for Amy; but I was confounded when she told me she had heard nothing of
her. It is impossible to express the anxious thoughts that rolled about
in my mind, and continually perplexed me about her; particularly I
reproached myself with my rashness in turning away so faithful a
creature that for so many years had not only been a servant but an
agent; and not only an agent, but a friend, and a faithful friend too.
Then I considered too that Amy knew all the secret history of my life;
had been in all the intrigues of it, and been a party in both evil and
good; and at best there was no policy in it; that as it was very
ungenerous and unkind to run things to such an extremity with her, and
for an occasion, too, in which all the fault she was guilty of was owing
to her excessive care for my safety, so it must be only her steady
kindness to me, and an excess of generous friendship for me, that should
keep her from ill-using me in return for it; which ill-using me was
enough in her power, and might be my utter undoing.
These thoughts perplexed me exceedingly, and what course to take I
really did not know. I began, indeed, to give Amy quite over, for she
had now been gone above a fortnight, and as she had taken away all her
clothes, and her money too, which was not a little, and so had no
occasion of that kind to come any more, so she had not left any word
where she was gone, or to which part of the world I might send to hear
of her.
And I was troubled on another account too, viz., that my spouse and I
too had resolved to do very handsomely for Amy, without considering what
she might have got another way at all; but we had said nothing of it to
her, and so I thought, as she had not known what was likely to fall in
her way, she had not the influence of that expectation to make her come
back.
Upon the whole, the perplexity of this girl, who hunted me as if, like a
hound, she had had a hot scent, but was now at a fault, I say, that
perplexity, and this other part of Amy being gone, issued in this--I
resolved to be gone, and go over to Holland; there, I believed, I should
be at rest. So I took occasion one day to tell my spouse that I was
afraid he might take it ill that I had amused him thus long, and that at
last I doubted I was not with child; and that since it was so, our
things being packed up, and all in order for going to Holland, I would
go away now when he pleased.
My spouse, who was perfectly easy whether in going or staying, left it
all entirely to me; so I considered of it, and began to prepare again
for my voyage. But, alas! I was irresolute to the last degree. I was,
for want of Amy, destitute; I had lost my right hand; she was my
steward, gathered in my rents (I mean my interest money) and kept my
accounts, and, in a word, did all my business; and without her, indeed,
I knew not how to go away nor how to stay. But an accident thrust itself
in here, and that even in Amy's conduct too, which frighted me away, and
without her too, in the utmost horror and confusion.
I have related how my faithful friend the Quaker was come to me, and
what account she gave me of her being continually haunted by my
daughter; and that, as she said, she watched her very door night and
day. The truth was, she had set a spy to watch so effectually that she
(the Quaker) neither went in or out but she had notice of it.
This was too evident when, the next morning after she came to me (for I
kept her all night), to my unspeakable surprise I saw a hackney-coach
stop at the door where I lodged, and saw her (my daughter) in the coach
all alone. It was a very good chance, in the middle of a bad one, that
my husband had taken out the coach that very morning, and was gone to
London. As for me, I had neither life or soul left in me; I was so
confounded I knew not what to do or to say.
My happy visitor had more presence of mind than I, and asked me if I had
made no acquaintance among the neighbours. I told her, yes, there was a
lady lodged two doors off that I was very intimate with. "But hast thou
no way out backward to go to her?" says she. Now it happened there was
a back-door in the garden, by which we usually went and came to and from
the house, so I told her of it. "Well, well," says she, "go out and make
a visit then, and leave the rest to me." Away I run, told the lady (for
I was very free there) that I was a widow to-day, my spouse being gone
to London, so I came not to visit her, but to dwell with her that day,
because also our landlady had got strangers come from London. So having
framed this orderly lie, I pulled some work out of my pocket, and added
I did not come to be idle.
As I went out one way, my friend the Quaker went the other to receive
this unwelcome guest. The girl made but little ceremony, but having bid
the coachman ring at the gate, gets down out of the coach and comes to
the door, a country girl going to the door (belonging to the house), for
the Quaker forbid any of my maids going. Madam asked for my Quaker by
name, and the girl asked her to walk in.
