real difficulty in that part a great deal, and I was alarmed at it very
much, for my friend the Quaker told me that she observed the girl was in
a great passion when she talked of the habit, and more when I had been
importuned to show her mine, but declined it. She said she several times
perceived her to be in disorder, and to restrain herself with great
difficulty; and once or twice she muttered to herself that she had found
it out, or that she would find it out, she could not tell whether; and
that she often saw tears in her eyes; that when I said my suit of
Turkish clothes was put up, but that she should see it when we arrived
in Holland, she heard her say softly she would go over on purpose then.
After she had ended her observations, I added: "I observed, too, that
the girl talked and looked oddly, and that she was mighty inquisitive,
but I could not imagine what it was she aimed at." "Aimed at," says the
Quaker, "'tis plain to me what she aims at. She believes thou art the
same Lady Roxana that danced in the Turkish vest, but she is not
certain." "Does she believe so?" says I; "if I had thought that, I would
have put her out of her pain." "Believe so!" says the Quaker; "yes, and
I began to think so too, and should have believed so still, if thou
had'st not satisfied me to the contrary by thy taking no notice of it,
and by what thou hast said since." "Should you have believed so?" said I
warmly; "I am very sorry for that. Why, would you have taken me for an
actress, or a French stage-player?" "No," says the good kind creature,
"thou carriest it too far; as soon as thou madest thy reflections upon
her, I knew it could not be; but who could think any other when she
described the Turkish dress which thou hast here, with the head-tire and
jewels, and when she named thy maid Amy too, and several other
circumstances concurring? I should certainly have believed it," said
she, "if thou hadst not contradicted it; but as soon as I heard thee
speak, I concluded it was otherwise." "That was very kind," said I, "and
I am obliged to you for doing me so much justice; it is more, it seems,
than that young talking creature does." "Nay," says the Quaker, "indeed
she does not do thee justice; for she as certainly believes it still as
ever she did." "Does she?" said I. "Ay," says the Quaker; "and I warrant
thee she'll make thee another visit about it." "Will she?" said I;
"then I believe I shall downright affront her." "No, thou shalt not
affront her," says she (full of her good-humour and temper), "I'll take
that part off thy hands, for I'll affront her for thee, and not let her
see thee." I thought that was a very kind offer, but was at a loss how
she would be able to do it; and the thought of seeing her there again
half distracted me, not knowing what temper she would come in, much less
what manner to receive her in; but my fast friend and constant
comforter, the Quaker, said she perceived the girl was impertinent, and
that I had no inclination to converse with her, and she was resolved I
should not be troubled with her. But I shall have occasion to say more
of this presently, for this girl went farther yet than I thought she
had.
It was now time, as I said before, to take measures with my husband, in
order to put off my voyage; so I fell into talk with him one morning as
he was dressing, and while I was in bed. I pretended I was very ill; and
as I had but too easy a way to impose upon him, because he so absolutely
believed everything I said, so I managed my discourse as that he should
understand by it I was a-breeding, though I did not tell him so.
However, I brought it about so handsomely that, before he went out of
the room, he came and sat down by my bedside, and began to talk very
seriously to me upon the subject of my being so every day ill, and
that, as he hoped I was with child, he would have me consider well of
it, whether I had not best alter my thoughts of the voyage to Holland;
for that being sea-sick, and which was worse, if a storm should happen,
might be very dangerous to me. And after saying abundance of the kindest
things that the kindest of husbands in the world could say, he concluded
that it was his request to me, that I would not think any more of going
till after all should be over; but that I would, on the contrary,
prepare to lie-in where I was, and where I knew, as well as he, I could
be very well provided, and very well assisted.
This was just what I wanted, for I had, as you have heard, a thousand
good reasons why I should put off the voyage, especially with that
creature in company; but I had a mind the putting it off should be at
his motion, not my own; and he came into it of himself, just as I would
have had it. This gave me an opportunity to hang back a little, and to
seem as if I was unwilling. I told him I could not abide to put him to
difficulties and perplexities in his business; that now he had hired the
great cabin in the ship, and, perhaps, paid some of the money, and, it
may be, taken freight for goods; and to make him break it all off again
would be a needless charge to him, or, perhaps, a damage to the captain.
