by Daniel Defoe
"and any one may see, she is but ayoung woman now, and cannot be supposed to be above forty years old, ifshe 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 should be to give over that thought, asan improbable story that does but serve to disorder thee, and disturbthy head; for," added she, "I perceive thou art much disturbed indeed."
But this was all nothing; she could be satisfied with nothing but seeingme; but the Quaker defended herself very well, and insisted on it thatshe could not give her any account of me; and finding her stillimportunate, she affected at last being a little disgusted that sheshould not believe her, and added, that indeed, if she had known where Iwas gone, she would not have given any one an account of it, unless Ihad given her orders to do so. "But seeing she has not acquainted me,"says she, "where she has gone, 'tis an intimation to me she was notdesirous it should be publicly known;" and with this she rose up, whichwas as plain a desiring her to rise up too and begone as could beexpressed, except the downright showing her the door.
Well, the girl rejected all this, and told her she could not indeedexpect that she (the Quaker) should be affected with the story she hadtold her, however moving, or that she should take any pity on her. Thatit was her misfortune, that when she was at the house before, and in theroom with me, she did not beg to speak a word with me in private, orthrow herself upon the floor at my feet, and claim what the affection ofa mother would have done for her; but since she had slipped heropportunity, she would wait for another; that she found by her (theQuaker's) talk, that she had not quite left her lodgings, but was goneinto the country, she supposed for the air; and she was resolved shewould take so much knight-errantry upon her, that she would visit allthe airing-places in the nation, and even all the kingdom over, ay, andHolland too, but she would find me; for she was satisfied she could soconvince me that she was my own child, that I would not deny it; and shewas sure I was so tender and compassionate, I would not let her perishafter I was convinced that she was my own flesh and blood; and in sayingshe would visit all the airing-places in England, she reckoned them allup by name, and began with Tunbridge, the very place I was gone to; thenreckoning up Epsom, North Hall, Barnet, Newmarket, Bury, and at last,the Bath; and with this she took her leave.
My faithful agent the Quaker failed not to write to me immediately; butas she was a cunning as well as an honest woman, it presently occurredto her that this was a story which, whether true or false, was not veryfit to come to my husband's knowledge; that as she did not know what Imight have been, or might have been called in former times, and how farthere might have been something or nothing in it, so she thought if itwas a secret I ought to have the telling it myself; and if it was not,it might as well be public afterwards as now; and that, at least, sheought to leave it where she found it, and not hand it forwards toanybody without my consent. These prudent measures were inexpressiblykind, as well as seasonable; for it had been likely enough that herletter might have come publicly to me, and though my husband would nothave opened it, yet it would have looked a little odd that I shouldconceal its contents from him, when I had pretended so much tocommunicate all my affairs.
In consequence of this wise caution, my good friend only wrote me in fewwords, that the impertinent young woman had been with her, as sheexpected she would; and that she thought it would be very convenientthat, if I could spare Cherry, I would send her up (meaning Amy),because she found there might be some occasion for her.
As it happened, this letter was enclosed to Amy herself, and not sentby the way I had at first ordered; but it came safe to my hands; andthough I was alarmed a little at it, yet I was not acquainted with thedanger I was in of an immediate visit from this teasing creature tillafterwards; and I ran a greater risk, indeed, than ordinary, in that Idid not send Amy up under thirteen or fourteen days, believing myself asmuch concealed at Tunbridge as if I had been at Vienna.
But the concern of my faithful spy (for such my Quaker was now, upon themere foot of her own sagacity), I say, her concern for me, was my safetyin 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 thiswild thing might put her designed ramble in practice, she sent amessenger to the captain's wife's house, where she lodged, to tell herthat she wanted to speak with her. She was at the heels of themessenger, and came eager for some news; and hoped, 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 adownright lie, made her believe she expected to hear of me very quickly;and frequently, by the by, speaking of being abroad to take the air,talked 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; tillat last, the girl began to conclude that my ladyship was gone thither;for, she said, she knew I loved to see a great deal of company.
"Nay," says my friend, "thou takest me wrong; I did not suggest," saysshe, "that the person thou inquirest after is gone thither, neither do Ibelieve she is, I assure thee." Well, the girl smiled, and let her knowthat she believed it for all that; so, to clench it fast, "Verily," saysshe, with great seriousness, "thou dost not do well, for thou suspectesteverything and believest nothing. I speak solemnly to thee that I do notbelieve they are gone that way; so if thou givest thyself the trouble togo that way, and art disappointed, do not say that I have deceivedthee." She knew well enough that if this did abate her suspicion itwould not remove it, and that it would do little more than amuse her;but by this she kept her in suspense till Amy came up, and that wasenough.
When Amy came up, she was quite confounded to hear the relation whichthe Quaker gave her, and found means to acquaint me of it; only lettingme know, to my great satisfaction, that she would not come to Tunbridgefirst, but that she would certainly go to Newmarket or Bury first.
However, it gave me very great uneasiness; for as she resolved to ramblein search after me over the whole country, I was safe nowhere, no, notin Holland itself. So indeed I did not know what to do with her; andthus I had a bitter in all my sweet, for I was continually perplexedwith this hussy, and thought she haunted me like an evil spirit.
In the meantime Amy was next door to stark-mad about her; she durst notsee her at my lodgings for her life; and she went days without number toSpitalfields, where she used to come, and to her former lodging, andcould never meet with her. At length she took up a mad resolution thatshe would go directly to the captain's house in Redriff and speak withher. It was a mad step, that's true; but as Amy said she was mad, sonothing she could do could be otherwise. For if Amy had found her atRedriff, she (the girl) would have concluded presently that the Quakerhad given her notice, and so that we were all of a knot; and that, inshort, all she had said was right. But as it happened, things came tohit better than we expected; for that Amy going out of a coach to takewater at Tower Wharf, meets the girl just come on shore, having crossedthe water from Redriff. Amy made as if she would have passed by her,though they met so full that she did not pretend she did not see her,for she looked fairly upon her first, but then turning her head awaywith a slight, offered to go from her; but the girl stopped, and spokefirst, and made some manners 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 seemed to beangry, and would not have spoken to her, "Why," says Amy, "how can youexpect I should have any more to say to you after I had done so muchfor you, and you have behaved so to me?" The girl seemed to take nonotice of that now, but answered, "I was going to wait on you now.""Wait on me!" says Amy; "what do you mean by that?" "Why," says sheagain, with a kind of familiarity, "I was going to your lodgings."
Amy was provoked to the last degree at her, and yet she thought it wasnot her time to resent, because she had a more fatal and wicked designin her head against her; whi
ch, indeed, I never knew till after it wasexecuted, nor durst Amy ever communicate it to me; for as I had alwaysexpressed myself vehemently against hurting a hair of her head, so shewas resolved to take her own measures without consulting me any more.
In order to this, Amy gave her good words, and concealed her resentmentas much as she could; and when she talked of going to her lodging, Amysmiled and said nothing, but called for a pair of oars to go toGreenwich; and asked 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 wasconfounded, and knew not what to say; but the more she hesitated, themore Amy pressed her to go; and talking very kindly to her, told her ifshe did not go to see her lodgings she might go to keep her