I am returned.
He is disappointed, but not surprized; owns no human heart could have resisted Emily; begs she will allow his daughter a place in her friendship.
He insists on making her a present of diamonds; the only condition, he tells me, on which he will forgive my marriage.
I am going to introduce him to her in her apartment.
Adieu! for a moment.
Fitzgerald!—I scarce respire—the tumult of my joy—this daughter whom I have refused—my Emily—could you have believed—my Emily is the daughter of Colonel Willmott.
When I announced him to her by that name, her color changed; but when I added that he was just returned from the East Indies, she trembled, her cheeks had a dying paleness, her voice faltered, she pronounced faintly, “My father!” and sunk breathless on a sofa.
He ran to her, he pressed her wildly to his bosom, he kissed her pale cheek, he demanded if she was indeed his child? his Emily? the dear pledge of his Emily Montague’s tenderness?
Her senses returned, she fixed her eyes eagerly on him, she kissed his hand, she would have spoke, but tears stopped her voice.
The scene that followed is beyond my powers of description.