Upon this, my Quaker, seeing there was no hanging back, goes to her
immediately, but put all the gravity upon her countenance that she was
mistress of, and that was not a little indeed.
When she (the Quaker) came into the room (for they had showed my
daughter into a little parlour), she kept her grave countenance, but
said not a word, nor did my daughter speak a good while; but after some
time my girl began and said, "I suppose you know me, madam?"
"Yes," says the Quaker, "I know thee." And so the dialogue went on.
_Girl._ Then you know my business too?
_Quaker._ No, verily, I do not know any business thou canst have here
with me.
_Girl._ Indeed, my business is not chiefly with you.
_Qu._ Why, then, dost thou come after me thus far?
_Girl._ You know whom I seek. [_And with that she cried._]
_Qu._ But why shouldst thou follow me for her, since thou know'st that I
assured thee more than once that I knew not where she was?
_Girl._ But I hoped you could.
_Qu._ Then thou must hope that I did not speak the truth, which would be
very wicked.
_Girl._ I doubt not but she is in this house.
_Qu._ If those be thy thoughts, thou may'st inquire in the house; so
thou hast no more business with me. Farewell! [_Offers to go._]
_Girl._ I would not be uncivil; I beg you to let me see her.
_Qu._ I am here to visit some of my friends, and I think thou art not
very civil in following me hither.
_Girl._ I came in hopes of a discovery in my great affair which you know
of.
_Qu._ Thou cam'st wildly, indeed; I counsel thee to go back again, and
be easy; I shall keep my word with thee, that I would not meddle in it,
or give thee any account, if I knew it, unless I had her orders.
[Illustration: ROXANA'S DAUGHTER AND THE QUAKER
_Here the girl importuned her again with the utmost earnestness, and
cried bitterly_]
_Girl._ If you knew my distress you could not be so cruel.
_Qu._ Thou hast told me all thy story, and I think it might be more
cruelty to tell thee than not to tell thee; for I understand she is
resolved not to see thee, and declares she is not thy mother. Will'st
thou be owned where thou hast no relation?
_Girl._ Oh, if I could but speak to her, I would prove my relation to
her so that she could not deny it any longer.
_Qu._ Well, but thou canst not come to speak with her, it seems.
_Girl._ I hope you will tell me if she is here. I had a good account
that you were come out to see her, and that she sent for you.
_Qu._ I much wonder how thou couldst have such an account. If I had come
out to see her, thou hast happened to miss the house, for I assure thee
she is not to be found in this house.
Here the girl importuned her again with the utmost earnestness, and
cried bitterly, insomuch that my poor Quaker was softened with it, and
began to persuade me to consider of it, and, if it might consist with my
affairs, to see her, and hear what she had to say; but this was
afterwards. I return to the discourse.
The Quaker was perplexed with her a long time; she talked of sending
back the coach, and lying in the town all night. This, my friend knew,
would be very uneasy to me, but she durst not speak a word against it;
but on a sudden thought, she offered a bold stroke, which, though
dangerous if it had happened wrong, had its desired effect.
She told her that, as for dismissing her coach, that was as she pleased,
she believed she would not easily get a lodging in the town; but that as
she was in a strange place, she would so much befriend her, that she
would speak to the people of the house, that if they had room, she might
have a lodging there for one night, rather than be forced back to London
before she was free to go.
This was a cunning, though a dangerous step, and it succeeded
accordingly, for it amused the creature entirely, and she presently
concluded that really I could not be there then, otherwise she would
never have asked her to lie in the house; so she grew cold again
presently as to her lodging there, and said, No, since it was so, she
would go back that afternoon, but she would come again in two or three
days, and search that and all the towns round in an effectual manner, if
she stayed a week or two to do it; for, in short, if I was in England or
Holland she would find me.
"In truth," says the Quaker, "thou wilt make me very hurtful to thee,
then." "Why so?" says she, "Because wherever I go, thou wilt put thyself
to great expense, and the country to a great deal of unnecessary
trouble." "Not unnecessary," says she. "Yes, truly," says the Quaker;
"it must be unnecessary, because it will be to no purpose. I think I
must abide in my own house to save thee that charge and trouble."
