my opinion just as much coquetry as is necessary to prevent marriage from degenerating into that sleepy kind of existence, which to minds of the awakened turn of yours and mine would be insupportable.

He has also a fine fortune, which I hold to be a pretty enough ingredient in marriage.

In short, he is just such a man, upon the whole, as I should have chose for myself.

Make my congratulations to the dear man, and tell him, if he is not the happiest man in the world, he will forfeit all his pretensions to taste; and if he does not make you the happiest woman, he forfeits all t.i.tle to my favor, as well as to the favor of the whole s.e.x.

I meant to say something civil; but, to tell you the truth, I am not _en train_; I am excessively out of humor: Fitzgerald has not been here of several days, but spends his whole time in gallanting Madame La Brosse, a woman to whom he knows I have an aversion, and who has nothing but a tolerable complexion and a modest a.s.surance to recommend her.

I certainly gave him some provocation, but this is too much: however, 'tis very well; I don't think I shall break my heart, though my vanity is a little piqued. I may perhaps live to take my revenge.

I am hurt, because I began really to like the creature; a secret however to which he is happily a stranger. I shall see him to-morrow at the governor's, and suppose he will be in his penitentials: I have some doubt whether I shall let him dance with me; yet it would look so particular to refuse him, that I believe I shall do him the honor.

Adieu!

Your affectionate A. Fermor.

26th, Thursday, 11 at night.

No, Lucy, if I forgive him this, I have lost all the free spirit of woman; he had the insolence to dance with Madame La Brosse to-night at the governor's. I never will forgive him. There are men perhaps quite his equals!--but 'tis no matter--I do him too much honor to be piqued--yet on the footing we were--I could not have believed--

Adieu!

I was so certain he would have danced with me, that I refused Colonel H----, one of the most agreable men in the place, and therefore could not dance at all. Nothing hurt me so much as the impertinent looks of the women; I could cry for vexation.

Would your brother have behaved thus to Emily? but why do I name other men with your brother! do you know he and Emily had the good-nature to refuse to dance, that my sitting still might be the less taken notice of? We all played at cards, and Rivers contrived to be of my party, by which he would have won Emily's heart if he had not had it before.

Good night.

LETTER 102.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Quebec, March 27.

I have been twice at Silleri with the intention of declaring my pa.s.sion, and explaining my situation, to Emily; but have been prevented by company, which made it impossible for me to find the opportunity I wished.

Had I found that opportunity, I am not sure I should have made use of it; a degree of timidity is inseparable from true tenderness; and I am afraid of declaring myself a lover, lest, if not beloved, I should lose the happiness I at present possess in visiting her as her friend: I cannot give up the dear delight I find in seeing her, in hearing her voice, in tracing and admiring every sentiment of that lovely unaffected generous mind as it rises.

In short, my Lucy, I cannot live without her esteem and friends.h.i.+p; and though her eyes, her attention to me, her whole manner, encourage me in the hope of being beloved, yet the possibility of my being mistaken makes me dread an explanation by which I hazard losing the lively pleasure I find in her friends.h.i.+p.

This timidity however must be conquered; 'tis pardonable to feel it, but not to give way to it. I have ordered my carriole, and am determined to make my attack this very morning like a man of courage and a soldier.

Adieu!

Your affectionate Ed. Rivers.

A letter from Bell Fermor, to whom I wrote this morning on the subject:

"To Colonel Rivers, at Quebec.

Silleri, Friday morning.

"You are a foolish creature, and know nothing of women. Dine at Silleri, and we will air after dinner; 'tis a glorious day, and if you are timid in a covered carriole, I give you up.

"Adieu!

Yours, A. Fermor."

LETTER 103.

To Mrs. Temple, Pall Mall.

Quebec, March 27, 11 at night.

She is an angel, my dear Lucy, and no words can do her justice: I am the happiest of mankind; I painted my pa.s.sion with all the moving eloquence of undissembled love; she heard me with the most flattering attention; she said little, but her looks, her air, her tone of voice, her blushes, her very silence--how could I ever doubt her tenderness?

have not those lovely eyes a thousand times betrayed the dear secret of her heart?

My Lucy, we were formed for each other; our souls are of intelligence; every thought, every idea--from the first moment I beheld her--I have a thousand things to say, but the tumult of my joy--she has given me leave to write to her; what has she not said in that permission?

I cannot go to bed; I will go and walk an hour on the battery; 'tis the loveliest night I ever beheld, even in Canada: the day is scarce brighter.

One in the morning.

I have had the sweetest walk imaginable: the moon s.h.i.+nes with a splendor I never saw before; a thousand streaming meteors add to her brightness; I have stood gazing on the lovely planet, and delighting myself with the idea that 'tis the same moon that lights my Emily.

Good night, my Lucy! I love you beyond all expression; I always loved you tenderly, but there is a softness about my heart to-night--this lovely woman--

I know not what I would say, but till this night I could never be said to live.