To Miss Fermor.
Not alarmed, my dear, at his attention to others? believe me, you
know nothing of love.
I think every woman who beholds my Rivers a rival; I imagine I see
in every female countenance a passion tender and lively as my own; I
turn pale, my heart dies within me, if I observe his eyes a moment
fixed on any other woman; I tremble at the possibility of his changing;
I cannot support the idea that the time may come when I may be less
dear to my Rivers than at present. Do you believe it possible, my
dearest Bell, for any heart, not prepossessed, to be insensible one
moment to my Rivers?
He is formed to charm the soul of woman; his delicacy, his
sensibility, the mind that speaks through those eloquent eyes; the
thousand graces of his air, the sound of his voice--my dear, I never
heard him speak without feeling a softness of which it is impossible to
convey an idea.
But I am wrong to encourage a tenderness which is already too great;
I will think less of him; I will not talk of him; do not speak of him
to me, my dear Bell: talk to me of Fitzgerald; there is no danger of
your passion becoming too violent.
I wish you loved more tenderly, my dearest; you would then be more
indulgent to my weakness: I am ashamed of owning it even to you.
Ashamed, did I say? no, I rather glory in loving the most amiable,
the most angelic of mankind.
Speak of him to me for ever; I abhor all conversation of which he is
not the subject. I am interrupted. Adieu!
Your faithful
Emily.
My dearest, I tremble; he is at the door; how shall I meet him
without betraying all the weakness of my heart? come to me this moment,
I will not go down without you. Your father is come to fetch me;
follow me, I entreat: I cannot see him alone; my heart is too much
softened at this moment. He must not know to what excess he is beloved.