Memoirs of Miss Sidney Biddulph / Extracted from her own Journal, and now first published

by Frances Chamberlaine Sheridan

I began with shewing her Mr Faulkland’s last letter. It had the effect I expected. She was exceedingly shocked. I laid my finger on that paragraph, She has no right to my vows. It is necessary, my dear madam, said I, that you should be perfectly open and candid with me on this head. I have entered the lists for you, and will not give up your cause; but it depends on you to furnish me with every possible argument in your favour. If you mislead me by wrong insinuations, instead of putting it in my power to serve you, you will only create to yourself fresh obstacles.

It is a nice subject, madam, and what I have ever been cautious of touching upon to you; but in the present situation of your affairs, it is of the utmost importance to you, that you should have no reserves to me. When Mr Faulkland first recommended you to my mother’s acquaintance, he referred her to your honour, for an explanation of certain points, of so delicate a nature, that I am loath to touch upon them. But pardon me, dear Miss Burchell, you must be open with me. Mr Faulkland was obliged to declare, in his own justification, that he never sought to gain your affections; and was so far from endeavouring to take advantage of the kind sentiments you had for him, that he avoided all opportunities of improving them; that he was even surprized into the fatal step, which has since made you so unhappy, by the artifices of that vile woman, who had the care of you.

Mr Faulkland relied so intirely on your candour, that, as I told you before, he referred my mother to you, for a confirmation of the truth of what he advanced; imagining that your testimony would in some measure extenuate his fault. My mother, I have reason to believe, has heard the story from you in a light less favourable to Mr Faulkland. I was married before she received any information on this subject from you; and as any extenuation on Mr Faulkland’s side was then become a matter of indifference to me, I enquired not into particulars; but by what I could judge from my mother’s discourse then, and from hints which she has many times dropped since, I am inclined to believe, that either Mr Faulkland concealed some particulars, or that you, from a delicacy very natural to a young lady in such circumstances, chose to draw a veil over some parts of your story. But, dear madam, all disguises must now be thrown aside; depend upon it, your candour will more effectually recommend you to Mr Faulkland’s esteem, than any thing else; and, perhaps, your justifying him to me, may be no immaterial circumstance in your favour.

Variety of passions discovered themselves on her face while I spoke, but shame was predominant. She was mute, and hung down her head. I took her by the hand, Do not think, my dear, I mean to ensnare you; far be such perfidy from my heart! Have I not promised you my assistance? I declare, by every thing that is sacred, you shall have it to the utmost stretch of my power; but do not let a false bashfulness stand between you and sincerity; you will stop up the way to your own happiness if you do. Speak, dear madam, has Mr Faulkland been just in his representations?

She burst into a flood of tears: Oh! madam, you read my very soul; what disguise can I make use of, before such penetrating eyes as yours? Yes, Mr Faulkland has spoke the truth, shameful as the confession is for me, I own it. Mrs Gerrarde, base woman! betrayed me; my own mad passion did the rest. Mr Faulkland told me, a few days after the fatal meeting, that he was the most miserable man on earth for what had happened: he said, there was a lady in the world to whom he was bound to offer his hand; that her brother was his particular friend; that his marriage was then actually negotiating; and he was pressed on that occasion to return to London. He owned he had never seen the lady, but as his honour was engaged to her brother, he could not look upon himself as a free man. He cursed his ill fate, that he had not had an opportunity of informing me of this sooner; which, he said, might have prevented me from casting away my affection on a man, who could not deserve it. What could I say, madam? There was no room for reproaches or complaints. I made none; I had nobody to accuse but myself. I had declared my frantic love to Mr Faulkland unasked; I had implored his in return: in one dreadful moment I fell a sacrifice to my own weakness. The only hope that now remained for me, was built on that circumstance of Mr Faulkland’s having never seen his destined bride. Had I known you, madam, to have been the person, there could have sprung but small comfort from that consideration; but ignorant as I was of the lady’s merit, I thought it not impossible but that some objection might have arisen either to her person or temper; or the lady, perhaps, (though that I thought almost incredible) might not approve of Mr Faulkland: in either case, some glimmerings of hope remained for me. Mr Faulkland’s generous compassion for me, gave me room to think he did not hate me, and I was unwilling to lose the little interest I thought I had gained in his heart, by fond complainings, much less upbraidings, for which he had given me no cause. I therefore acquiesced, determined to wait for what my fate was to do with me; resolving privately in my own mind, that in case Mr Faulkland’s intended nuptials should not take place, to remind him of my love. I did not confess to my aunt what had been the result of that interview, which she had contrived between Mr Faulkland and me: shame would not suffer me to indulge it. But it was not long in my power to conceal it: I believe indeed, she suspected it before. She reproached me for the error which she herself had caused; but I believe, what most nettled her was Mr Faulkland’s having escaped the snare; for I am sure she would have been base enough to have had me retain him as a lover, though I could not secure him for a husband; for he was not the first, that this bad woman would have seduced me to favour, for her own private interest.

