To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
Quebec, March 20.
The coldness of which I complained, my dear Lucy, in regard to
Emily, was the most flattering circumstance which could have happened:
I will not say it was the effect of jealousy, but it certainly was of
a delicacy of affection which extremely resembles it.
Never did she appear so lovely as yesterday; never did she display
such variety of loveliness: there was a something in her look, when I
first addressed her on entering the room, touching beyond all words, a
certain inexpressible melting languor, a dying softness, which it was
not in man to see unmoved: what then must a lover have felt?
I had the pleasure, after having been in the room a few moments, to
see this charming languor change to a joy which animated her whole
form, and of which I was so happy as to believe myself the cause: my
eyes had told her all that passed in my heart; hers had shewed me
plainly they understood their language. We were standing at a window at
some little distance from the rest of the company, when I took an
opportunity of hinting my concern at having, though without knowing it,
offended her: she blushed, she looked down, she again raised her lovely
eyes, they met mine, she sighed; I took her hand, she withdrew it, but
not in anger; a smile, like that of the poet's Hebe, told me I was
forgiven.
There is no describing what then passed in my soul: with what
difficulty did I restrain my transports! never before did I really know
love: what I had hitherto felt even for her, was cold to that
enchanting, that impassioned moment.
She is a thousand times dearer to me than life: my Lucy, I cannot
live without her.
I contrived, before I left Silleri, to speak to Bell Fermor on the
subject of Emily's reception of me; she did not fully explain herself,
but she convinced me hatred had no part in her resentment.
I am going again this afternoon: every hour not passed with her is
lost.
I will seek a favorable occasion of telling her the whole happiness
of my life depends on her tenderness.
Before I write again, my fate will possibly be determined: with
every reason to hope, the timidity inseparable from love makes me dread
a full explanation of my sentiments: if her native softness should have
deceived me--but I will not study to be unhappy.
Adieu!
Your affectionate
Ed. Rivers.