The Fortunate Mistress (Parts 1 and 2)

by Daniel Defoe

absolutely safe to herself,and likewise to me, I allowed her to say that she heard us talk of goingto Newmarket, &c. She liked that part, and I left all the rest to her,to act as she thought fit; only charged her, that if the girl enteredinto the story of the Pall Mall, she should not entertain much talkabout it, but let her understand that we all thought she spoke of it alittle too particularly; and that the lady (meaning me) took it alittle ill to be so likened to a public mistress, or a stage-player, andthe like; and so to bring her, if possible, to say no more of it.However, though I did not tell my friend the Quaker how to write to me,or where I was, yet I left a sealed paper with her maid to give her, inwhich I gave her a direction how to write to Amy, and so, in effect, tomyself.

  It was but a few days after I was gone, but the impatient girl came tomy lodgings on pretence to see how I did, and to hear if I intended togo the voyage, and the like. My trusty agent was at home, and receivedher coldly at the door; but told her that the lady, which she supposedshe meant, was gone from her house.

  This was a full stop to all she could say for a good while; but as shestood musing some time at the door, considering what to begin a talkupon, she perceived my friend the Quaker looked a little uneasy, as ifshe wanted to go in and shut the door, which stung her to the quick; andthe wary Quaker had not so much as asked her to come in; for seeing heralone she expected she would be very impertinent, and concluded that Idid not care how coldly she received her.

  But she was not to be put off so. She said if the Lady ---- was not tobe spoken with, she desired to speak two or three words with her,meaning my friend the Quaker. Upon that the Quaker civilly but coldlyasked her to walk in, which was what she wanted. Note.--She did notcarry her into her best parlour, as formerly, but into a little outerroom, where the servants usually waited.

  By the first of her discourse she did not stick to insinuate as if shebelieved I was in the house, but was unwilling to be seen; and pressedearnestly that she might speak but two words with me; to which she addedearnest entreaties, and at last tears.

  "I am sorry," says my good creature the Quaker, "thou hast so ill anopinion of me as to think I would tell thee an untruth, and say that theLady ---- was gone from my house if she was not! I assure thee I do notuse any such method; nor does the Lady ---- desire any such kind ofservice from me, as I know of. If she had been in the house, I shouldhave told thee so."

  She said little to that, but said it was business of the utmostimportance that she desired to speak with me about, and then cried againvery much.

  "Thou seem'st to be sorely afflicted," says the Quaker, "I wish I couldgive thee any relief; but if nothing will comfort thee but seeing theLady ----, it is not in my power."

  "I hope it is," says she again; "to be sure it is of great consequenceto me, so much that I am undone without it."

  "Thou troublest me very much to hear thee say so," says the Quaker; "butwhy, then, didst thou not speak to her apart when thou wast herebefore?"

  "I had no opportunity," says she, "to speak to her alone, and I couldnot do it in company; if I could have spoken but two words to her alone,I would have thrown myself at her foot, and asked her blessing."

  "I am surprised at thee; I do not understand thee," says the Quaker.

  "Oh!" says she, "stand my friend if you have any charity, or if you haveany compassion for the miserable; for I am utterly undone!"

  "Thou terrifiest me," says the Quaker, "with such passionateexpressions, for verily I cannot comprehend thee!"

  "Oh!" says she, "she is my mother! she is my mother! and she does notown me!"

  "Thy mother!" says the Quaker, and began to be greatly moved indeed. "Iam astonished at thee: what dost thou mean?"

  "I mean nothing but what I say," says she. "I say again, she is mymother, and will not own me;" and with that she stopped with a flood oftears.

  "Not own thee!" says the Quaker; and the tender good creature wept too."Why," says she, "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 thouexplain thyself a little to me?"

  "Yes, yes," says she, "I can explain it well enough. I am sure she is mymother, and I have broke my heart to search for her; and now to lose heragain, when I was so sure I had found her, will break my heart moreeffectually."

  "Well, but if she be thy mother," says the Quaker, "how can it be thatshe should not know thee?"

  "Alas!" says she, "I have been lost to her ever since I was a child; shehas 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 shewas the Lady Roxana I was her housemaid, being a servant, but I did notknow her then, nor she me; but it has all come out since. Has she not amaid named Amy?" Note.--The honest Quaker was--nonplussed, and greatlysurprised at that question.

  "Truly," says she, "the Lady ---- has several women servants, but I donot 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 notlike to be examined; but lest thou shouldest take up any mistakes byreason of my backwardness to speak, I will answer thee for once, thatwhat her woman's name is I know not, but they call her Cherry."

  _N.B._--My husband gave her that name in jest on our wedding-day, and wehad called her by it ever after; so that she spoke literally true atthat time.

  The girl replied very modestly that she was sorry if she gave her anyoffence in asking; that she did not design to be rude to her, or pretendto examine her; but that she was in such an agony at this disaster thatshe knew not what she did or said; and that she should be very sorry todisoblige her, but begged of her again, as she was a Christian and awoman, and had been a mother of children, that she would take pity onher, and, if possible, assist her, so that she might but come to me andspeak a few words to me.

  The tender-hearted Quaker told me the girl spoke this with such movingeloquence that it forced tears from her; but she was obliged to say thatshe neither knew where I was gone or how to write to me; but that if shedid ever see me again she would not fail to give me an account of allshe had said to her, or that she should yet think fit to say, and totake my answer to it, if I thought fit to give any.

  Then the Quaker took the freedom to ask a few particulars about thiswonderful story, as she called it; at which the girl, beginning at thefirst distresses of my life, and indeed of her own, went through all thehistory of her miserable education, her service under the Lady Roxana,as she called me, and her relief by Mrs. Amy, with the reasons she hadto believe that as Amy owned herself to be the same that lived with hermother, and especially that Amy was the Lady Roxana's maid too, and cameout of France with her, she was by those circumstances, and severalothers in her conversation, as fully convinced that the Lady Roxana washer 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, though terribly shocked at the story, and notwell knowing what to say, yet was too much my friend to seem convincedin a thing which she did not know to be true, and which, if it was true,she could see plainly I had a mind should not be known; so she turnedher discourse to argue the girl out of it. She insisted upon the slenderevidence she had of the fact itself, and the rudeness of claiming sonear a relation of one so much above her, and of whose concern in it shehad no knowledge, at least no sufficient proof; that as the lady at herhouse was a person above any disguises, so she could not believe thatshe would 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 amind to have her known; and, therefore, seeing she had heard all she hadsaid of the Lady Roxana, and was so far from owning herself to be theperson, so she had censured that sham lady as a cheat and a commonwoman; and th
at 'twas certain she could never be brought to own a nameand character she had so justly exposed.

  Besides, 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 behonestly such, and far above such a person as she had described. Shethen added that she had another reason why it was not very possible tobe true. "And that is," says she, "thy age is in the way; for thouacknowledgest that thou art four-and twenty years old, and that thouwast the youngest of three of thy mother's children; so that, by thyaccount, thy mother must be extremely young, or this lady cannot be thymother; for thou seest," says she,