In the midst of the horror, into which the condition I found myself threw me, I heard that Mr Faulkland was on the point of being married.

The prospect I had before me drove me to despair. I knew I could not remain long in my uncle’s house. I knew not whither to fly. In my distraction I wrote to Mr Faulkland: You, madam, saw the letter, that ill-fated letter, which deprived Mr Faulkland of his happiness.

I soon received an answer, wherein Mr Faulkland related to me at large the unfortunate consequences that letter had produced. He lamented, in the tenderest manner, my unhappy situation; told me, he would provide me a proper place for my retreat; and, as I was an entire stranger in London, having never been there, would recommend me to the notice of one of the best of women, lady Bidulph, from whom, as my unhappy story was known to her, I might expect the utmost humanity. And here, madam, with blushes let me own it, he urged me not to conceal a single circumstance of the truth from that lady.

‘You know, said he, my dear Miss Burchell, I am not a seducer; rescue me from that black suspicion; and, as far as the unhappy case will admit, clear my honour to lady Bidulph. See what a reliance I have on your honour, when I trust the vindicating of my own to you, in such delicate circumstances. He concluded his letter with telling me frankly, that though he had been rejected by Miss Bidulph, he loved her with such an ardent passion, that it was impossible for him ever to think of any other woman; and till he had a heart to bestow, he should never entertain a thought of marriage.’

You know Mr Faulkland at this juncture went abroad; and thus was I circumstanced when I came to that house, which he had provided for me. And so frank and noble were his proceedings, that I solemnly declare, I was determined, though at the hazard of divulging my own shame, to have acquitted him to the utmost of my power to lady Bidulph; and should have rejoiced, could I have been the means of procuring him the happiness he deserved, in regaining your favour; as I had been, though unknowingly, the unlucky cause of his losing it. But fortune had disposed of you otherwise, before I saw lady Bidulph. This she quickly informed me of, and I will own to you, madam, that as I found there was now an insuperable bar to Mr Faulkland’s hopes, I was mean enough not to have the courage to speak truth. I saw it could not avail him, in regard to his prospects with you. Lady Bidulph’s eye awed me; yet I think she led me into a justification of myself, so great were her prejudices against Mr Faulkland. Or, perhaps, having already disposed of you in marriage, in vindication of this step, she did not wish to be undeceived. Yes, again, in spite of my confusion, I must repeat it, I was not sincere; I threw out such hints to lady Bidulph, as must have made her think Mr Faulkland had taken pains to undo me: to this act of disingenuousness, my sole motive was, that I might appear in a less culpable light in the eyes of a lady of such strict virtue as your mother. By making her my friend, I was in hopes one day of making you so too. Devoted, as Mr Faulkland was, to the most charming woman in the world, I was not afraid of his making a second choice. I thought, if he were to be induced to marry, he might, in time, be prevailed upon to turn his thoughts towards me. In this hope I have dragged on so many tedious years. I was not mistaken in my opinion, that he could find none worthy to succeed Mrs Arnold in his heart. He loves you still, madam; but you have declared you will never be his; he is still free; these are the circumstances that nourish my hope. My heart is in your hand; I have made you mistress of my dearest secret. Can you forgive me, madam? But you have an heroic soul! Remember, Mrs Arnold, to your generosity I now trust what is dearer to me than life. Should Mr Faulkland know, should lady Bidulph know, how I have abused their confidence, I think I could not outlive it.