To Miss Fermor, at Silleri.
Montreal, Sept. 24.
I have but a moment, my dear, to acknowledge your last; this week
has been a continual hurry.
You mistake me; it is not the romantic passion of fifteen I wish to
feel, but that tender lively friendship which alone can give charms to
so intimate an union as that of marriage. I wish a greater conformity
in our characters, in our sentiments, in our tastes.
But I will say no more on this subject till I have the pleasure of
seeing you at Silleri. Mrs. Melmoth and I come in a ship which sails
in a day or two; they tell us, it is the most agreeable way of coming:
Colonel Rivers is so polite, as to stay to accompany us down: Major
Melmoth asked Sir George, but he preferred the pleasure of parading
into Quebec, and shewing his fine horses and fine person to advantage,
to that of attending his mistress: shall I own to you that I am hurt at
this instance of his neglect, as I know his attendance on the general
was not expected? His situation was more than a sufficient excuse; it
was highly improper for two women to go to Quebec alone; it is in some
degree so that any other man should accompany me at this time: my pride
is extremely wounded. I expect a thousand times more attention from
him since his acquisition of fortune; it is with pain I tell you, my
dear friend, he seems to shew me much less. I will not descend to
suppose he presumes on this increase of fortune, but he presumes on the
inclination he supposes I have for him; an inclination, however, not
violent enough to make me submit to the least ill treatment from him.
In my present state of mind, I am extremely hard to please; either
his behaviour or my temper have suffered a change. I know not how it
is, but I see his faults in a much stronger light than I have ever seen
them before. I am alarmed at the coldness of his disposition, so ill
suited to the sensibility of mine; I begin to doubt his being of the
amiable character I once supposed: in short, I begin to doubt of the
possibility of his making me happy.
You will, perhaps, call it an excess of pride, when I say, I am much
less inclined to marry him than when our situations were equal. I
certainly love him; I have a habit of considering him as the man I am
to marry, but my affection is not of that kind which will make me easy
under the sense of an obligation.
I will open all my heart to you when we meet: I am not so happy as
you imagine: do not accuse me of caprice; can I be too cautious, where
the happiness of my whole life is at stake?
Adieu!
Your faithful
Emily Montague.