She said little to that, except that, she said, she would give her as
little trouble as possible; but she was afraid she should sometimes be
uneasy to her, which she hoped she would excuse. My Quaker told her she
would much rather excuse her if she would forbear; for that if she would
believe her, she would assure her she should never get any intelligence
of me by her.
That set her into tears again; but after a while, recovering herself,
she told her perhaps she might be mistaken; and she (the Quaker) should
watch herself very narrowly, or she might one time or other get some
intelligence from her, whether she would or no; and she was satisfied
she had gained some of her by this journey, for that if I was not in the
house, I was not far off; and if I did not remove very quickly, she
would find me out. "Very well," says my Quaker; "then if the lady is not
willing to see thee, thou givest me notice to tell her, that she may get
out of thy way."
She flew out in a rage at that, and told my friend that if she did, a
curse would follow her, and her children after her, and denounced such
horrid things upon her as frighted the poor tender-hearted Quaker
strangely, and put her more out of temper than ever I saw her before; so
that she resolved to go home the next morning, and I, that was ten times
more uneasy than she, resolved to follow her, and go to London too;
which, however, upon second thoughts, I did not, but took effectual
measures not to be seen or owned if she came any more; but I heard no
more of her for some time.
I stayed there about a fortnight, and in all that time I heard no more
of her, or of my Quaker about her; but after about two days more, I had
a letter from my Quaker, intimating that she had something of moment to
say, that she could not communicate by letter, but wished I would give
myself the trouble to come up, directing me to come with the coach into
Goodman's Fields, and then walk to her back-door on foot, which being
left open on purpose, the watchful lady, if she had any spies, could not
well see me.
My thoughts had for so long time been kept, as it were, waking, that
almost everything gave me the alarm, and this especially, so that I was
very uneasy; but I could not bring matters to bear to make my coming to
London so clear to my husband as I would have done; for he liked the
place, and had a mind, he said, to stay a little longer, if it was not
against my inclination; so I wrote my friend the Quaker word that I
could not come to town yet; and that, besides, I could not think of
being there under spies, and afraid to look out of doors; and so, in
short, I put off going for near a fortnight more.
At the end of that time she wrote again, in which she told me that she
had not lately seen the impertinent visitor which had been so
troublesome; but that she had seen my trusty agent Amy, who told her
she had cried for six weeks without intermission; that Amy had given her
an account how troublesome the creature had been, and to what straits
and perplexities I was driven by her hunting after and following me from
place to place; upon which Amy had said, that, notwithstanding I was
angry with her, and had used her so hardly for saying something about
her of the same kind, yet there was an absolute necessity of securing
her, and removing her out of the way; and that, in short, without asking
my leave, or anybody's leave, she should take care she should trouble
her mistress (meaning me) no more; and that after Amy had said so, she
had indeed never heard any more of the girl; so that she supposed Amy
had managed it so well as to put an end to it.
The innocent, well-meaning creature, my Quaker, who was all kindness and
goodness in herself, and particularly to me, saw nothing in this; but
she thought Amy had found some way to persuade her to be quiet and easy,
and to give over teasing and following me, and rejoiced in it for my
sake; as she thought nothing of any evil herself, so she suspected none
in anybody else, and was exceeding glad of having such good news to
write to me; but my thoughts of it run otherwise.
I was struck, as with a blast from heaven, at the reading her letter; I
fell into a fit of trembling from head to foot, and I ran raving about
the room like a mad woman. I had nobody to speak a word to, to give
vent to my passion; nor did I speak a word for a good while, till after
it had almost overcome me. I threw myself on the bed, and cried out,
"Lord, be merciful to me, she has murdered my child!" and with that a
flood of tears burst out, and I cried vehemently for above an hour.
My husband was very happily gone out a-hunting, so that I had the
opportunity of being alone, and to give my passions some vent, by which
I a little recovered myself. But after my crying was over, then I fell
in a new rage at Amy; I called her a thousand devils and monsters and
hard-hearted tigers; I reproached her with her knowing that I abhorred
it, and had let her know it sufficiently, in that I had, at it were,
kicked her out of doors, after so many years' friendship and service,
only for naming it to me.
