Rose-hill, Sept. 18, Morning.
I have this moment, my dear Mrs. Temple’s letter: she will imagine my transport at the happy event she mentions; my dear Rivers has, in some degree, sacrificed even filial affection to his tenderness for me; the consciousness of this has ever cast a damp on the pleasure I should otherwise have felt, at the prospect of spending my life with the most excellent of mankind: I shall now be his, without the painful reflection of having lessened the enjoyments of the best parent that ever existed.
I should be blest indeed, my amiable friend, if I did not suffer from my too anxious tenderness; I dread the possibility of my becoming in time less dear to your brother; I love him to such excess that I could not survive the loss of his affection.
There is no distress, no want, I could not bear with delight for him; but if I lose his heart, I lose all for which life is worth keeping.
Could I bear to see those looks of ardent love converted into the cold glances of indifference!
You will, my dearest friend, pity a heart, whose too great sensibility wounds itself: why should I fear? was ever tenderness equal to that of my Rivers? can a heart like his change from caprice? It shall be the business of my life to merit his tenderness.
I will not give way to fears which injure him, and, indulged, would destroy all my happiness.
I expect Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald every moment. Adieu!
Your affectionate
Emily Montague.