by Daniel Defoe
Well, the Girl rejected all this, and told her, She cou’d not indeed expect that she (the QUAKER) shou’d be affected with the Story she had told her, however moving; or that she shou’d 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 wou’d have done for her; but since she had slipp’d her Opportunity, she wou’d wait for another; that she found by her (the Quaker’s) Talk, that she had not quite left354 her Lodgings, but was gone into the Country, she suppos’d, for the Air; and she was resolv’d she wou’d take so much Knight-Errantry upon her, that she wou’d visit all the Airing-Places in the Nation, and even all the Kindgom over, ay, and Holland too, but she wou’d find me; for she was satisfy’d she cou’d so convince me that she was my own Child, that I wou’d not deny it; and she was sure I was so tender and compassionate, I wou’d not let her perish after I was convinc’d that she was my own Flesh and Blood; and in saying she wou’d visit all the Airing-Places in England, she reckon’d them all up by Name,355 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, fail’d not to write to me immediately; but as she was a cunning, as well as an honest Woman, it presently occurr’d 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 call’d 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 publick afterwards, as now; and that, at least, she ought to leave it where she found it, and not hand it forwards to any-body 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 publickly to me, and tho’ my Husband wou’d not have open’d it, yet it wou’d have look’d a little odd that I shou’d 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 wou’d; and that she thought it wou’d be very convenient that, if I cou’d spare Cherry, I wou’d send her up, (meaning Amy) because she found there might be some Occasion for her.
As it happen’d, this Letter was enclos’d to Amy herself, and not sent by the Way I had at first order’d; but it came safe to my Hands; and tho’ I was allarm’d a little at it, yet I was not acquainted with the Danger I was in of an immediate Visit from this teizing356 Creature, till afterwards; and I run a greater Risque indeed, than ordinary, in that I did not send Amy up under thirteen or fourteen Days, believing myself as much conceal’d at Tunbridge, as if I had been at Vienna.
But the Concern my faithful SPY, (for such my QUAKER was now, upon the meer 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 design’d Ramble in Practice, she sent a Messenger to the Captain’s Wife’s House, where she lodg’d, 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 hop’d, 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 Lye, made her believe she expected to hear of me very quickly; and frequently by the by, speaking of being Abroad to take the Air, talk’d 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 lov’d to see a great-deal of Company.
Nay, says my Friend, thou tak’st me wrong, I did not suggest, says she, that the Person thou enquir’st after, is gone thither, neither do I believe she is, I assure thee: Well, the Girl smil’d, and let her know, that she believ’d it for-all that; so, to clench it fast, Verily says she, with great Seriousness, Thou do’st not do well, for thou suspectest every-thing, and believest nothing: I speak solemnly to thee, that I do not believe they are gone that Way; so if thou giv’st thyself the Trouble to go that Way, and art disappointed, do not say that I have deceiv’d thee. She knew well enough, that if this did abate her Suspicion, it wou’d not remove it; and that it wou’d do little more than amuse357 her; but by this she kept her in suspence 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 wou’d not come to Tunbridge first; but that she wou’d certainly go to Newmarket or Bury first.
However, it gave me very great Uneasiness; for as she resolv’d to ramble in search after me, over the whole Country, I was safe no-where, 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 perplex’d with this Hussy, and thought she haunted me like an Evil Spirit.
In the mean time, 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 Spittle-Fields, where she us’d to come, and to her former Lodging, and cou’d never meet with her; at length, she took up a mad Resolution, that she wou’d 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 cou’d do, cou’d be otherwise: For if Amy had found her at Redriff, she (the Girl) wou’d have concluded presently, that the QUAKER had given her Notice, and so that we were all of a Knot,358 and that, in short, all she had said was right: But as it happen’d, things came to hit359 better than we expected; for that Amy going out of a Coach, to take Water at Tower-Wharf,360 meets the Girl just come on-Shoar, having cross’d the Water from Redriff. Amy made as if she wou’d have pass’d by her, tho’ they met so full that she did not pretend she did not see her, for she look’d fairly upon her first; but then turning her Head away, with a Slight, offer’d to go from her; but the Girl stopp’d, and spoke first, and made some Manners361 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 seem’d to be angry, and wou’d not have spoken to her: Why, says Amy, How can you expect I shou’d have any-more to say to you, after I had done so much for you, and you behav’d so to me? The Girl seem’d to take no Notice of that now, but answer’d, 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 provok’d 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 express’d myself vehemently against hurting a Hair of her Head, so she was resolv’d to take her own Measures, without consulting me any-more.
In order to this, Amy gave her good Words, and conceal’d her Resentment as much as she cou’d; and when she talk’d of going to her Lodging, Amy smil’d, and said nothing, but call’d for a Pair of Oars to go to Greenwich; and ask’d 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 press’d 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 he
r Company, and she wou’d pay a Boat to bring her back-again, so, in a word, Amy prevail’d on her to go into the Boat with her, and carry’d 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 hamper’d to the last Degree, with the Impertinence of this Creature; and in particular, I was horribly perplex’d 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 banter’d her a little; and ask’d her, if she had found her yet?
