mother, and I have broke my heart to search for her; and now to lose her
again, when I was so sure I had found her, will break my heart more
effectually."
"Well, but if she be thy mother," says the Quaker, "how can it be that
she should not know thee?"
"Alas!" says she, "I have been lost to her ever since I was a child; she
has never seen me."
"And hast thou never seen her?" says the Quaker.
"Yes," says she, "I have seen her; often enough I saw her; for when she
was the Lady Roxana I was her housemaid, being a servant, but I did not
know her then, nor she me; but it has all come out since. Has she not a
maid named Amy?" Note.--The honest Quaker was--nonplussed, and greatly
surprised at that question.
"Truly," says she, "the Lady ---- has several women servants, but I do
not know all their names."
"But her woman, her favourite," adds the girl; "is not her name Amy?"
"Why, truly," says the Quaker, with a very happy turn of wit, "I do not
like to be examined; but lest thou shouldest take up any mistakes by
reason of my backwardness to speak, I will answer thee for once, that
what her woman's name is I know not, but they call her Cherry."
_N.B._--My husband gave her that name in jest on our wedding-day, and we
had called her by it ever after; so that she spoke literally true at
that time.
The girl replied very modestly that she was sorry if she gave her any
offence in asking; that she did not design to be rude to her, or pretend
to examine her; but that she was in such an agony at this disaster that
she knew not what she did or said; and that she should be very sorry to
disoblige her, but begged of her again, as she was a Christian and a
woman, and had been a mother of children, that she would take pity on
her, and, if possible, assist her, so that she might but come to me and
speak a few words to me.
The tender-hearted Quaker told me the girl spoke this with such moving
eloquence that it forced tears from her; but she was obliged to say that
she neither knew where I was gone or how to write to me; but that if she
did ever see me again she would not fail to give me an account of all
she had said to her, or that she should yet think fit to say, and to
take my answer to it, if I thought fit to give any.
Then the Quaker took the freedom to ask a few particulars about this
wonderful story, as she called it; at which the girl, beginning at the
first distresses of my life, and indeed of her own, went through all the
history of her miserable education, her service under the Lady Roxana,
as she called me, and her relief by Mrs. Amy, with the reasons she had
to believe that as Amy owned herself to be the same that lived with her
mother, and especially that Amy was the Lady Roxana's maid too, and came
out of France with her, she was by those circumstances, and several
others in her conversation, as fully convinced that the Lady Roxana was
her mother, as she was that the Lady ---- at her house (the Quaker's)
was the very same Roxana that she had been servant to.
My good friend the Quaker, though terribly shocked at the story, and not
well knowing what to say, yet was too much my friend to seem convinced
in a thing which she did not know to be true, and which, if it was true,
she could see plainly I had a mind should not be known; so she turned
her discourse to argue the girl out of it. She insisted upon the slender
evidence she had of the fact itself, and the rudeness of claiming so
near a relation of one so much above her, and of whose concern in it she
had no knowledge, at least no sufficient proof; that as the lady at her
house was a person above any disguises, so she could not believe that
she would deny her being her daughter, if she was really her mother;
that she was able sufficiently to have provided for her if she had not a
mind to have her known; and, therefore, seeing she had heard all she had
said of the Lady Roxana, and was so far from owning herself to be the
person, so she had censured that sham lady as a cheat and a common
woman; and that 'twas certain she could never be brought to own a name
and character she had so justly exposed.
Besides, she told her that her lodger, meaning me, was not a sham lady,
but the real wife of a knight-baronet; and that she knew her to be
honestly such, and far above such a person as she had described. She
then added that she had another reason why it was not very possible to
be true. "And that is," says she, "thy age is in the way; for thou
acknowledgest that thou art four-and twenty years old, and that thou
wast the youngest of three of thy mother's children; so that, by thy
account, thy mother must be extremely young, or this lady cannot be thy
mother; for thou seest," says she, "and any one may see, she is but a
young woman now, and cannot be supposed to be above forty years old, if
she is so much; and is now big with child at her going into the country;
so that I cannot give any credit to thy notion of her being thy mother;
and if I might counsel thee, it should be to give over that thought, as
an improbable story that does but serve to disorder thee, and disturb
thy head; for," added she, "I perceive thou art much disturbed indeed."
