About the Beginning of last _June_ (as near as I can remember)
_Bellamora_ came to Town from _Hampshire_, and was obliged to lodge the
first Night at the same Inn where the Stage-Coach set up. The next Day
she took Coach for _Covent-Garden_, where she thought to find Madam
_Brightly_, a Relation of hers, with whom she design'd to continue for
about half a Year undiscover'd, if possible, by her Friends in the
Country: and order'd therefore her Trunk, with her Clothes, and most of
her Money and Jewels, to be brought after her to Madame _Brightly's_ by
a strange Porter, whom she spoke to in the Street as she was taking
Coach; being utterly unacquainted with the neat Practices of this fine
City. When she came to _Bridges-Street_, where indeed her Cousin had
lodged near three or four Years since, she was strangely surprized that
she could not learn anything of her; no, nor so much as meet with anyone
that had ever heard of her Cousin's Name: Till, at last, describing
Madam _Brightly_ to one of the House-keepers in that Place, he told her,
that there was such a kind of Lady, whom he had sometimes seen there
about a Year and a half ago; but that he believed she was married and
remov'd towards _Soho_. In this Perplexity she quite forgot her Trunk
and Money, _&c_, and wander'd in her Hackney-Coach all over St. _Anne's_
Parish; inquiring for Madam _Brightly_, still describing her Person, but
in vain; for no Soul could give her any Tale or Tidings of such a Lady.
After she had thus fruitlessly rambled, till she, the Coachman, and the
very Horses were even tired, by good Fortune for her, she happen'd on a
private House, where lived a good, discreet, ancient Gentlewoman, who
was fallen to Decay, and forc'd to let Lodgings for the best Part of her
Livelihood: From whom she understood, that there was such a kind of
Lady, who had lain there somewhat more than a Twelvemonth, being near
three Months after she was married; but that she was now gone abroad
with the Gentleman her Husband, either to the Play, or to take the fresh
Air; and she believ'd would not return till Night. This Discourse of the
Good Gentlewoman's so elevated _Bellamora's_ drooping Spirits, that
after she had beg'd the liberty of staying there till they came home,
she discharg'd the Coachman in all haste, still forgetting her Trunk,
and the more valuable Furniture of it.
When they were alone, _Bellamora_ desired she might be permitted the
Freedom to send for a Pint of Sack; which, with some little Difficulty,
was at last allow'd her. They began then to chat for a matter of half an
Hour of things indifferent: and at length the ancient Gentlewoman ask'd
the fair Innocent (I must not say foolish) one, of what Country, and
what her Name was: to both which she answer'd directly and truly, tho'
it might have prov'd not discreetly. She then enquir'd of _Bellamora_ if
her Parents were living, and the Occasion of her coming to Town. The
fair unthinking Creature reply'd, that her Father and Mother were both
dead; and that she had escap'd from her Uncle, under the pretence of
making a Visit to a young Lady, her Cousin, who was lately married, and
liv'd above twenty Miles from her Uncle's, in the Road to _London_, and
that the Cause of her quitting the Country, was to avoid the hated
Importunities of a Gentleman, whose pretended Love to her she fear'd had
been her eternal Ruin. At which she wept and sigh'd most extravagantly.
The discreet Gentlewoman endeavour'd to comfort her by all the softest
and most powerful Arguments in her Capacity; promising her all the
friendly Assistance that she could expect from her, during _Bellamora's_
stay in Town: which she did with so much Earnestness, and visible
Integrity, that the pretty innocent Creature was going to make her a
full and real Discovery of her imaginary insupportable Misfortunes; and
(doubtless) had done it, had she not been prevented by the Return of the
Lady, whom she hop'd to have found her Cousin _Brightly_. The Gentleman,
her Husband just saw her within Doors, and order'd the Coach to drive to
some of his Bottle-Companions; which gave the Women the better
Opportunity of entertaining one another, which happen'd to be with some
Surprize on all Sides. As the Lady was going up into her Apartment, the
Gentlewoman of the House told her there was a young Lady in the Parlour,
who came out of the Country that very Day on purpose to visit her: The
Lady stept immediately to see who it was, and _Bellamora_ approaching to
receive her hop'd-for Cousin, stop'd on the sudden just as she came to
her; and sigh'd out aloud, Ah, Madam! I am lost--It is not your Ladyship
I seek. No, Madam (return'd the other) I am apt to think you did not
intend me this Honour. But you are as welcome to me, as you could be to
the dearest of your Acquaintance: Have you forgot me, Madame
_Bellamora_? (continued she.) That Name startled the other: However, it
was with a kind of Joy. Alas! Madam, (replied the young one) I now
remember that I have been so happy to have seen you; but where and when,
my Memory can't tell me. 'Tis indeed some Years since, (return'd the
Lady) But of that another time.--Mean while, if you are unprovided of a
Lodging, I dare undertake, you shall be welcome to this Gentlewoman. The
Unfortunate returned her Thanks; and whilst a Chamber was preparing for
her, the Lady entertain'd her in her own. About Ten o'Clock they parted,
_Bellamora_ being conducted to her Lodging by the Mistress of the House,
who then left her to take what Rest she could amidst her so many
Misfortunes; returning to the other Lady, who desir'd her to search into
the Cause of _Bellamora's_ Retreat to Town.
