LETTER XCIV.94.

　　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. The History of Emily Montague