As to that, he said, it was not to be named, and he would not allow it
to be any consideration at all; that he could easily pacify the captain
of the ship by telling him the reason of it, and that if he did make
him some satisfaction for the disappointment, it should not be much.
"But, my dear," says I, "you ha'n't heard me say I am with child,
neither can I say so; and if it should not be so at last, then I shall
have made a fine piece of work of it indeed; besides," says I, "the two
ladies, the captain's wife and her sister, they depend upon our going
over, and have made great preparations, and all in compliment to me;
what must I say to them?"
"Well, my dear," says he, "if you should not be with child, though I
hope you are, yet there is no harm done; the staying three or four
months longer in England will be no damage to me, and we can go when we
please, when we are sure you are not with child, or, when it appearing
that you are with child, you shall be down and up again; and as for the
captain's wife and sister, leave that part to me; I'll answer for it
there shall be no quarrel raised upon that subject. I'll make your
excuse to them by the captain himself, so all will be well enough there,
I'll warrant you."
This was as much as I could desire, and thus it rested for awhile. I had
indeed some anxious thoughts about this impertinent girl, but believed
that putting off the voyage would have put an end to it all, so I began
to be pretty easy; but I found myself mistaken, for I was brought to the
point of destruction by her again, and that in the most unaccountable
manner imaginable.
My husband, as he and I had agreed, meeting the captain of the ship,
took the freedom to tell him that he was afraid he must disappoint him,
for that something had fallen out which had obliged him to alter his
measures, and that his family could not be ready to go time enough for
him.
"I know the occasion, sir," says the captain; "I hear your lady has got
a daughter more than she expected; I give you joy of it." "What do you
mean by that?" says my spouse. "Nay, nothing," says the captain, "but
what I hear the women tattle over the tea-table. I know nothing, but
that you don't go the voyage upon it, which I am sorry for; but you know
your own affairs," added the captain, "that's no business of mine."
"Well, but," says my husband, "I must make you some satisfaction for the
disappointment," and so pulls out his money. "No, no," says the captain;
and so they fell to straining their compliments one upon another; but,
in short, my spouse gave him three or four guineas, and made him take
it. And so the first discourse went off again, and they had no more of
it.
But it did not go off so easily with me, for now, in a word, the clouds
began to thicken about me, and I had alarms on every side. My husband
told me what the captain had said, but very happily took it that the
captain had brought a tale by halves, and having heard it one way, had
told it another; and that neither could he understand the captain,
neither did the captain understand himself, so he contented himself to
tell me, he said, word for word, as the captain delivered it.
How I kept my husband from discovering my disorder you shall hear
presently; but let it suffice to say just now, that if my husband did
not understand the captain, nor the captain understand himself, yet I
understood them both very well; and, to tell the truth, it was a worse
shock than ever I had yet. Invention supplied me, indeed, with a sudden
motion to avoid showing my surprise; for as my spouse and I was sitting
by a little table near the fire, I reached out my hand, as if I had
intended to take a spoon which lay on the other side, and threw one of
the candles off of the table; and then snatching it up, started up upon
my feet, and stooped to the lap of my gown and took it in my hand. "Oh!"
says I, "my gown's spoiled; the candle has greased it prodigiously."
This furnished me with an excuse to my spouse to break off the discourse
for the present, and call Amy down; and Amy not coming presently, I said
to him, "My dear, I must run upstairs and put it off, and let Amy clean
it a little." So my husband rose up too, and went into a closet where he
kept his papers and books, and fetched a book out, and sat down by
himself to read.
Glad I was that I had got away, and up I run to Amy, who, as it
happened, was alone. "Oh, Amy!" says I, "we are all utterly undone." And
with that I burst out a-crying, and could not speak a word for a great
while.
I cannot help saying that some very good reflections offered themselves
upon this head. It presently occurred, what a glorious testimony it is
to the justice of Providence, and to the concern Providence has in
guiding all the affairs of men (even the least as well as the greatest),
that the most secret crimes are, by the most unforeseen accidents,
brought to light and discovered.