But this was all nothing; she could be satisfied with nothing but seeing
me; but the Quaker defended herself very well, and insisted on it that
she could not give her any account of me; and finding her still
importunate, she affected at last being a little disgusted that she
should not believe her, and added, that indeed, if she had known where I
was gone, she would not have given any one an account of it, unless I
had given her orders to do so. "But seeing she has not acquainted me,"
says she, "where she has gone, 'tis an intimation to me she was not
desirous it should be publicly known;" and with this she rose up, which
was as plain a desiring her to rise up too and begone as could be
expressed, except the downright showing her the door.
Well, the girl rejected all this, and told her she could not indeed
expect that she (the Quaker) should be affected with the story she had
told her, however moving, or that she should take any pity on her. That
it was her misfortune, that when she was at the house before, and in the
room with me, she did not beg to speak a word with me in private, or
throw herself upon the floor at my feet, and claim what the affection of
a mother would have done for her; but since she had slipped her
opportunity, she would wait for another; that she found by her (the
Quaker's) talk, that she had not quite left her lodgings, but was gone
into the country, she supposed for the air; and she was resolved she
would take so much knight-errantry upon her, that she would visit all
the airing-places in the nation, and even all the kingdom over, ay, and
Holland too, but she would find me; for she was satisfied she could so
convince me that she was my own child, that I would not deny it; and she
was sure I was so tender and compassionate, I would not let her perish
after I was convinced that she was my own flesh and blood; and in saying
she would visit all the airing-places in England, she reckoned them all
up by name, and began with Tunbridge, the very place I was gone to; then
reckoning up Epsom, North Hall, Barnet, Newmarket, Bury, and at last,
the Bath; and with this she took her leave.
My faithful agent the Quaker failed not to write to me immediately; but
as she was a cunning as well as an honest woman, it presently occurred
to her that this was a story which, whether true or false, was not very
fit to come to my husband's knowledge; that as she did not know what I
might have been, or might have been called in former times, and how far
there might have been something or nothing in it, so she thought if it
was a secret I ought to have the telling it myself; and if it was not,
it might as well be public afterwards as now; and that, at least, she
ought to leave it where she found it, and not hand it forwards to
anybody without my consent. These prudent measures were inexpressibly
kind, as well as seasonable; for it had been likely enough that her
letter might have come publicly to me, and though my husband would not
have opened it, yet it would have looked a little odd that I should
conceal its contents from him, when I had pretended so much to
communicate all my affairs.
In consequence of this wise caution, my good friend only wrote me in few
words, that the impertinent young woman had been with her, as she
expected she would; and that she thought it would be very convenient
that, if I could spare Cherry, I would send her up (meaning Amy),
because she found there might be some occasion for her.
As it happened, this letter was enclosed to Amy herself, and not sent
by the way I had at first ordered; but it came safe to my hands; and
though I was alarmed a little at it, yet I was not acquainted with the
danger I was in of an immediate visit from this teasing creature till
afterwards; and I ran a greater risk, indeed, than ordinary, in that I
did not send Amy up under thirteen or fourteen days, believing myself as
much concealed at Tunbridge as if I had been at Vienna.
But the concern of my faithful spy (for such my Quaker was now, upon the
mere foot of her own sagacity), I say, her concern for me, was my safety
in this exigence, when I was, as it were, keeping no guard for myself;
for, finding Amy not come up, and that she did not know how soon this
wild thing might put her designed ramble in practice, she sent a
messenger to the captain's wife's house, where she lodged, to tell her
that she wanted to speak with her. She was at the heels of the
messenger, and came eager for some news; and hoped, she said, the lady
(meaning me) had been come to town.
