dealt with, as has appeared in the former part of this work; but now she
was surprised, and a little hurried, that she scarce knew where she was;
and besides, she was, as to his lordship, as nice a lady as any in the
world, and for anything he knew of her she appeared as such. The rest
was to us only that knew of it.
I held this wicked scene of life out eight years, reckoning from my
first coming to England; and though my lord found no fault, yet I found,
without much examining, that any one who looked in my face might see I
was above twenty years old; and yet, without flattering myself, I
carried my age, which was above fifty, very well too.
I may venture to say that no woman ever lived a life like me, of
six-and-twenty years of wickedness, without the least signals of
remorse, without any signs of repentance, or without so much as a wish
to put an end to it; I had so long habituated myself to a life of vice,
that really it appeared to be no vice to me. I went on smooth and
pleasant, I wallowed in wealth, and it flowed in upon me at such a rate,
having taken the frugal measures that the good knight directed, so that
I had at the end of the eight years two thousand eight hundred pounds
coming yearly in, of which I did not spend one penny, being maintained
by my allowance from my Lord ----, and more than maintained by above
£200 per annum; for though he did not contract for £500 a year, as I
made dumb signs to have it be, yet he gave me money so often, and that
in such large parcels, that I had seldom so little as seven to eight
hundred pounds a year of him, one year with another.
[Illustration: THE DUTCH MERCHANT CALLS ON ROXANA
_"There," says she (ushering him in), "is the person who, I suppose,
thou inquirest for"_
PAGE 338]
I must go back here, after telling openly the wicked things I did, to
mention something which, however, had the face of doing good. I
remembered that when I went from England, which was fifteen years
before, I had left five little children, turned out as it were to the
wide world, and to the charity of their father's relations; the eldest
was not six years old, for we had not been married full seven years when
their father went away.
After my coming to England I was greatly desirous to hear how things
stood with them, and whether they were all alive or not, and in what
manner they had been maintained; and yet I resolved not to discover
myself to them in the least, or to let any of the people that had the
breeding of them up know that there was such a body left in the world as
their mother.
Amy was the only body I could trust with such a commission, and I sent
her into Spitalfields, to the old aunt and to the poor woman that were
so instrumental in disposing the relations to take some care of the
children, but they were both gone, dead and buried some years. The next
inquiry she made was at the house where she carried the poor children,
and turned them in at the door. When she came there she found the house
inhabited by other people, so that she could make little or nothing of
her inquiries, and came back with an answer that indeed was no answer to
me, for it gave me no satisfaction at all. I sent her back to inquire in
the neighbourhood what was become of the family that lived in that
house; and if they were removed, where they lived, and what
circumstances they were in; and, withal, if she could, what became of
the poor children, and how they lived, and where; how they had been
treated; and the like.
She brought me back word upon this second going, that she heard, as to
the family, that the husband, who, though but uncle-in-law to the
children, had yet been kindest to them, was dead; and that the widow was
left but in mean circumstances--that is to say, she did not want, but
that she was not so well in the world as she was thought to be when her
husband was alive; that, as to the poor children, two of them, it seems,
had been kept by her, that is to say, by her husband, while he lived,
for that it was against her will, that we all knew; but the honest
neighbours pitied the poor children, they said, heartily; for that their
aunt used them barbarously, and made them little better than servants in
the house to wait upon her and her children, and scarce allowed them
clothes fit to wear.
These were, it seems, my eldest and third, which were daughters; the
second was a son, the fourth a daughter, and the youngest a son.
To finish the melancholy part of this history of my two unhappy girls,
she brought me word that as soon as they were able to go out and get any
work they went from her, and some said she had turned them out of doors;
but it seems she had not done so, but she used them so cruelly that they
left her, and one of them went to service to a neighbour's, a little way
off, who knew her, an honest, substantial weaver's wife, to whom she was
chambermaid, and in a little time she took her sister out of the
Bridewell of her aunt's house, and got her a place too.
