I regarded him as a father; he had always been more than a parent tome; I had the most implicit deference to his will.
He engaged me to Sir George Clayton; and, when dying, told me thestory of my birth, to which I had till then been a stranger, exactingfrom me, however, an oath of secresy till I saw my father.
He died, leaving me, with a trifle left in trust to him for my usefrom my grandfather, about two thousand pounds, which was all I, atthat time, ever expected to possess.
My father was then thought ruined; there was even a report of hisdeath, and I imagined myself absolute mistress of my own actions.
I was near two years without hearing any thing of him; nor did Iknow I had still a father, till the letters you brought me from Mrs.Melmoth.
A variety of accidents, and our being both abroad, and in suchdistant parts of the world, prevented his letters arriving.
In this situation, the kind hand of heaven conducted my Rivers toMontreal.
I saw him; and, from that moment, my whole soul was his.
Formed for each other, our love was sudden and resistless as thebolt of heaven: the first glance of those dear speaking eyes gave me anew being, and awaked in me ideas never known before.
The strongest sympathy attached me to him in spite of myself: Ithought it friendship, but felt that friendship more lively than what Icalled my _love_ for Sir George; all conversation but his becameinsupportable to me; every moment that he passed from me, I counted aslost in my existence.
I loved him; that tenderness hourly increased: I hated Sir George, Ifancied him changed; I studied to find errors in a man who had, a fewweeks before, appeared to me amiable, and whom I had consented tomarry; I broke with him, and felt a weight removed from my soul.
I trembled when Rivers appeared; I died to tell him my whole soulwas his; I watched his looks, to find there the same sentiments withwhich he had inspired me: that transporting moment at length arrived;I had the delight to find our tenderness was mutual, and to devote mylife to making happy the lord of my desires.
Mrs. Melmoth's letter brought me my father's commands, if unmarried,to continue so till his return.
He added, that he intended me for a relation, to whose family he hadobligations; that, his affairs having suffered such a happyrevolution, he had it in his power, and, therefore, thought it hisduty, to pay this debt of gratitude; and, at the same time, hoping tomake me happy by connecting me with an amiable family, allied to him byblood and friendship; and uniting me to a man whom report spoke worthyof all my tenderness.
You may remember, my dearest Bell, how strongly I was affected onreading those letters: I wrote to Rivers, to beg him to defer ourmarriage; but the manner in which he took that request, and the fear ofappearing indifferent to him, conquered all sense of what I owed to myfather, and I married him; making it, however, a condition that heshould ask no explanation of my conduct till I chose to give it.
I knew not the character of my father; he might be a tyrant, anddivide us from each other: Rivers doubted my tenderness; would not mywaiting, if my father had afterwards refused his consent to our union,have added to those cruel suspicions? might he not have supposed I hadceased to love him, and waited for the excuse of paternal authority tojustify a change of sentiment?
In short, love bore down every other consideration; if I persistedin this delay, I might hazard losing all my soul held dear, the onlyobject for which life was worth my care.
I determined, if I married, to give up all claim to my father'sfortune, which I should justly forfeit by my disobedience to hiscommands: I hoped, however, Rivers's merit, and my father's paternalaffection, when he knew us both, would influence him to make someprovision for me as his daughter.
Half his fortune was all I ever hoped for, or even would have choseto accept: the rest I determined to give up to the man whom I refusedto marry.
I gave my hand to Rivers, and was happy; yet the idea of myfather's return, and the consciousness of having disobeyed him, castsometimes a damp on my felicity, and threw a gloom over my soul, whichall my endeavors could scarce hide from Rivers, though his delicacyprevented his asking the cause.
I now know, what was then a secret to me, that my father had offeredhis daughter to Rivers, with a fortune which could, however, have beenno temptation to a mind like his, had he not been attached to me: hedeclined the offer, and, lest I should hear of it, and, from a romanticdisinterestedness, want him to accept it, pressed our marriage withmore importunity than ever; yet had the generosity to conceal thissacrifice from me, and to wish it should be concealed for ever.
These sentiments, so noble, so peculiar to my Rivers, prevented anexplanation, and hid from us, for some time, the circumstances whichnow make our happiness so perfect.
How infinitely worthy is Rivers of all my tenderness!
My father has sent to speak with me in his apartment: I should havetold you, I this morning went to Bellfield, and brought from thence mymother's picture, which I have just sent him.
Adieu! Your faithful Emily Rivers.
LETTER 227.
To Mrs. Rivers, Bellfield, Rutland.
London, Sunday.
No words, my dear Emily, can speak our joy at the receipt of yourtwo last letters.
You are then as happy as you deserve to be; we hope, in a few days,to be witnesses of your felicity.
We knew from the first of your father's proposal to Rivers; but heextorted a promise from us, never on any account to communicate it toyou: he also desired us to detain you in Berkshire, by lengthening ourvisit, till your marriage, lest any friend of your father's in Londonshould know his design, and chance acquaint you with it.
Fitzgerald is _Monsieur le Majeur_, at your ladyship's service:he received his commission this morning.
I once again congratulate you, my dear, on this triumph oftenderness: you see love, like virtue, is not only its own reward, butsometimes intitles us to other rewards too.
It should always be considered, that those who marry from love,_may_ grow rich; but those who marry to be rich, will _never_love.
The very idea that love will come after marriage, is shocking tominds which have the least spark of delicacy: to such minds, a marriagewhich begins with indifference will certainly end in disgust andaversion.
I bespeak your papa for my _cecisbeo_; mine is extremely atyour service in return.