The Quaker, with as much caution as she was mistress of, not to tell a
downright lie, made her believe she expected to hear of me very quickly;
and frequently, by the by, speaking of being abroad to take the air,
talked of the country about Bury, how pleasant it was, how wholesome,
and how fine an air; how the downs about Newmarket were exceeding fine,
and what a vast deal of company there was, now the court was there; till
at last, the girl began to conclude that my ladyship was gone thither;
for, she said, she knew I loved to see a great deal of company.
"Nay," says my friend, "thou takest me wrong; I did not suggest," says
she, "that the person thou inquirest after is gone thither, neither do I
believe she is, I assure thee." Well, the girl smiled, and let her know
that she believed it for all that; so, to clench it fast, "Verily," says
she, with great seriousness, "thou dost not do well, for thou suspectest
everything and believest nothing. I speak solemnly to thee that I do not
believe they are gone that way; so if thou givest thyself the trouble to
go that way, and art disappointed, do not say that I have deceived
thee." She knew well enough that if this did abate her suspicion it
would not remove it, and that it would do little more than amuse her;
but by this she kept her in suspense till Amy came up, and that was
enough.
When Amy came up, she was quite confounded to hear the relation which
the Quaker gave her, and found means to acquaint me of it; only letting
me know, to my great satisfaction, that she would not come to Tunbridge
first, but that she would certainly go to Newmarket or Bury first.
However, it gave me very great uneasiness; for as she resolved to ramble
in search after me over the whole country, I was safe nowhere, no, not
in Holland itself. So indeed I did not know what to do with her; and
thus I had a bitter in all my sweet, for I was continually perplexed
with this hussy, and thought she haunted me like an evil spirit.
In the meantime Amy was next door to stark-mad about her; she durst not
see her at my lodgings for her life; and she went days without number to
Spitalfields, where she used to come, and to her former lodging, and
could never meet with her. At length she took up a mad resolution that
she would go directly to the captain's house in Redriff and speak with
her. It was a mad step, that's true; but as Amy said she was mad, so
nothing she could do could be otherwise. For if Amy had found her at
Redriff, she (the girl) would have concluded presently that the Quaker
had given her notice, and so that we were all of a knot; and that, in
short, all she had said was right. But as it happened, things came to
hit better than we expected; for that Amy going out of a coach to take
water at Tower Wharf, meets the girl just come on shore, having crossed
the water from Redriff. Amy made as if she would have passed by her,
though they met so full that she did not pretend she did not see her,
for she looked fairly upon her first, but then turning her head away
with a slight, offered to go from her; but the girl stopped, and spoke
first, and made some manners to her.
Amy spoke coldly to her, and a little angry; and after some words,
standing in the street or passage, the girl saying she seemed to be
angry, and would not have spoken to her, "Why," says Amy, "how can you
expect I should have any more to say to you after I had done so much
for you, and you have behaved so to me?" The girl seemed to take no
notice of that now, but answered, "I was going to wait on you now."
"Wait on me!" says Amy; "what do you mean by that?" "Why," says she
again, with a kind of familiarity, "I was going to your lodgings."
Amy was provoked to the last degree at her, and yet she thought it was
not her time to resent, because she had a more fatal and wicked design
in her head against her; which, indeed, I never knew till after it was
executed, nor durst Amy ever communicate it to me; for as I had always
expressed myself vehemently against hurting a hair of her head, so she
was resolved to take her own measures without consulting me any more.
In order to this, Amy gave her good words, and concealed her resentment
as much as she could; and when she talked of going to her lodging, Amy
smiled and said nothing, but called for a pair of oars to go to
Greenwich; and asked her, seeing she said she was going to her lodging,
to go along with her, for she was going home, and was all alone.
Amy did this with such a stock of assurance that the girl was
confounded, and knew not what to say; but the more she hesitated, the
more Amy pressed her to go; and talking very kindly to her, told her if
she did not go to see her lodgings she might go to keep her company, and
she would pay a boat to bring her back again; so, in a word, Amy
prevailed on her to go into the boat with her, and carried her down to
Greenwich.
'Tis certain that Amy had no more business at Greenwich than I had, nor
was she going thither; but we were all hampered to the last degree with
the impertinence of this creature; and, in particular, I was horribly
perplexed with it.
