by Daniel Defoe
I cou’d hardly give her a Hearing of all this, for my Eagerness to ask for Amy; but I was confounded when she told me she had heard nothing of her; ’tis impossible to express the anxious Thoughts that rowl’d about in my Mind, and continually perplex’d me about her; particularly, I reproach’d 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 consider’d too, that Amy knew all the Secret History of my Life; had been in all the Intriegues 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 Excess of Care for my Safety; so it must be only her steddy Kindness to me, and an excess of Generous Friendship for me, that shou’d 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 perplex’d 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 Cloaths, 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 troubl’d on another Account too, viz. That my Spouse and I too had resolv’d 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 resolv’d to be gone, and go over to Holland; there I believ’d, I shou’d 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 amus’d him thus long, and that, at last, I doubted362 I was not with-Child; and that since it was so, our Things being pack’d-up, and all in order for going to Holland, I wou’d go away now, when he pleas’d.
My Spouse, who was perfectly easie, whether in going or staying, left it all entirely to me; so I consider’d 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, gather’d in my Rents, I mean my Interest-Money, and kept my Accompts, 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 watch’d 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 Surprize, I saw a Hackney-Coach stop at the Door where I lodg’d, 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 ask’d me, If I had made no Acquaintance among the Neighbours? I told her, Yes, there was a Lady lodg’d two Doors off, that I was very intimate with; but hast thou no Way out backward to go to her? says she: Now it happen’d 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 fram’d this orderly LYE, I pull’d 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 ask’d for my QUAKER by Name; and the Girl ask’d her to walk in.
Upon this, my QUAKER seeing there was no hanging-back, goes to her immediately, but put on 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 show’d 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 can’st have here with me.
Girl. Indeed my Business is not chiefly with you.
Qu. Why then do’st thou come after me thus far?
Girl. You know who I seek. [And with that she cry’d].
Qu. But why should’st thou follow me for her, since thou know’st, that I assur’d thee more than once, that I knew not where she was?
Girl. But I hop’d you cou’d.
Qu. Then thou must hope that I did not speak Truth; which wou’d be very wicked.
Girl. I doubt not but she is in this House.
Qu. If those be thy Thoughts, thou may’st enquire in the House; so thou hast no more Business with me; Farewell. [Offers to go].
Girl. I wou’d 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 easie; I shall keep my Word with thee, that I wou’d not meddle in it, or give thee any Account, if I knew it, unless I had her Orders.
Girl. If you knew my Distress, you cou’d 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 resolv’d not to see thee, and declares she is not thy Mother: Will’st thou be own’d, where thou hast no Relation.
Girl. O! if I cou’d but speak to her, I wou’d prove my Relation to her, so that she could not deny it any-longer.
Qu. Well, but thou can’st 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 could’st have such an Account; if I had come out to see her, thou hast happen’d to miss the House; for I assure thee, she is not to be found in this House.
Here the Girl importun’d her again, with the utmost Earnestness, and cry’d bitterly; insomuch, that my poor QUAKER was soften’d with it, and began to perswade 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 perplex’d with her a long time; she talk’d of sending back the Coach, and lying in the Town all-Night: This my Friend knew wou’d be very uneasie363 to me, but she durst not speak a Word against it; but on a sudden Thought, she offer’d a bold Stroke, which tho’ dangerous if it had happen’d wrong, had its desi
r’d Effect.
She told her, That as for dismissing her Coach, that was as she pleas’d; she believ’d, she wou’d not easily get a Lodging in the Town; but that as she was in a strange Place, she wou’d so much befriend her, that she wou’d speak to the People of the House, that if they had room, she might have a Lodging there for one Night, rather than be forc’d back to London, before she was free to go.
This was a cunning, tho’ a dangerous Step, and it succeeded accordingly, for it amus’d the Creature entirely, and she presently concluded, that really I cou’d not be there then; otherwise she wou’d never have ask’d 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 wou’d 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 stay’d a Week or two to do it; for, in short, if I was in England or Holland, she wou’d 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 Expence, and the Country to a great-deal of unnecessary Trouble: Not unnecessary, says she: Yes truly, says the QUAKER, it must be unnecessary, because ’twill 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 wou’d give her as little Trouble as possible; but she was afraid she shou’d sometimes be uneasie to her, which she hop’d she wou’d excuse: My QUAKER told her, She wou’d much rather excuse her, if she wou’d forbear; for that, if she wou’d believe her, she wou’d assure her, she shou’d 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) shou’d watch herself, very narrowly; or she might one time or other get some Intelligence from her, whether she wou’d or no; and she was satisfy’d she had gain’d 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 wou’d find me out: Very well, says my QUAKER: then if the Lady is not willing to see thee, thou giv’st 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 wou’d follow her, and her Children after her; and denounc’d364 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 resolv’d to go home the next Morning; and I, that was ten times more uneasie than she, resolv’d 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 own’d, if she came any-more; but I heard no more of her for some time.
I stay’d 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 cou’d not communicate by a Letter, but wish’d I wou’d 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 every-thing gave me the Allarm, and this especially, so that I was very uneasie; but I cou’d not bring Matters to bear, to make my coming to London so clear to my Husband as I wou’d have done; for he lik’d 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 cou’d not come to Town yet?; and that besides, I cou’d 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 cry’d 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 us’d 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 any-body’s Leave, she wou’d take Care she shou’d 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 suppos’d Amy had manag’d 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 perswade her to be quiet and easie, and to give over teizing and following me, and rejoic’d in it, for my sake; as she thought nothing of any Evil herself, so she suspected none in any-body 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 cry’d out, Lord be merciful to me, she has murther’d my Child; and with that, a Flood of Tears burst out, and I cry’d 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 recover’d myself: But after my Crying was over, then I fell in a new Rage at Amy; I call’d her a thousand Devils, and Monsters, and hard-hearted Tygers; I reproach’d her with her knowing that I abhorr’d it, and had let her know it sufficiently, in that I had, as it were, kick’d 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 cou’d 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 press’d me to tell him; I seem’d to bring it out with Reluctance, but told him, My Backwardness was, more because I was asham’d that such a Trifle shou’d 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 shou’d 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 uneasie, 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: O fie! says my QUAKER, how can’st thou entertain such a Notion? No, no, made her away! Amy didn’t talk like that; I dare say, thou may’st be easie 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 wou’d not do; it run in my Head continually, Night and Day I cou’d think of nothing else; and it fix’d such a Horrour of the Fact upon my Spirits, and such a Destestation of Amy, who I look’d upon as the Murtherer, that, as for her, I believe, if I cou’d have seen her, I shou’d certainly have sent her to Newgate, or to a worse Place, upon Suspicion; indeed, I think I cou�
�d have kill’d 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 show’d her me 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 knock’d-out; other-times hang’d up upon a Beam; another time drown’d in the Great Pond at Camberwell:365 And all these Appearances were terrifying to the last Degree; and that which was still worse, I cou’d really hear nothing of her: I sent to the Captain’s Wife in Redriff, and she answer’d me, She was gone to her Relations in Spittle-Fields; 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 us’d 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 describ’d 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 shou’d search for her, for I had reason to fear she was Murther’d: This frighted them all intollerably; they beliv’d Amy had carry’d her to pay her a Sum of Money, and that somebody had watch’d her after her having receiv’d it, and had Robb’d and Murther’d her.
I believ’d nothing of that Part; but I believ’d as it was, That whatever was done, Amy had done it; and that, in short, Amy had made her away; and I believ’d it the more, because Amy came no more near me, but confirm’d her Guilt by her Absence.
