You will make me very unhappy, Sir George, said I, if you resent any thing on my account to your lady; she did not think perhaps that things were quite so bad with me as they really were; but if she heard (which by the way I knew was an invention of her own) that my mother left any thing behind her, she was deceived, there really was nothing. But let us call another subject.—When did you hear from Mr Faulkland? It is some time since I have had a letter from his lady.
His lady he repeated, and stamping with his foot, cursed be hour which gave her that title!
Dear Sir George, you shock me! how can you be so uncharitable, so unchristian?
If you know her as well as I do, said he—and shook his head.
You are so strong in your indignation against her, I replied, that you almost make me suspect that you do know more of her than I do; her weakness in regard to Mr Faulkland excepted; I could never entertain an ill thought of her; but you have raised a curiosity, which, though I tremble to have it gratified, yet I must beg you to speak out.
Do not think me malicious, Sidney, said he, a woman’s reputation is too sacred a thing to be trifled with; if her weakness, as you call it, had been confined to Mr Faulkland, hers should be so with me: but I cannot think with temper on the sacrifice that noble fellow has been forced to make to caprice.
Dear brother, explain yourself, you terrify me.
My heat on this occasion, he answered, would be unjustifiable, if I had not proof for what I say; Miss Burchell, for I will not call her by my friend’s name, is that monster, a female libertine, a rake in the worst sense of the word.
Monstrous! cried I, your prejudice makes you believe every cruel tale you may have heard.— Heard, he interrupted with an indignant smile, the d—l’s in it if I have not more than hear-say for my knowledge.
Lord! brother, you make me shudder, what do you mean?