This was all melancholy and dull. I sent her then to the weaver's house,
where the eldest had lived, but found that, her mistress being dead, she
was gone, and nobody knew there whither she went, only that they heard
she had lived with a great lady at the other end of the town; but they
did not know who that lady was.
These inquiries took us up three or four weeks, and I was not one jot
the better for it, for I could hear nothing to my satisfaction. I sent
her next to find out the honest man who, as in the beginning of my story
I observed, made them be entertained, and caused the youngest to be
fetched from the town where we lived, and where the parish officers had
taken care of him. This gentleman was still alive; and there she heard
that my youngest daughter and eldest son was dead also; but that my
youngest son was alive, and was at that time about seventeen years old,
and that he was put out apprentice by the kindness and charity of his
uncle, but to a mean trade, and at which he was obliged to work very
hard.
Amy was so curious in this part that she went immediately to see him,
and found him all dirty and hard at work. She had no remembrance at all
of the youth, for she had not seen him since he was about two years old;
and it was evident he could have no knowledge of her.
However, she talked with him, and found him a good, sensible, mannerly
youth; that he knew little of the story of his father or mother, and had
no view of anything but to work hard for his living; and she did not
think fit to put any great things into his head, lest it should take him
off of his business, and perhaps make him turn giddy-headed and be good
for nothing; but she went and found out that kind man, his benefactor,
who had put him out, and finding him a plain, well-meaning, honest, and
kind-hearted man, she opened her tale to him the easier. She made a long
story, how she had a prodigious kindness for the child, because she had
the same for his father and mother; told him that she was the
servant-maid that brought all of them to their aunt's door, and run away
and left them; that their poor mother wanted bread, and what came of her
after she would have been glad to know. She added that her circumstances
had happened to mend in the world, and that, as she was in condition,
so she was disposed to show some kindness to the children if she could
find them out.
He received her with all the civility that so kind a proposal demanded,
gave her an account of what he had done for the child, how he had
maintained him, fed and clothed him, put him to school, and at last put
him out to a trade. She said he had indeed been a father to the child.
"But, sir," says she, "'tis a very laborious, hard-working trade, and he
is but a thin, weak boy." "That's true," says he; "but the boy chose the
trade, and I assure you I gave £20 with him, and am to find him clothes
all his apprenticeship; and as to its being a hard trade," says he,
"that's the fate of his circumstances, poor boy. I could not well do
better for him."
"Well, sir, as you did all for him in charity," says she, "it was
exceeding well; but, as my resolution is to do something for him, I
desire you will, if possible, take him away again from that place, where
he works so hard, for I cannot bear to see the child work so very hard
for his bread, and I will do something for him that shall make him live
without such hard labour."
He smiled at that. "I can, indeed," says he, "take him away, but then I
must lose my £20 that I gave with him."
"Well, sir," said Amy, "I'll enable you to lose that £20 immediately;"
and so she put her hand in her pocket and pulls out her purse.
He begun to be a little amazed at her, and looked her hard in the face,
and that so very much that she took notice of it, and said, "Sir, I
fancy by your looking at me you think you know me, but I am assured you
do not, for I never saw your face before. I think you have done enough
for the child, and that you ought to be acknowledged as a father to him;
but you ought not to lose by your kindness to him, more than the
kindness of bringing him up obliges you to; and therefore there's the
£20," added she, "and pray let him be fetched away."
"Well, madam," says he, "I will thank you for the boy, as well as for
myself; but will you please to tell me what I must do with him?"
"Sir," says Amy, "as you have been so kind to keep him so many years, I
beg you will take him home again one year more, and I'll bring you a
hundred pounds more, which I will desire you to lay out in schooling and
clothes for him, and to pay you for his board. Perhaps I may put him in
a condition to return your kindness."
He looked pleased, but surprised very much, and inquired of Amy, but
with very great respect, what he should go to school to learn, and what
trade she would please to put him out to.
