To Miss Montague, at Quebec.
Montreal, April 14.
Is it possible, my dear Emily, you can, after all I have said,
persist in endeavoring to disswade me from a design on which my whole
happiness depends, and which I flattered myself was equally essential
to yours? I forgave, I even admired, your first scruple; I thought it
generosity: but I have answered it; and if you had loved as I do, you
would never again have named so unpleasing a subject.
Does your own heart tell you mine will call a settlement here, with
you, an exile? Examine yourself well, and tell me whether your
aversion to staying in Canada is not stronger than your tenderness for
your Rivers.
I am hurt beyond all words at the earnestness with which you press
Mrs. Melmoth to disswade me from staying in this country: you press
with warmth my return to England, though it would put an eternal bar
between us: you give reasons which, though the understanding may
approve, the heart abhors: can ambition come in competition with
tenderness? you fancy yourself generous, when you are only indifferent.
Insensible girl! you know nothing of love.
Write to me instantly, and tell me every emotion of your soul, for I
tremble at the idea that your affection is less lively than mine.
Adieu! I am wretched till I hear from you. Is it possible, my Emily,
you can have ceased to love him, who, as you yourself own, sees no
other object than you in the universe?
Adieu! Yours,
Ed. Rivers.
You know not the heart of your Rivers, if you suppose it capable of
any ambition but that dear one of being beloved by you.
What have you said, my dear Emily? _You will not marry me in
Canada_. You have passed a hard sentence on me: you know my fortune
will not allow me to marry you in England.