The next Morning the good Gentlewoman of the House coming up to her,
found _Bellamora_ almost drown'd in Tears, which by many kind and sweet
Words she at last stopp'd; and asking whence so great Signs of Sorrow
should proceed, vow'd a most profound Secrecy if she would discover to
her their Occasion; which, after some little Reluctancy, she did, in
this manner.
I was courted (said she) above three Years ago, when my Mother was yet
living, by one Mr. _Fondlove_, a Gentleman of good Estate, and true
Worth; and one who, I dare believe, did then really love me: He
continu'd his Passion for me, with all the earnest and honest
Sollicitations imaginable, till some Months before my Mother's Death;
who, at that time, was most desirous to see me disposed of in Marriage
to another Gentleman, of much better Estate than Mr. _Fondlove_; but one
whose Person and Humour did by no means hit with my Inclinations: And
this gave _Fondlove_ the unhappy Advantage over me. For, finding me one
Day all alone in my Chamber, and lying on my Bed, in as mournful and
wretched a Condition to my then foolish Apprehension, as now I am, he
urged his Passion with such Violence, and accursed Success for me, with
reiterated Promises of Marriage, whensoever I pleas'd to challenge 'em,
which he bound with the most sacred Oaths, and most dreadful
Execrations: that partly with my Aversion to the other, and partly with
my Inclinations to pity him, I ruin'd my self.--Here she relaps'd into a
greater Extravagance of Grief than before; which was so extreme that it
did not continue long. When therefore she was pretty well come to
herself, the antient Gentlewoman ask'd her, why she imagin'd herself
ruin'd: To which she answer'd, I am great with Child by him, Madam, and
wonder you did not perceive it last Night. Alas! I have not a Month to
go: I am asham'd, ruin'd, and damn'd, I fear, for ever lost. Oh! fie,
Madam, think not so, (said the other) for the Gentleman may yet prove
true, and marry you. Ay, Madam (replied _Bellamora_) I doubt not that he
would marry me; for soon after my Mother's Death, when I came to be at
my own Disposal, which happen'd about two Months after, he offer'd, nay
most earnestly sollicited me to it, which still he perseveres to do.
This is strange! (return'd the other) and it appears to me to be your
own Fault, that you are yet miserable. Why did you not, or why will you
not consent to your own Happiness? Alas! (cry'd _Bellamora_) 'tis the
only Thing I dread in this World: For, I am certain, he can never love
me after. Besides, ever since I have abhorr'd the Sight of him: and this
is the only Cause that obliges me to forsake my Uncle, and all my
Friends and Relations in the Country, hoping in this populous and
publick Place to be most private, especially, Madam, in your House, and
in your Fidelity and Discretion. Of the last you may assure yourself,
Madam, (said the other:) but what Provision have you made for the
Reception of the young Stranger that you carry about you? Ah, Madam!
(cryd _Bellamora_) you have brought to my Mind another Misfortune: Then
she acquainted her with the suppos'd loss of her Money and Jewels,
telling her withall, that she had but three Guineas and some Silver
left, and the Rings she wore, in her present possession. The good
Gentlewoman of the House told her, she would send to enquire at the Inn
where she lay the first Night she came to Town; for, haply, they might
give some Account of the Porter to whom she had entrusted her Trunk; and
withal repeated her Promise of all the Help in her Power, and for that
time left her much more compos'd than she found her. The good
Gentlewoman went directly to the other Lady, her Lodger, to whom she
recounted _Bellamora's_ mournful Confession; at which the Lady appear'd
mightily concern'd: and at last she told her Landlady, that she would
take Care that _Bellamora_ should lie in according to her Quality: For,
added she, the Child, it seems, is my own Brother's.