Amy said he should put him to learn a little Latin, and then merchants'
accounts, and to write a good hand, for she would have him be put to a
Turkey merchant.
"Madam," says he, "I am glad for his sake to hear you talk so; but do
you know that a Turkey merchant will not take him under £400 or £500?"
"Yes, sir," says Amy, "I know it very well."
"And," says he, "that it will require as many thousands to set him up?"
"Yes, sir," says Amy, "I know that very well too;" and, resolving to
talk very big, she added, "I have no children of my own, and I resolve
to make him my heir, and if £10,000 be required to set him up, he shall
not want it. I was but his mother's servant when he was born, and I
mourned heartily for the disaster of the family, and I always said, if
ever I was worth anything in the world, I would take the child for my
own, and I'll be as good as my word now, though I did not then foresee
that it would be with me as it has been since." And so Amy told him a
long story how she was troubled for me, and what she would give to hear
whether I was dead or alive, and what circumstances I was in; that if
she could but find me, if I was ever so poor, she would take care of me,
and make a gentlewoman of me again.
He told her that, as to the child's mother, she had been reduced to the
last extremity, and was obliged (as he supposed she knew) to send the
children all among her husband's friends; and if it had not been for
him, they had all been sent to the parish; but that he obliged the other
relations to share the charge among them; that he had taken two, whereof
he had lost the eldest, who died of the smallpox, but that he had been
as careful of this as of his own, and had made very little difference in
their breeding up, only that when he came to put him out he thought it
was best for the boy to put him to a trade which he might set up in
without a stock, for otherwise his time would be lost; and that as to
his mother, he had never been able to hear one word of her, no, not
though he had made the utmost inquiry after her; that there went a
report that she had drowned herself, but that he could never meet with
anybody that could give him a certain account of it.
Amy counterfeited a cry for her poor mistress; told him she would give
anything in the world to see her, if she was alive; and a great deal
more such-like talk they had about that; then they returned to speak of
the boy.
He inquired of her why she did not seek after the child before, that he
might have been brought up from a younger age, suitable to what she
designed to do for him.
She told him she had been out of England, and was but newly returned
from the East Indies. That she had been out of England, and was but
newly returned, was true, but the latter was false, and was put in to
blind him, and provide against farther inquiries; for it was not a
strange thing for young women to go away poor to the East Indies, and
come home vastly rich. So she went on with directions about him, and
both agreed in this, that the boy should by no means be told what was
intended for him, but only that he should be taken home again to his
uncle's, that his uncle thought the trade too hard for him, and the
like.
About three days after this Amy goes again, and carried him the hundred
pounds she promised him, but then Amy made quite another figure than she
did before; for she went in my coach, with two footmen after her, and
dressed very fine also, with jewels and a gold watch; and there was
indeed no great difficulty to make Amy look like a lady, for she was a
very handsome, well-shaped woman, and genteel enough. The coachman and
servants were particularly ordered to show her the same respect as they
would to me, and to call her Madam Collins, if they were asked any
questions about her.
When the gentleman saw what a figure she made it added to the former
surprise, and he entertained her in the most respectful manner possible,
congratulated her advancement in fortune, and particularly rejoiced that
it should fall to the poor child's lot to be so provided for, contrary
to all expectation.
Well, Amy talked big, but very free and familiar, told them she had no
pride in her good fortune (and that was true enough, for, to give Amy
her due, she was far from it, and was as good-humoured a creature as
ever lived); that she was the same as ever; and that she always loved
this boy, and was resolved to do something extraordinary for him.
Then she pulled out her money, and paid him down a hundred and twenty
pounds, which, she said, she paid him that he might be sure he should
be no loser by taking him home again, and that she would come and see
him again, and talk farther about things with him, so that all might be
settled for him, in such a manner as accidents, such as mortality, or
anything else, should make no alteration to the child's prejudice.