Another reflection was, how just it is that sin and shame follow one
another so constantly at the heels; that they are not like attendants
only, but, like cause and consequence, necessarily connected one with
another; that the crime going before, the scandal is certain to follow;
and that 'tis not in the power of human nature to conceal the first, or
avoid the last.
"What shall I do, Amy?" said I, as soon as I could speak, "and what will
become of me?" And then I cried again so vehemently that I could say no
more a great while. Amy was frighted almost out of her wits, but knew
nothing what the matter was; but she begged to know, and persuaded me to
compose myself, and not cry so. "Why, madam, if my master should come up
now," says she, "he will see what a disorder you are in; he will know
you have been crying, and then he will want to know the cause of it."
With that I broke out again. "Oh, he knows it already, Amy," says I, "he
knows all! 'Tis all discovered, and we are undone!" Amy was
thunderstruck now indeed. "Nay," says Amy, "if that be true, we are
undone indeed; but that can never be; that's impossible, I'm sure."
"No, no," says I, "'tis far from impossible, for I tell you 'tis so."
And by this time, being a little recovered, I told her what discourse my
husband and the captain had had together, and what the captain had said.
This put Amy into such a hurry that she cried, she raved, she swore and
cursed like a mad thing; then she upbraided me that I would not let her
kill the girl when she would have done it, and that it was all my own
doing, and the like. Well, however, I was not for killing the girl yet.
I could not bear the thoughts of that neither.
We spent half-an-hour in these extravagances, and brought nothing out of
them neither; for indeed we could do nothing or say nothing that was to
the purpose; for if anything was to come out-of-the-way, there was no
hindering it, or help for it; so after thus giving a vent to myself by
crying, I began to reflect how I had left my spouse below, and what I
had pretended to come up for; so I changed my gown that I pretended the
candle fell upon, and put on another, and went down.
When I had been down a good while, and found my spouse did not fall into
the story again, as I expected, I took heart, and called for it. "My
dear," said I, "the fall of the candle put you out of your history,
won't you go on with it?" "What history?" says he. "Why," says I, "about
the captain." "Oh," says he, "I had done with it. I know no more than
that the captain told a broken piece of news that he had heard by
halves, and told more by halves than he heard it,--namely, of your being
with child, and that you could not go the voyage."
I perceived my husband entered not into the thing at all, but took it
for a story, which, being told two or three times over, was puzzled, and
come to nothing, and that all that was meant by it was what he knew, or
thought he knew already--viz., that I was with child, which he wished
might be true.
His ignorance was a cordial to my soul, and I cursed them in my thoughts
that should ever undeceive him; and as I saw him willing to have the
story end there, as not worth being farther mentioned, I closed it too,
and said I supposed the captain had it from his wife; she might have
found somebody else to make her remarks upon; and so it passed off with
my husband well enough, and I was still safe there, where I thought
myself in most danger. But I had two uneasinesses still; the first was
lest the captain and my spouse should meet again, and enter into farther
discourse about it; and the second was lest the busy impertinent girl
should come again, and when she came, how to prevent her seeing Amy,
which was an article as material as any of the rest; for seeing Amy
would have been as fatal to me as her knowing all the rest.
As to the first of these, I knew the captain could not stay in town
above a week, but that his ship being already full of goods, and fallen
down the river, he must soon follow, so I contrived to carry my husband
somewhere out of town for a few days, that they might be sure not to
meet.
My greatest concern was where we should go. At last I fixed upon North
Hall; not, I said, that I would drink the waters, but that I thought the
air was good, and might be for my advantage. He, who did everything upon
the foundation of obliging me, readily came into it, and the coach was
appointed to be ready the next morning; but as we were settling matters,
he put in an ugly word that thwarted all my design, and that was, that
he had rather I would stay till afternoon, for that he should speak to
the captain the next morning if he could, to give him some letters,
which he could do, and be back again about twelve o'clock.
I said, "Ay, by all means." But it was but a cheat on him, and my voice
and my heart differed; for I resolved, if possible, he should not come
near the captain, nor see him, whatever came of it.