But I am piqued, my dear. "Sentiments so noble, so peculiar to yourRivers--"
I am apt to believe there are men in the world--that nobleness ofmind is not so very _peculiar_--and that some people's sentimentsmay be as noble as other people's.
In short, I am inclined to fancy Fitzgerald would have acted justthe same part in the same situation.
But it is your great fault, my dear Emily, to suppose your love aphoenix, whereas he is only an agreable, worthy, handsome fellow,_comme un autre_.
I suppose you will be very angry; but who cares? I will be angrytoo.
Surely, my Fitzgerald--I allow Rivers all his merit; butcomparisons, my dear--
Both our fellows, to be sure, are charming creatures; and I wouldnot change them for a couple of Adonis's: yet I don't insist upon it,that there is nothing agreable in the world but them.
You should remember, my dear, that beauty is in the lover's eye; andthat, however highly you may think of Rivers, every woman breathing hasthe same idea of _the dear man_.
O heaven! I must tell you, because it will flatter your vanity aboutyour charmer.
I have had a letter from an old lover of mine at Quebec, who tellsme, Madame Des Roches has just refused one of the best matches in thecountry, and vows she will live and die a batchelor.
'Tis a mighty foolish resolution, and yet I cannot help liking herthe better for making it.
My dear papa talks of taking a house near you, and of having agarden to rival yours: we shall spend a good deal of time with him, andI shall make love to Rivers, which you know will be vastly pretty.
One must do someth
ing to give a little variety to life; and nothingis so amusing, or keeps the mind so pleasingly awake, especially in thecountry, as the flattery of an agreable fellow.
I am not, however, quite sure I shall not look abroad for a flirt,for one's friend's husband is almost as insipid as one's own.
Our romantic adventures being at an end, my dear; and we being alldegenerated into sober people, who marry and _settle_; we seem ingreat danger of sinking into vegetation: on which subject I desireRivers's opinion, being, I know, a most exquisite enquirer into thelaws of nature.
Love is a pretty invention, but, I am told, is apt to mellow intofriendship; a degree of perfection at which I by no means desireFitzgerald's attachment for me to arrive on this side seventy.
What must we do, my dear, to vary our days?
Cards, you will own, are an agreable relief, and the least subjectto pall of any pleasures under the sun: and really, philosophicallyspeaking, what is life but an intermitted pool at quadrille?
I am interrupted by a divine colonel in the guards.
Adieu! Your faithful A. Fitzgerald.
LETTER 228.
To Mrs. Fitzgerald.
Bellfield, Tuesday.
I accept your challenge, Bell; and am greatly mistaken if you findme so very insipid as you are pleased to suppose.
Have no fear of falling into vegetation; not one amongst us has theleast vegetative quality.
I have a thousand ideas of little amusements, to keep the mindawake.
None of our party are of that sleepy order of beings, who wantperpetual events to make them feel their existence: this is the defectof the cold and inanimate, who have not spirit and vivacity enough totaste the natural pleasures of life.
Our adventures of one kind are at an end; but we shall see others,as entertaining, springing up every moment.
I dare say, our whole lives will be Pindaric: my only plan of lifeis to have none at all, which, I think, my little Bell will approve.
Please to observe, my sweet Bell, to make life pleasant, we must notonly have great pleasures but little ones, like the smaller auxiliaryparts of a building; we must have our trifling amusements, as well asour sublime transports.
My first _second_ pleasure (if you will allow the expression)is gardening; and for this reason, that it is my divine Emily's: I mustteach you to love rural pleasures.
Colonel Willmott has made me just as rich as I wish to be.
You must know, my fair friend, that whilst I thought a fortune andEmily incompatible, I had infinite contempt for the former, and fanciedthat it would rather take from, than add to, my happiness; but, now Ican possess it with her, I allow it all its value.
My father (with what delight do I call the father of Emily by thatname!) hinted at my taking a larger house; but I would not leave mynative Dryads for an imperial palace: I have, however, agreed to lethim build a wing to Bellfield, which it wants, to compleat the originalplan, and to furnish it in whatever manner he thinks fit.
He is to have a house in London; and we are to ramble from one tothe other as fancy leads us.
He insists on our having no rule but inclination: do you think weare in any danger of vegetating, my dear Bell?
The great science of life is, to keep in constant employment thatrestless active principle within us, which, if not directed right, willbe eternally drawing us from real to imaginary happiness.
Love, all charming as it is, requires to be kept alive by such avariety of amusements, or avocations, as may prevent the languor towhich all human pleasures are subject.
Emily's tenderness and delicacy make me ever an expecting lover: shecontrives little parties of pleasure, and by surprize, of which she isalways the ornament and the soul: her whole attention is given to makeher Rivers happy.
I envy the man who attends her on these little excursions.
Love with us is ever led by the Sports and the Smiles.
Upon the whole, people who have the spirit to act as we have done,to dare to chuse their own companions for life, will generally behappy.
The affections are the true sources of enjoyment: love, friendship,and, if you will allow me to anticipate, paternal tenderness, all thedomestic attachments, are sweet beyond words.
The beneficent Author of nature, who gave us these affections forthe wisest purposes--
"Cela est bien dit, mon cher Rivers; mais il faut cultiver notrejardin."
You are right, my dear Bell, and I am a prating coxcomb.
Lucy's post-coach is just setting off, to wait your commands.
I send this by Temple's servant. On Thursday I hope to see our deargroupe of friends re-united, and to have nothing to wish, but acontinuance of our present happiness.
Adieu! Your faithful Ed. Rivers.
THE END.
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