At this meeting the uncle brought his wife out, a good, motherly,
comely, grave woman, who spoke very tenderly of the youth, and, as it
appeared, had been very good to him, though she had several children of
her own. After a long discourse, she put in a word of her own. "Madam,"
says she, "I am heartily glad of the good intentions you have for this
poor orphan, and I rejoice sincerely in it for his sake; but, madam, you
know, I suppose, that there are two sisters alive too; may we not speak
a word for them? Poor girls," says she, "they have not been so kindly
used as he has, and are turned out to the wide world."
"Where are they, madam?" says Amy.
"Poor creatures," says the gentlewoman, "they are out at service, nobody
knows where but themselves; their case is very hard."
"Well, madam," says Amy, "though if I could find them I would assist
them, yet my concern is for my boy, as I call him, and I will put him
into a condition to take care of his sisters."
"But, madam," says the good, compassionate creature, "he may not be so
charitable perhaps by his own inclination, for brothers are not
fathers, and they have been cruelly used already, poor girls; we have
often relieved them, both with victuals and clothes too, even while they
were pretended to be kept by their barbarous aunt."
"Well, madam," says Amy, "what can I do for them? They are gone, it
seems, and cannot be heard of. When I see them 'tis time enough."
She pressed Amy then to oblige their brother, out of the plentiful
fortune he was like to have, to do something for his sisters when he
should be able.
Amy spoke coldly of that still, but said she would consider of it; and
so they parted for that time. They had several meetings after this, for
Amy went to see her adopted son, and ordered his schooling, clothes, and
other things, but enjoined them not to tell the young man anything, but
that they thought the trade he was at too hard for him, and they would
keep him at home a little longer, and give him some schooling to fit him
for other business; and Amy appeared to him as she did before, only as
one that had known his mother and had some kindness for him.
Thus this matter passed on for near a twelvemonth, when it happened that
one of my maid-servants having asked Amy leave (for Amy was mistress of
the servants, and took and put out such as she pleased)--I say, having
asked leave to go into the city to see her friends, came home crying
bitterly, and in a most grievous agony she was, and continued so
several days till Amy, perceiving the excess, and that the maid would
certainly cry herself sick, she took an opportunity with her and
examined her about it.
The maid told her a long story, that she had been to see her brother,
the only brother she had in the world, and that she knew he was put out
apprentice to a ----; but there had come a lady in a coach to his uncle
----, who had brought him up, and made him take him home again; and so
the wench run on with the whole story just as 'tis told above, till she
came to that part that belonged to herself. "And there," says she, "I
had not let them know where I lived, and the lady would have taken me,
and, they say, would have provided for me too, as she has done for my
brother; but nobody could tell where to find me, and so I have lost it
all, and all the hopes of being anything but a poor servant all my
days;" and then the girl fell a-crying again.
Amy said, "What's all this story? Who could this lady be? It must be
some trick, sure." "No," she said, "it was not a trick, for she had made
them take her brother home from apprentice, and bought him new clothes,
and put him to have more learning; and the gentlewoman said she would
make him her heir."
"Her heir!" says Amy. "What does that amount to? It may be she had
nothing to leave him; she might make anybody her heir."
"No, no,"' says the girl; "she came in a fine coach and horses, and I
don't know how many footmen to attend her, and brought a great bag of
gold and gave it to my uncle ----, he that brought up my brother, to buy
him clothes and to pay for his schooling and board."
"He that brought up your brother?" says Amy. "Why, did not he bring you
up too as well as your brother? Pray who brought you up, then?"
Here the poor girl told a melancholy story, how an aunt had brought up
her and her sister, and how barbarously she had used them, as we have
heard.
By this time Amy had her head full enough, and her heart too, and did
not know how to hold it, or what to do, for she was satisfied that this
was no other than my own daughter, for she told her all the history of
her father and mother, and how she was carried by their maid to her
aunt's door, just as is related in the beginning of my story.
Amy did not tell me this story for a great while, nor did she well know
what course to take in it; but as she had authority to manage everything
in the family, she took occasion some time after, without letting me
know anything of it, to find some fault with the maid and turn her away.