In the evening, therefore, a little before we went to bed, I pretended
to have altered my mind, and that I would not go to North Hall, but I
had a mind to go another way, but I told him I was afraid his business
would not permit him. He wanted to know where it was. I told him,
smiling, I would not tell him, lest it should oblige him to hinder his
business. He answered with the same temper, but with infinitely more
sincerity, that he had no business of so much consequence as to hinder
him going with me anywhere that I had a mind to go. "Yes," says I, "you
want to speak with the captain before he goes away." "Why, that's true,"
says he, "so I do," and paused awhile; and then added, "but I'll write a
note to a man that does business for me to go to him; 'tis only to get
some bills of loading signed, and he can do it." When I saw I had gained
my point, I seemed to hang back a little. "My dear," says I, "don't
hinder an hour's business for me; I can put it off for a week or two
rather than you shall do yourself any prejudice." "No, no," says he,
"you shall not put it off an hour for me, for I can do my business by
proxy with anybody but my wife." And then he took me in his arms and
kissed me. How did my blood flush up into my face when I reflected how
sincerely, how affectionately, this good-humoured gentleman embraced the
most cursed piece of hypocrisy that ever came into the arms of an honest
man! His was all tenderness, all kindness, and the utmost sincerity;
mine all grimace and deceit;--a piece of mere manage and framed conduct
to conceal a past life of wickedness, and prevent his discovering that
he had in his arms a she-devil, whose whole conversation for twenty-five
years had been black as hell, a complication of crime, and for which,
had he been let into it, he must have abhorred me and the very mention
of my name. But there was no help for me in it; all I had to satisfy
myself was that it was my business to be what I was, and conceal what I
had been; that all the satisfaction I could make him was to live
virtuously for the time to come, not being able to retrieve what had
been in time past; and this I resolved upon, though, had the great
temptation offered, as it did afterwards, I had reason to question my
stability. But of that hereafter.
After my husband had kindly thus given up his measures to mine, we
resolved to set out in the morning early. I told him that my project, if
he liked it, was to go to Tunbridge, and he, being entirely passive in
the thing, agreed to it with the greatest willingness; but said if I had
not named Tunbridge, he would have named Newmarket, there being a great
court there, and abundance of fine things to be seen. I offered him
another piece of hypocrisy here, for I pretended to be willing to go
thither, as the place of his choice, but indeed I would not have gone
for a thousand pounds; for the court being there at that time, I durst
not run the hazard of being known at a place where there were so many
eyes that had seen me before. So that, after some time, I told my
husband that I thought Newmarket was so full of people at that time,
that we should get no accommodation; that seeing the court and the crowd
was no entertainment at all to me, unless as it might be so to him, that
if he thought fit, we would rather put it off to another time; and that
if, when we went to Holland, we should go by Harwich, we might take a
round by Newmarket and Bury, and so come down to Ipswich, and go from
thence to the seaside. He was easily put off from this, as he was from
anything else that I did not approve; and so, with all imaginable
facility, he appointed to be ready early in the morning to go with me
for Tunbridge.
I had a double design in this, viz., first, to get away my spouse from
seeing the captain any more; and secondly, to be out of the way myself,
in case this impertinent girl, who was now my plague, should offer to
come again, as my friend the Quaker believed she would, and as indeed
happened within two or three days afterwards.
Having thus secured my going away the next day, I had nothing to do but
to furnish my faithful agent the Quaker with some instructions what to
say to this tormentor (for such she proved afterwards), and how to
manage her, if she made any more visits than ordinary.
I had a great mind to leave Amy behind too, as an assistant, because she
understood so perfectly well what to advise upon any emergence; and Amy
importuned me to do so. But I know not what secret impulse prevailed
over my thoughts against it; I could not do it for fear the wicked jade
should make her away, which my very soul abhorred the thoughts of;
which, however, Amy found means to bring to pass afterwards, as I may in
time relate more particularly.
It is true I wanted as much to be delivered from her as ever a sick man
did from a third-day ague; and had she dropped into the grave by any
fair way, as I may call it, I mean, had she died by any ordinary
distemper, I should have shed but very few tears for her. But I was not
arrived to such a pitch of obstinate wickedness as to commit murder,
especially such as to murder my own child, or so much as to harbour a
thought so barbarous in my mind. But, as I said, Amy effected all
afterwards without my knowledge, for which I gave her my hearty curse,
though I could do little more; for to have fallen upon Amy had been to
have murdered myself. But this tragedy requires a longer story than I
have room for here. I return to my journey.