But Amy was both surpriz’d and enrag’d, when the Girl told her roundly, That she thank’d her for what she had done for her; but that she wou’d 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 cou’d 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 employ’d 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 wish’d her at the Bottom of the Thames; and had there been no Watermen in the Boat, and no-body in sight, she swore to me, she wou’d have thrown her into the River: I was horribly disturb’d when she told me this Story, and began to think this wou’d, at last, all end in my Ruin; but when Amy spoke of throwing her into the River, and drowning her, I was so provok’d at her, that all my Rage turn’d against Amy, and I fell thorowly out with her: I had now kept Amy almost thirty Year, and found her, on all Occasions, the faithfulest 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 shou’d befal me.
But be that how it wou’d, I cou’d not bear the Mention of her Murthering the poor Girl, and it put me so beside myself, that I rise 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 wou’d never see her Face more; I had before told her, That she was a Murtherer, and a bloody-minded Creature; that she cou’d not but know that I cou’d 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 cou’d 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 wou’d not murther my Child, tho’ I was otherwise to be ruin’d by it: Amy reply’d somewhat rough and short, Would I not, but she wou’d, 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 pack’d up her Alls, and march’d 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 Pallmall, as well after her being turn’d away, as before; and of my Marriage since; and which was worse, not only who my present Husband was, but where he had liv’d, viz. at Roan in France; she knew nothing of Paris, or of where we was going to live, Namely, at Nimuegen; but told her in so many Words, That if she cou’d 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 walk’d above two Hours there, in the farthest and remotest Walks; which Amy did, because as they talk’d with great heat, it was apparent they were quarrelling, and the People took Notice of it.
They walk’d till they came almost to the Wilderness, at the South side of the Park; but the Girl perceiving Amy offer’d to go in there, among the Woods, and Trees, stopp’d short there, and wou’d go no farther; but said, She wou’d not go in there.
Amy smil’d, and ask’d 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 wou’d go no farther; and without any-more Ceremony, turns back, and walks apace away from her: Amy own’d she was surpriz’d; and came back too, and call’d to her; upon which the Girl stopt, and Amy coming up to her, ask’d her, what she meant?
The Girl boldly replied, She did not know but she might murther her; and that, in short, She wou’d not trust herself with her; and never wou’d 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 mock’d her foolish Jealousie, and told her, She need not be uneasie for her, she wou’d do her no Harm, and wou’d have done her Good, if she wou’d have let her; but since she was of such a refractory Humour, she shou’d not trouble herself, for she shou’d never come into her Company again; and that neither she, nor her Brother, or Sister, shou’d ever hear from her, or see her any-more; and so she shou’d have the Satisfaction of being the Ruin of her Brother and Sister, as well as of herself.
The Girl seem’d a little mollif’d at that, and said, That for herself, she knew the worst of it, she cou’d seek her Fortune; but ’twas hard her Brother and Sister shou’d 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 wou’d let her see, that it was all her own; that she wou’d have done them all Good, but that having been us’d thus, she wou’d do no more for any of them; and that she shou’d not need to be afraid to come into her Company again, for she wou’d never give her Occasion for it any-more; by the way, [that] 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 carry’d her into a House at Greenwich, where she was acquainted, and took an Occasion to leave the Girl in a Room a-while, 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 lodg’d, if she had a-mind to find her out; or if any-body else had any-thing to say to her; and so Amy dismiss’d 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 tho’ my indefatigable Friend the QUAKER, amus’d 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, call’d Woodford, and took Lodgings in a Private House, where I liv’d retir’d about six Weeks, till I thought she might be tir’d of her Search, and have given me over.
Here I receiv’d 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 follow’d us as she thought, to London; but the QUAKER had answer’d her, That she knew nothing of it, which was indeed true; and had admonish’d her to be easie, and not hunt after People of such Fashion as we were, as if we were Thieves; that she might be assur’d, that since I was not willing to see her, I wou’d not be forc’d to it; and treating me thus wou’d effectually disoblige me: And with such Discourses as these she quieted her; and she (the QUAKER) added, that she hop’d I shou’d not be troubl’d much more with her.
It was in this time that Amy gave me the Hist
ory 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 turn’d 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 Confident to speak to, or receive the least Information from, my Friend the QUAKER excepted, it made me very uneasie.
I waited, and expected, and wonder’d, from Day to Day, still thinking Amy wou’d 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 cou’d 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 oblig’d 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) wou’d not tell her, if she knew; upon which she refrain’d a-while: 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) watch’d her Door Night and Day, nay, and watch’d her too every time she went in and out; for she was so bent upon a Discovery, that she spar’d no Pains; and she believ’d she had taken a Lodging very near their House, for that Purpose.
