Roxana

by Daniel Defoe

  We spent half an Hour in these Extravagances, and brought nothing out of them neither; for indeed, we cou’d do nothing, or say nothing, that was to the Purpose; for if any-thing was to come out-of-the-way,342 there was no hindring it, nor 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 chang’d 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 call’d 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: O! 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 cou’d not go the Voyage.

  I perceiv’d my Husband enter’d not into the thing at-all, but took it for a Story, which being told two or three times over, was puzzl’d, 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 wish’d might be true.

  His Ignorance was a Cordial to my Soul; and I curs’d them in my Thoughts, that shou’d ever undeceive him; and as I saw him willing to have the Story end there, as not worth being farther mention’d, I clos’d it too; and said, I suppos’d the Captain had it from his Wife; she might have found somebody else to make her Remarks upon, and so it pass’d 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 shou’d meet again, and enter into farther Discourse about it; and the second was, lest the busie impertinent Girl shou’d 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, wou’d have been as fatal to me, as her knowing all the rest.

  As to the first of these, I knew the Captain cou’d not stay in Town above a Week; but that his Ship being already full of Goods, and fallen down the River,343 he must soon follow; so I contriv’d 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 shou’d go; at last I fix’d upon North-Hall;344 not, I said, that I wou’d drink the Waters, but that, I thought the Air was good, and might be for my Advantage: He, who did every-thing 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 ugly345 Word that thwarted all my Design; and that was, That he had rather I wou’d stay till Afternoon, for that he shou’d’speak to the Captain next Morning, if he cou’d, to give him some Letters; which he cou’d do, and be back-again about Twelve a-Clock.

  I said, Ay, by all means; but it was but a Cheat on him, and my Voice and my Heart differ’d; for I resolv’d, if possible, he shou’d 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 alter’d my Mind, and that I wou’d not go to North-Hall, but I had a-mind to go another-way, but I told him, I was afraid his Business wou’d not permit him; he wanted to know where it was? I told him, smiling, I wou’d not tell him, lest it shou’d oblige him to hinder his Business: He answer’d, 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 any-where 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 paus’d a-while; 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 sign’d, and he can do it: When I saw I had gain’d my Point, I seem’d 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 any-body, but my WIFE; and then he took me in his Arms and kiss’d me: How did my Blood flush up into my Face! when I reflected how sincerely, how affectionately this good-humour’d Gentleman embrac’d the most cursed Piece of Hypocrisie that ever came into the Arms of an honest Man? His was all Tenderness, all Kindness, and the utmost Sincerity; Mine all Grimace346 and Deceit; a Piece of meer Manage,347 and fram’d Conduct,348 to conceal a pass’d Life of Wickedness, and prevent his discovering, that he had in his Arms a She-Devil, whose whole Conversation349 for twenty five Years had been black as Hell, a Complication of Crime;350 and for which, had he been let into it, he must have abhor’d me, and the very mention of my Name: But there was no help for me in it; all I had to satisfie 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 resolv’d upon, tho’ had the great Temptation offer’d, 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 resolv’d to set-out in the Morning early; I told him, that my Project, if he lik’d 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 nam’d Tunbridge, he wou’d have nam’d Newmarket; (there being a great Court there, and abundance of fine things to be seen) I offer’d him another Piece of Hypocrisie here, for I pretended to be willing to go thither, as the Place of his Choice, but indeed, I wou’d 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 shou’d 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 wou’d rather put it off to another time; and that if, when he went to Holland, we shou’d go by Harwich, we might take a round by Newmarket and Bury, and so come down to Ipswich, and go from thence to the Sea-side: He was easily put-off from this, as he was from any-thing 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, shou’d offer to come again, as my Friend the QUAKER believ’d she wou’d; and as indeed, happen’d within two or three Days afterwards.

  Having thus secur’d 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 prov’d 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 importun’d me to do so; but I know not what secret Impulse prevail’d over my Thoughts, against it, I cou’d not do it, for fear the wicked Jade shou’d make her away, which my very Soul abhorr’d 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 deliver’d from her, as ever a Sick-Man did from a Third-Day Ague;351 and had she dropp’d into the Grave by any fair Way, as I may call it, I mean had she died by any ordinary Distemper, I shou’d have shed but very few Tears for her: But I was not arriv’d to such a Pitch of obtinate Wickedness, as to commit Murther, especially such, as to murther 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, tho’ I cou’d do little more; for to have fall’n upon Amy, had been to have murther’d 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 wou’d do any-thing 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 desir’d I wou’d not let her know; and to make her Ignorance the more absolutely safe to herself, and likewise to me, I allow’d her to say, that she heard us talk of going to Newmarket, &c. She lik’d that Part, and I left all the rest to her, to act as she thought fit, only charg’d her, that if the Girl enter’d into the Story of the Pallmall, she shou’d 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 liken’d to a publick352 Mistress, or a Stage-Player, and the like, and so to bring her, if possible, to say more of it: However, tho’ I did not tell my Friend the QUAKER, how to write to me, or where I was, yet I left a seal’d 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 receiv’d her coldly at the Door; but told her, That the Lady, which she suppos’d she meant, was gone from her House.