Her reasons were good, though at first I was not pleased when I heard of
it, but I was convinced afterwards that she was in the right, for if she
had told me of it I should have been in great perplexity between the
difficulty of concealing myself from my own child and the inconvenience
of having my way of living be known among my first husband's relations,
and even to my husband himself; for as to his being dead at Paris, Amy,
seeing me resolved against marrying any more, had told me that she had
formed that story only to make me easy when I was in Holland if anything
should offer to my liking.
However, I was too tender a mother still, notwithstanding what I had
done, to let this poor girl go about the world drudging, as it were, for
bread, and slaving at the fire and in the kitchen as a cook-maid;
besides, it came into my head that she might perhaps marry some poor
devil of a footman, or a coachman, or some such thing, and be undone
that way, or, which was worse, be drawn in to lie with some of that
coarse, cursed kind, and be with child, and be utterly ruined that way;
and in the midst of all my prosperity this gave me great uneasiness.
As to sending Amy to her, there was no doing that now, for, as she had
been servant in the house, she knew Amy as well as Amy knew me; and no
doubt, though I was much out of her sight, yet she might have had the
curiosity to have peeped at me, and seen me enough to know me again if I
had discovered myself to her; so that, in short, there was nothing to be
done that way.
However, Amy, a diligent indefatigable creature, found out another
woman, and gave her her errand, and sent her to the honest man's house
in Spitalfields, whither she supposed the girl would go after she was
out of her place; and bade her talk with her, and tell her at a distance
that as something had been done for her brother, so something would be
done for her too; and, that she should not be discouraged, she carried
her £20 to buy her clothes, and bid her not go to service any more, but
think of other things; that she should take a lodging in some good
family, and that she should soon hear farther.
The girl was overjoyed with this news, you may be sure, and at first a
little too much elevated with it, and dressed herself very handsomely
indeed, and as soon as she had done so came and paid a visit to Madam
Amy, to let her see how fine she was. Amy congratulated her, and wished
it might be all as she expected, but admonished her not to be elevated
with it too much; told her humility was the best ornament of a
gentlewoman, and a great deal of good advice she gave her, but
discovered nothing.
All this was acted in the first years of my setting up my new figure
here in town, and while the masks and balls were in agitation; and Amy
carried on the affair of setting out my son into the world, which we
were assisted in by the sage advice of my faithful counsellor, Sir
Robert Clayton, who procured us a master for him, by whom he was
afterwards sent abroad to Italy, as you shall hear in its place; and Amy
managed my daughter too very well, though by a third hand.
My amour with my Lord ---- began now to draw to an end, and indeed,
notwithstanding his money, it had lasted so long that I was much more
sick of his lordship than he could be of me. He grew old and fretful,
and captious, and I must add, which made the vice itself begin to grow
surfeiting and nauseous to me, he grew worse and wickeder the older he
grew, and that to such degree as is not fit to write of, and made me so
weary of him that upon one of his capricious humours, which he often
took occasion to trouble me with, I took occasion to be much less
complaisant to him than I used to be; and as I knew him to be hasty, I
first took care to put him into a little passion, and then to resent it,
and this brought us to words, in which I told him I thought he grew sick
of me; and he answered in a heat that truly so he was. I answered that I
found his lordship was endeavouring to make me sick too; that I had met
with several such rubs from him of late, and that he did not use me as
he used to do, and I begged his lordship he would make himself easy.
This I spoke with an air of coldness and indifference such as I knew he
could not bear; but I did not downright quarrel with him and tell him I
was sick of him too, and desire him to quit me, for I knew that would
come of itself; besides, I had received a great deal of handsome usage
from him, and I was loth to have the breach be on my side, that he might
not be able to say I was ungrateful.
[Illustration: THE AMOUR DRAWS TO AN END
_I told him I thought he grew sick of me; and he answered in a heat that
truly so he was_]