Well, after some time, my spouse came in from his sport, and I put on
the best looks I could to deceive him; but he did not take so little
notice of me as not to see I had been crying, and that something
troubled me, and he pressed me to tell him. I seemed to bring it out
with reluctance, but told him my backwardness was more because I was
ashamed that such a trifle should have any effect upon me, than for any
weight that was in it; so I told him I had been vexing myself about my
woman Amy's not coming again; that she might have known me better than
not to believe I should have been friends with her again, and the like;
and that, in short, I had lost the best servant by my rashness that ever
woman had.
"Well, well," says he, "if that be all your grief, I hope you will soon
shake it off; I'll warrant you in a little while we shall hear of Mrs.
Amy again." And so it went off for that time. But it did not go off with
me; for I was uneasy and terrified to the last degree, and wanted to get
some farther account of the thing. So I went away to my sure and certain
comforter, the Quaker, and there I had the whole story of it; and the
good innocent Quaker gave me joy of my being rid of such an unsufferable
tormentor.
"Rid of her! Ay," says I, "if I was rid of her fairly and honourably;
but I don't know what Amy may have done. Sure, she ha'n't made her
away?" "Oh fie!" says my Quaker; "how canst thou entertain such a
notion! No, no. Made her away? Amy didn't talk like that; I dare say
thou may'st be easy in that; Amy has nothing of that in her head, I dare
say," says she; and so threw it, as it were, out of my thoughts.
But it would not do; it run in my head continually; night and day I
could think of nothing else; and it fixed such a horror of the fact upon
my spirits, and such a detestation of Amy, who I looked upon as the
murderer, that, as for her, I believe if I could have seen her I should
certainly have sent her to Newgate, or to a worse place, upon
suspicion; indeed, I think I could have killed her with my own hands.
As for the poor girl herself, she was ever before my eyes; I saw her by
night and by day; she haunted my imagination, if she did not haunt the
house; my fancy showed me her in a hundred shapes and postures; sleeping
or waking, she was with me. Sometimes I thought I saw her with her
throat cut; sometimes with her head cut, and her brains knocked out;
other times hanged up upon a beam; another time drowned in the great
pond at Camberwell. And all these appearances were terrifying to the
last degree; and that which was still worse, I could really hear nothing
of her; I sent to the captain's wife in Redriff, and she answered me,
she was gone to her relations in Spitalfields. I sent thither, and they
said she was there about three weeks ago, but that she went out in a
coach with the gentlewoman that used to be so kind to her, but whither
she was gone they knew not, for she had not been there since. I sent
back the messenger for a description of the woman she went out with; and
they described her so perfectly, that I knew it to be Amy, and none but
Amy.
I sent word again that Mrs. Amy, who she went out with, left her in two
or three hours, and that they should search for her, for I had a reason
to fear she was murdered. This frighted them all intolerably. They
believed Amy had carried her to pay her a sum of money, and that
somebody had watched her after her having received it, and had robbed
and murdered her.
I believed nothing of that part; but I believed, as it was, that
whatever was done, Amy had done it; and that, in short, Amy had made her
away; and I believed it the more, because Amy came no more near me, but
confirmed her guilt by her absence.
Upon the whole, I mourned thus for her for above a month; but finding
Amy still come not near me, and that I must put my affairs in a posture
that I might go to Holland, I opened all my affairs to my dear trusty
friend the Quaker, and placed her, in matters of trust, in the room of
Amy; and with a heavy, bleeding heart for my poor girl, I embarked with
my spouse, and all our equipage and goods, on board another Holland's
trader, not a packet-boat, and went over to Holland, where I arrived, as
I have said.
