by Daniel Defoe
little angry with her; and at last told her plainly thatshe need give herself no trouble in searching after me by her means, forshe (the Quaker) would not tell her if she knew; upon which sherefrained awhile. But, on the other hand, she told me it was not safefor me to send my own coach for her to come in, for she had some reasonto believe that she (my daughter) watched her door night and day; nay,and watched her too every time she went in and out; for she was so bentupon a discovery that she spared no pains, and she believed she hadtaken a lodging very near their house for that purpose.
I could hardly give her a hearing of all this for my eagerness to askfor Amy; but I was confounded when she told me she had heard nothing ofher. It is impossible to express the anxious thoughts that rolled aboutin my mind, and continually perplexed me about her; particularly Ireproached myself with my rashness in turning away so faithful acreature that for so many years had not only been a servant but anagent; and not only an agent, but a friend, and a faithful friend too.
Then I considered too that Amy knew all the secret history of my life;had been in all the intrigues of it, and been a party in both evil andgood; and at best there was no policy in it; that as it was veryungenerous and unkind to run things to such an extremity with her, andfor an occasion, too, in which all the fault she was guilty of was owingto her excessive care for my safety, so it must be only her steadykindness to me, and an excess of generous friendship for me, that shouldkeep her from ill-using me in return for it; which ill-using me wasenough in her power, and might be my utter undoing.
These thoughts perplexed me exceedingly, and what course to take Ireally did not know. I began, indeed, to give Amy quite over, for shehad now been gone above a fortnight, and as she had taken away all herclothes, and her money too, which was not a little, and so had nooccasion of that kind to come any more, so she had not left any wordwhere she was gone, or to which part of the world I might send to hearof her.
And I was troubled on another account too, viz., that my spouse and Itoo had resolved to do very handsomely for Amy, without considering whatshe might have got another way at all; but we had said nothing of it toher, and so I thought, as she had not known what was likely to fall inher way, she had not the influence of that expectation to make her comeback.
Upon the whole, the perplexity of this girl, who hunted me as if, like ahound, she had had a hot scent, but was now at a fault, I say, thatperplexity, and this other part of Amy being gone, issued in this--Iresolved to be gone, and go over to Holland; there, I believed, I shouldbe at rest. So I took occasion one day to tell my spouse that I wasafraid he might take it ill that I had amused him thus long, and that atlast I doubted I was not with child; and that since it was so, ourthings being packed up, and all in order for going to Holland, I wouldgo away now when he pleased.
My spouse, who was perfectly easy whether in going or staying, left itall entirely to me; so I considered of it, and began to prepare againfor 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 mysteward, gathered in my rents (I mean my interest money) and kept myaccounts, 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 itselfin here, and that even in Amy's conduct too, which frighted me away, andwithout her too, in the utmost horror and confusion.
I have related how my faithful friend the Quaker was come to me, andwhat account she gave me of her being continually haunted by mydaughter; and that, as she said, she watched her very door night andday. 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 Ikept her all night), to my unspeakable surprise I saw a hackney-coachstop at the door where I lodged, and saw her (my daughter) in the coachall alone. It was a very good chance, in the middle of a bad one, thatmy husband had taken out the coach that very morning, and was gone toLondon. As for me, I had neither life or soul left in me; I was soconfounded I knew not what to do or to say.
My happy visitor had more presence of mind than I, and asked me if I hadmade no acquaintance among the neighbours. I told her, yes, there was alady lodged two doors off that I was very intimate with. "But hast thouno way out backward to go to her?" says she. Now it happened there wasa back-door in the garden, by which we usually went and came to and fromthe house, so I told her of it. "Well, well," says she, "go out and makea visit then, and leave the rest to me." Away I run, told the lady (forI was very free there) that I was a widow to-day, my spouse being goneto 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 havingframed this orderly lie, I pulled some work out of my pocket, and addedI did not come to be idle.
As I went out one way, my friend the Quaker went the other to receivethis unwelcome guest. The girl made but little ceremony, but having bidthe coachman ring at the gate, gets down out of the coach and comes tothe door, a country girl going to the door (belonging to the house), forthe Quaker forbid any of my maids going. Madam asked for my Quaker byname, and the girl asked her to walk in.
Upon this, my Quaker, seeing there was no hanging back, goes to herimmediately, but put all the gravity upon her countenance that she wasmistress of, and that was not a little indeed.
When she (the Quaker) came into the room (for they had showed mydaughter into a little parlour), she kept her grave countenance, butsaid not a word, nor did my daughter speak a good while; but after sometime 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 canst have herewith me.
_Girl._ Indeed, my business is not chiefly with you.
_Qu._ Why, then, dost thou come after me thus far?
_Girl._ You know whom I seek. [_And with that she cried._]
_Qu._ But why shouldst thou follow me for her, since thou know'st that Iassured thee more than once that I knew not where she was?
_Girl._ But I hoped you could.
_Qu._ Then thou must hope that I did not speak the truth, which would bevery wicked.
_Girl._ I doubt not but she is in this house.
_Qu._ If those be thy thoughts, thou may'st inquire in the house; sothou hast no more business with me. Farewell! [_Offers to go._]
_Girl._ I would 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 notvery civil in following me hither.
_Girl._ I came in hopes of a discovery in my great affair which you knowof.
_Qu._ Thou cam'st wildly, indeed; I counsel thee to go back again, andbe easy; I shall keep my word with thee, that I would not meddle in it,or give thee any account, if I knew it, unless I had her orders.
ROXANA'S DAUGHTER AND THE QUAKER
_Here the girl importuned her again with the utmost earnestness, andcried bitterly_]
_Girl._ If you knew my distress you could not be so cruel.
_Qu._ Thou hast told me all thy story, and I think it might be morecruelty to tell thee than not to tell thee; for I understand she isresolved not to see thee, and declares she is not thy mother. Will'stthou be owned where thou hast no relation?
_Girl._ Oh, if I could but speak to her, I would prove my relation toher so that she could not deny it any longer.
_Qu._ Well, but thou canst not come to speak with her, it seems.
_Girl._ I hope you will tell me if she is here. I had a good accountthat you were come out to see her, and that she sent for you.
_Qu._ I much wonder how thou couldst have such an account. If I had comeout to see her, thou hast happened to miss the house, for I assure theeshe is not to be found in this house.
Here the girl importuned her again with the utmost earnestness, andcried bitterly, insomuch that my
poor Quaker was softened with it, andbegan to persuade me to consider of it, and, if it might consist with myaffairs, to see her, and hear what she had to say; but this wasafterwards. I return to the discourse.
The Quaker was perplexed with her a long time; she talked of sendingback the coach, and lying in the town all night. This, my friend knew,would be very uneasy to me, but she durst not speak a word against it;but on a sudden thought, she offered a bold stroke, which, thoughdangerous if it had happened wrong, had its desired effect.
She told her that, as for dismissing her coach, that was as she pleased,she believed she would not easily get a lodging in the town; but that asshe was in a strange place, she would so much befriend her, that shewould speak to the people of the house, that if they had room, she mighthave a lodging there for one night, rather than be forced back to Londonbefore she was free to go.
This was a cunning, though a dangerous step, and it succeededaccordingly, for it amused the creature entirely, and she presentlyconcluded that really I could