As they were in the boat, Amy began to reproach her with ingratitude in
treating her so rudely who had done so much for her, and been so kind to
her; and to ask her what she had got by it, or what she expected to get.
Then came in my share, the Lady Roxana. Amy jested with that, and
bantered her a little, and asked her if she had found her yet.
But Amy was both surprised and enraged when the girl told her roundly
that she thanked her for what she had done for her, but that she would
not have her think she was so ignorant as not to know that what she
(Amy) had done was by her mother's order, and who she was beholden to
for it. That she could never make instruments pass for principals, and
pay the debt to the agent when the obligation was all to the original.
That she knew well enough who she was, and who she was employed by. That
she knew the Lady ---- very well (naming the name that I now went by),
which was my husband's true name, and by which she might know whether
she had found out her mother or no.
Amy wished her at the bottom of the Thames; and had there been no
watermen in the boat, and nobody in sight, she swore to me she would
have thrown her into the river. I was horribly disturbed when she told
me this story, and began to think this would, at last, all end in my
ruin; but when Amy spoke of throwing her into the river and drowning
her, I was so provoked at her that all my rage turned against Amy, and I
fell thoroughly out with her. I had now kept Amy almost thirty years,
and found her on all occasions the faithfullest creature to me that ever
woman had--I say, faithful to me; for, however wicked she was, still she
was true to me; and even this rage of hers was all upon my account, and
for fear any mischief should befall me.
But be that how it would, I could not bear the mention of her murdering
the poor girl, and it put me so beside myself, that I rose up in a rage,
and bade her get out of my sight, and out of my house; told her I had
kept her too long, and that I would never see her face more. I had
before told her that she was a murderer, and a bloody-minded creature;
that she could not but know that I could not bear the thought of it,
much less the mention of it; and that it was the impudentest thing that
ever was known to make such a proposal to me, when she knew that I was
really the mother of this girl, and that she was my own child; that it
was wicked enough in her, but that she must conclude I was ten times
wickeder than herself if I could come into it; that the girl was in the
right, and I had nothing to blame her for; but that it was owing to the
wickedness of my life that made it necessary for me to keep her from a
discovery; but that I would not murder my child, though I was otherwise
to be ruined by it. Amy replied, somewhat rough and short, Would I not?
but she would, she said, if she had an opportunity; and upon these words
it was that I bade her get out of my sight and out of my house; and it
went so far that Amy packed up her alls, and marched off; and was gone
for almost good and all. But of that in its order; I must go back to her
relation of the voyage which they made to Greenwich together.
They held on the wrangle all the way by water; the girl insisted upon
her knowing that I was her mother, and told her all the history of my
life in the Pall Mall, as well after her being turned away as before,
and of my marriage since; and which was worse, not only who my present
husband was, but where he had lived, viz., at Rouen in France. She knew
nothing of Paris or of where we was going to live, namely, at Nimeguen;
but told her in so many words that if she could not find me here, she
would go to Holland after me.
They landed at Greenwich, and Amy carried her into the park with her,
and they walked above two hours there in the farthest and remotest
walks; which Amy did because, as they talked with great heat, it was
apparent they were quarrelling, and the people took notice of it.
They walked till they came almost to the wilderness at the south side
of the park; but the girl, perceiving Amy offered to go in there among
the woods and trees, stopped short there, and would go no further; but
said she would not go in there.
Amy smiled, and asked her what was the matter? She replied short, she
did not know where she was, nor where she was going to carry her, and
she would go no farther; and without any more ceremony, turns back, and
walks apace away from her. Amy owned she was surprised, and came back
too, and called to her, upon which the girl stopped, and Amy coming up
to her, asked her what she meant?
The girl boldly replied she did not know but she might murder her; and
that, in short, she would not trust herself with her, and never would
come into her company again alone.