My dear friend the Quaker was kind, and yet honest, and would do
anything that was just and upright to serve me, but nothing wicked or
dishonourable. That she might be able to say boldly to the creature, if
she came, she did not know where I was gone, she desired I would not let
her know; and to make her ignorance the more absolutely safe to herself,
and likewise to me, I allowed her to say that she heard us talk of going
to Newmarket, &c. She liked that part, and I left all the rest to her,
to act as she thought fit; only charged her, that if the girl entered
into the story of the Pall Mall, she should not entertain much talk
about it, but let her understand that we all thought she spoke of it a
little too particularly; and that the lady (meaning me) took it a
little ill to be so likened to a public mistress, or a stage-player, and
the like; and so to bring her, if possible, to say no more of it.
However, though I did not tell my friend the Quaker how to write to me,
or where I was, yet I left a sealed paper with her maid to give her, in
which I gave her a direction how to write to Amy, and so, in effect, to
myself.
It was but a few days after I was gone, but the impatient girl came to
my lodgings on pretence to see how I did, and to hear if I intended to
go the voyage, and the like. My trusty agent was at home, and received
her coldly at the door; but told her that the lady, which she supposed
she meant, was gone from her house.
This was a full stop to all she could say for a good while; but as she
stood musing some time at the door, considering what to begin a talk
upon, she perceived my friend the Quaker looked a little uneasy, as if
she wanted to go in and shut the door, which stung her to the quick; and
the wary Quaker had not so much as asked her to come in; for seeing her
alone she expected she would be very impertinent, and concluded that I
did not care how coldly she received her.
But she was not to be put off so. She said if the Lady ---- was not to
be spoken with, she desired to speak two or three words with her,
meaning my friend the Quaker. Upon that the Quaker civilly but coldly
asked her to walk in, which was what she wanted. Note.--She did not
carry her into her best parlour, as formerly, but into a little outer
room, where the servants usually waited.
By the first of her discourse she did not stick to insinuate as if she
believed I was in the house, but was unwilling to be seen; and pressed
earnestly that she might speak but two words with me; to which she added
earnest entreaties, and at last tears.
"I am sorry," says my good creature the Quaker, "thou hast so ill an
opinion of me as to think I would tell thee an untruth, and say that the
Lady ---- was gone from my house if she was not! I assure thee I do not
use any such method; nor does the Lady ---- desire any such kind of
service from me, as I know of. If she had been in the house, I should
have told thee so."
She said little to that, but said it was business of the utmost
importance that she desired to speak with me about, and then cried again
very much.
"Thou seem'st to be sorely afflicted," says the Quaker, "I wish I could
give thee any relief; but if nothing will comfort thee but seeing the
Lady ----, it is not in my power."
"I hope it is," says she again; "to be sure it is of great consequence
to me, so much that I am undone without it."
"Thou troublest me very much to hear thee say so," says the Quaker; "but
why, then, didst thou not speak to her apart when thou wast here
before?"
"I had no opportunity," says she, "to speak to her alone, and I could
not do it in company; if I could have spoken but two words to her alone,
I would have thrown myself at her foot, and asked her blessing."
"I am surprised at thee; I do not understand thee," says the Quaker.
"Oh!" says she, "stand my friend if you have any charity, or if you have
any compassion for the miserable; for I am utterly undone!"
"Thou terrifiest me," says the Quaker, "with such passionate
expressions, for verily I cannot comprehend thee!"
"Oh!" says she, "she is my mother! she is my mother! and she does not
own me!"
"Thy mother!" says the Quaker, and began to be greatly moved indeed. "I
am astonished at thee: what dost thou mean?"
"I mean nothing but what I say," says she. "I say again, she is my
mother, and will not own me;" and with that she stopped with a flood of
tears.
"Not own thee!" says the Quaker; and the tender good creature wept too.
"Why," says she, "she does not know thee, and never saw thee before."
"No," says the girl, "I believe she does not know me, but I know her;
and I know that she is my mother."
"It's impossible, thou talk'st mystery!" says the Quaker; "wilt thou
explain thyself a little to me?"