As soon as she had din'd, she went to the _Exchange_, and bought
Child-bed Linen; but desired that _Bellamora_ might not have the least
Notice of it: And at her return dispatch'd a Letter to her Brother
_Fondlove_ in _Hampshire_, with an Account of every Particular; which
soon brought him up to Town, without satisfying any of his or her
Friends with the Reason of his sudden Departure. Mean while,
the good Gentlewoman of the House had sent to the _Star Inn_ on
_Fish-street-Hill_, to demand the Trunk, which she rightly suppos'd to
have been carried back thither: For by good Luck, it was a Fellow that
ply'd thereabouts, who brought it to _Bellamora's_ Lodgings that very
Night, but unknown to her. _Fondlove_ no sooner got to _London_, but he
posts to his Sister's Lodgings, where he was advis'd not to be seen of
_Bellamora_ till they had work'd farther upon her, which the Landlady
began in this manner; she told her that her Things were miscarried, and
she fear'd, lost; that she had but a little Money her self, and if the
Overseers of the Poor (justly so call'd from their over-looking 'em)
should have the least Suspicion of a strange and unmarried Person, who
was entertain'd in her House big with Child, and so near her Time as
_Bellamora_ was, she should be troubled, if they could not give Security
to the Parish of twenty or thirty Pounds, that they should not suffer by
her, which she could not; or otherwise she must be sent to the House of
Correction, and her Child to a Parish-Nurse. This Discourse, one may
imagine, was very dreadful to a Person of her Youth, Beauty, Education,
Family and Estate: However, she resolutely protested, that she had
rather undergo all this, than be expos'd to the Scorn of her Friends and
Relations in the Country. The other told her then, that she must write
down to her Uncle a Farewell-Letter, as if she were just going aboard
the Pacquet-Boat for _Holland_, that he might not send to enquire for
her in Town, when he should understand she was not at her new-married
Cousin's in the Country; which accordingly she did, keeping her self
close Prisoner to her Chamber; where she was daily visited by
_Fondlove's_ Sister and the Landlady, but by no Soul else, the first
dissembling the Knowledge she had of her Misfortunes. Thus she continued
for above three Weeks, not a Servant being suffer'd to enter her
Chamber, so much as to make her Bed, lest they should take Notice of her
great Belly: but for all this Caution, the Secret had taken Wind, by the
means of an Attendant of the other Lady below, who had over-heard her
speaking of it to her Husband. This soon got out of Doors, and spread
abroad, till it reach'd the long Ears of the Wolves of the Parish, who
next Day design'd to pay her a Visit: But _Fondlove_, by good
Providence, prevented it; who, the Night before, was usher'd into
_Bellamora's_ Chamber by his Sister, his Brother-in-Law, and the
Landlady. At the Sight of him she had like to have swoon'd away: but he
taking her in his Arms, began again, as he was wont to do, with Tears in
his Eyes, to beg that she would marry him ere she was deliver'd; if not
for his, nor her own, yet for the Child's Sake, which she hourly
expected; that it might not be born out of Wedlock, and so be made
uncapable of inheriting either of their Estates; with a great many more
pressing Arguments on all Sides: To which at last she consented; and an
honest officious Gentleman, whom they had before provided, was call'd
up, who made an End of the Dispute: So to Bed they went together that
Night; next Day to the _Exchange_, for several pretty Businesses that
Ladies in her Condition want. Whilst they were abroad, came the Vermin
of the Parish, (I mean, the Overseers of the Poor, who eat the Bread
from 'em) to search for a young Blackhair'd Lady (for so was
_Bellamora_) who was either brought to Bed, or just ready to lie down.
The Landlady shew'd 'em all the Rooms in her House, but no such Lady
could be found. At last she bethought her self, and led 'em into her
Parlour, where she open'd a little Closet-door, and shew'd 'em a black
Cat that had just kitten'd: assuring 'em, that she should never trouble
the Parish as long as she had Rats or Mice in the House; and so
dismiss'd 'em like Loggerheads as they came.
_FINIS._
NOTES: The Black Lady.
p. 3 _Bridges-Street._ Brydges Street lies between Russell Street and
Catherine Street. Drury Lane Theatre is at its N.E. corner. It early
acquired no very enviable repute, e.g. In the Epilogue to Crowne's _Sir
Courtly Nice_ (1685) we have: 'Our Bridges Street is grown a strumpet
fair'; and Dryden, in the Epilogue to _King Arthur_ (1691), gave Mrs.
Bracegirdle, who entered, her hands full of billets-doux, the following
lines to speak:--
Here one desires my ladyship to meet [_Pulls out one._
At the kind couch above in Bridges-Street.
Oh sharping knave! that would have--you know what,
For a poor sneaking treat of chocolate.
p. 8 _Star-Inn on Fish-street-Hill._ Fish Street Hill, or, New Fish
Street, runs from Eastcheap to Lower Thames Street, and was the main
thoroughfare to old London Bridge, cf. 2 _Henry VI_, IV, viii: '_Cade._
Up Fish Street! down St. Magnus' corner! kill and knock down! throw them
into the Thames.'
p. 9 _the Exchange._ The New Exchange, a kind of bazaar on the South
side of the Strand. It was an immensely popular resort, and continued so
until the latter years of the reign of Queen Anne. There are innumerable
references to its shops, its sempstresses and haberdashers. Thomas
Duffet was a milliner here before he took to writing farces, prologues
and poems.
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