I must put in a caution, however, here, that you must not understand me
as if I let my friend the Quaker into any part of the secret history of
my former life; nor did I commit the grand reserved article of all to
her, viz., that I was really the girl's mother, and the Lady Roxana;
there was no need of that part being exposed; and it was always a maxim
with me, that secrets should never be opened without evident utility. It
could be of no manner of use to me or her to communicate that part to
her; besides, she was too honest herself to make it safe to me; for
though she loved me very sincerely, and it was plain by many
circumstances that she did so, yet she would not lie for me upon
occasion, as Amy would, and therefore it was not advisable on any terms
to communicate that part; for if the girl, or any one else, should have
come to her afterwards, and put it home to her, whether she knew that I
was the girl's mother or not, or was the same as the Lady Roxana or not,
she either would not have denied it, or would have done it with so ill a
grace, such blushing, such hesitations and falterings in her answers, as
would have put the matter out of doubt, and betrayed herself and the
secret too.
For this reason, I say, I did not discover anything of that kind to her;
but I placed her, as I have said, in Amy's stead in the other affairs of
receiving money, interests, rents, and the like, and she was as faithful
as Amy could be, and as diligent.
But there fell out a great difficulty here, which I knew not how to get
over; and this was how to convey the usual supply of provision and money
to the uncle and the other sister, who depended, especially the sister,
upon the said supply for her support; and indeed, though Amy had said
rashly that she would not take any more notice of the sister, and would
leave her to perish, as above, yet it was neither in my nature, or Amy's
either, much less was it in my design; and therefore I resolved to leave
the management of what I had reserved for that work with my faithful
Quaker, but how to direct her to manage them was the great difficulty.
Amy had told them in so many words that she was not their mother, but
that she was the maid Amy, that carried them to their aunt's; that she
and their mother went over to the East Indies to seek their fortune, and
that there good things had befallen them, and that their mother was very
rich and happy; that she (Amy) had married in the Indies, but being now
a widow, and resolving to come over to England, their mother had obliged
her to inquire them out, and do for them as she had done; and that now
she was resolved to go back to the Indies again; but that she had orders
from their mother to do very handsomely by them; and, in a word, told
them she had £2000 apiece for them, upon condition that they proved
sober, and married suitably to themselves, and did not throw themselves
away upon scoundrels.
The good family in whose care they had been, I had resolved to take more
than ordinary notice of; and Amy, by my order, had acquainted them with
it, and obliged my daughters to promise to submit to their government,
as formerly, and to be ruled by the honest man as by a father and
counsellor; and engaged him to treat them as his children. And to oblige
him effectually to take care of them, and to make his old age
comfortable both to him and his wife, who had been so good to the
orphans, I had ordered her to settle the other £2000, that is to say,
the interest of it, which was £120 a year, upon them, to be theirs for
both their lives, but to come to my two daughters after them. This was
so just, and was so prudently managed by Amy, that nothing she ever did
for me pleased me better. And in this posture, leaving my two daughters
with their ancient friend, and so coming away to me (as they thought to
the East Indies), she had prepared everything in order to her going over
with me to Holland; and in this posture that matter stood when that
unhappy girl, who I have said so much of, broke in upon all our
measures, as you have heard, and, by an obstinacy never to be conquered
or pacified, either with threats or persuasions, pursued her search
after me (her mother) as I have said, till she brought me even to the
brink of destruction; and would, in all probability, have traced me out
at last, if Amy had not, by the violence of her passion, and by a way
which I had no knowledge of, and indeed abhorred, put a stop to her, of
which I cannot enter into the particulars here.
However, notwithstanding this, I could not think of going away and
leaving this work so unfinished as Amy had threatened to do, and for the
folly of one child to leave the other to starve, or to stop my
determined bounty to the good family I have mentioned. So, in a word, I
committed the finishing it all to my faithful friend the Quaker, to whom
I communicated as much of the whole story as was needful to empower her
to perform what Amy had promised, and to make her talk so much to the
purpose, as one employed more remotely than Amy had been, needed to be.
To this purpose she had, first of all, a full possession of the money;
and went first to the honest man and his wife, and settled all the
matter with them; when she talked of Mrs. Amy, she talked of her as one
that had been empowered by the mother of the girls in the Indies, but
was obliged to go back to the Indies, and had settled all sooner if she
had not been hindered by the obstinate humour of the other daughter;
that she had left instructions with her for the rest; but that the other
had affronted her so much that she was gone away without doing anything
for her; and that now, if anything was done, it must be by fresh orders
from the East Indies.