  This was a full stop to all she cou’d say for a good-while; but as she stood musing some time at the Door, considering what to begin a Talk upon, she perceiv’d my Friend the QUAKER, look’d a little uneasie, 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 ask’d her to come in; for seeing her alone, she expected she wou’d be very Impertinent; and concluded, that I did not care how coldly she receiv’d her.

  But she was not to be put off so: She said, If the Lady — was not to be spoke with, she desir’d to speak two or three Words with her, meaning my Friend, the QUAKER: Upon that, the QUAKER civilly, but coldly, ask’d 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 believ’d I was in the House, but was unwilling to be seen; and press’d 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 wou’d 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 shou’d have told thee so.

  She said little to that, but said, It was Business of the utmost Importance, that she desir’d to speak with me about; and then cry’d again very much.

  Thou seem’st to be sorely afflicted, says the QUAKER, I wish I cou’d 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 did’st thou not speak to her apart, when thou wast here before?

  I had no Opportunity, says she, to speak to her alone, and I cou’d not do it in Company; if I cou’d have spoken but two Words to her alone, I wou’d have thrown myself at her Foot, and ask’d her Blessing.

  I am surpriz’d at thee; I do not understand thee, says the QUAKER.

  O! 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 terrify’st me, says the QUAKER, with such passionate Expressions; for verily I cannot comprehend thee.

  O! 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 mov’d indeed; I am astonish’d at thee; what do’st 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 stopp’d, with a Flood of Tears.

  Not own thee! says the QUAKER; and the tender, good Creature wept too; why, she says, 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?

  Yes, Yes, says she, I can explain it well enough; I am sure she is my 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 shou’d 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 House-Maid, 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 nam’d Amy? [Note, the honest QUAKER was nonpluss’d, and greatly surpriz’d 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 examin’d; but lest thou should’st 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.353

  N.B. My Husband gave her that Name in jest, on our Wedding-Day, and we had call’d her by it ever after; so that she spoke literally true at that time.

  The Girl reply’d 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 shou’d be very sorry to disoblige her; but begg’d of her again, as she was a Christian, and a Woman, and had been a Mother of Children, that she wou’d 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 forc’d Tears from her; but she was oblig’d 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 wou’d not fail to give me an Account of all she had said to her, or that she shou’d 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 call’d it; at which, the Girl beginning at the first Distresses of my Life, and indeed, of her own, went thro’ all the History of her miserable Education; her Service under the Lady Roxana, as she call’d me, and her Relief by Mrs. Amy; with the Reasons she had to believe, that as Amy own’d herself to be the same that liv’d 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 convinc’d, 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, tho’ terribly shock’d at the Story, and not well-knowing what to say, yet was too much my Friend to seem convinc’d in a Thing, which she did not know to be true, and which, if it was true, she cou’d see plainly I had a-min
d shou’d not be known; so she turn’d 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 cou’d not believe that she wou’d 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 censur’d that Sham-Lady as a Cheat, and a Common Woman; and that ’twas certain she cou’d never be brought to own a Name and Character she had so justly expos’d.

  Beside, 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 describ’d: 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 suppos’d 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 shou’d 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 disturb’d indeed.

  But this was all nothing: She cou’d be satisfy’d with nothing but seeing me; but the QUAKER defended herself very well, and insisted on it, that she cou’d not give her any Account of me; and finding her still importunate, she affected at last, being a little disgusted that she shou’d not believe her, and added, That indeed, if she had known where I was gone, she wou’d not have given anyone an Account of it, unless I had given her Orders to do so; but seeing she has not acquainted me, says she, where she is gone, ’tis an Intimation to me, she was not desirous it shou’d be publickly known; and with this she rise up, which was as plain a desiring her to rise up too, and be gone, as cou’d be express’d, except the downright showing her the Door.