It was very provoking, but, however, Amy kept her temper with much
difficulty, and bore it, knowing that much might depend upon it; so she
mocked her foolish jealousy, and told her she need not be uneasy for
her, she would do her no harm, and would have done her good if she would
have let her; but since she was of such a refractory humour, she should
not trouble herself, for she should never come into her company again;
and that neither she or her brother or sister should ever hear from her
or see her any more; and so she should have the satisfaction of being
the ruin of her brother and sisters as well as of herself.
The girl seemed a little mollified at that, and said that for herself,
she knew the worst of it, she could seek her fortune; but it was hard
her brother and sister should suffer on her score; and said something
that was tender and well enough on that account. But Amy told her it was
for her to take that into consideration; for she would let her see that
it was all her own; that she would have done them all good, but that
having been used thus, she would do no more for any of them; and that
she should not need to be afraid to come into her company again, for she
would never give her occasion for it any more. This, by the way, was
false in the girl too; for she did venture into Amy's company again
after that, once too much, as I shall relate by itself.
They grew cooler, however, afterwards, and Amy carried her into a house
at Greenwich, where she was acquainted, and took an occasion to leave
the girl in a room awhile, to speak to the people in the house, and so
prepare them to own her as a lodger in the house; and then going in to
her again told her there she lodged, if she had a mind to find her out,
or if anybody else had anything to say to her. And so Amy dismissed her,
and got rid of her again; and finding an empty hackney-coach in the
town, came away by land to London, and the girl, going down to the
water-side, came by boat.
This conversation did not answer Amy's end at all, because it did not
secure the girl from pursuing her design of hunting me out; and though
my indefatigable friend the Quaker amused her three or four days, yet I
had such notice of it at last that I thought fit to come away from
Tunbridge upon it. And where to go I knew not; but, in short, I went to
a little village upon Epping Forest, called Woodford, and took lodgings
in a private house, where I lived retired about six weeks, till I
thought she might be tired of her search, and have given me over.
Here I received an account from my trusty Quaker that the wench had
really been at Tunbridge, had found out my lodgings, and had told her
tale there in a most dismal tone; that she had followed us, as she
thought, to London; but the Quaker had answered her that she knew
nothing of it, which was indeed true; and had admonished her to be easy,
and not hunt after people of such fashion as we were, as if we were
thieves; that she might be assured, that since I was not willing to see
her, I would not be forced to it; and treating me thus would effectually
disoblige me. And with such discourses as these she quieted her; and she
(the Quaker) added that she hoped I should not be troubled much more
with her.
It was in this time that Amy gave me the history of her Greenwich
voyage, when she spoke of drowning and killing the girl in so serious a
manner, and with such an apparent resolution of doing it, that, as I
said, put me in a rage with her, so that I effectually turned her away
from me, as I have said above, and she was gone; nor did she so much as
tell me whither or which way she was gone. On the other hand, when I
came to reflect on it that now I had neither assistant or confidant to
speak to, or receive the least information from, my friend the Quaker
excepted, it made me very uneasy.
I waited and expected and wondered from day to day, still thinking Amy
would one time or other think a little and come again, or at least let
me hear of her; but for ten days together I heard nothing of her. I was
so impatient that I got neither rest by day or sleep by night, and what
to do I knew not. I durst not go to town to the Quaker's for fear of
meeting that vexatious creature, my girl, and I could get no
intelligence where I was; so I got my spouse, upon pretence of wanting
her company, to take the coach one day and fetch my good Quaker to me.
When I had her, I durst ask her no questions, nor hardly knew which end
of the business to begin to talk of; but of her own accord she told me
that the girl had been three or four times haunting her for news from
me; and that she had been so troublesome that she had been obliged to
show herself a little angry with her; and at last told her plainly that
she need give herself no trouble in searching after me by her means, for
she (the Quaker) would not tell her if she knew; upon which she
refrained awhile. But, on the other hand, she told me it was not safe
for me to send my own coach for her to come in, for she had some reason
to believe that she (my daughter) watched her door night and day; nay,
and watched her too every time she went in and out; for she was so bent
upon a discovery that she spared no pains, and she believed she had
taken a lodging very near their house for that purpose.