her temper, with much difficulty, and bore it, knowing that much might depend upon it; so she mocked her foolish jealousy, and told her she need not be uneasy for her, she would do her no harm, and would have done her good, if she would have let her; but since she was of such a refractory humour, she should not trouble herself, for she should never come into her company again; and that neither she, or her brother, or sister, should ever hear from her, or see her any more; and so she should have the satisfaction of being the ruin of her brother and sister, as well as of herself. The girl seemed a little mollified at that, and said, that for herself, she knew the worst of it, she could seek her fortune; but it was hard her brother and sister should suffer on her score; and 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 would let her see that it was all her own; that she would have done them all good, but that having been used thus, she would do no more for any of them; and that she should not need to be afraid to come into her company again, for she would never give her occasion for it any more. This, by the way, 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 carried 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 lodged, if she had a mind to find her out, or if anybody else had anything to say to her. And so Amy dismissed 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 though my indefatigable friend the Quaker amused 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, called Woodford, and took lodgings in a private house, where I lived retired about six weeks, till I thought she might be tired of her search, and have given me over. : that she hoped I should not be troubled much more with her. history of her Greenwich voyage, when she spoke It was in this time that Amy gave me the of drowning and killing the girl in so serious a doing it, that, as I said, put me in a rage with manner, and with such an apparent resolution of her, so that I effectually turned 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 I now had neither assistant nor confidant to speak to, or receive the least information from, my friend the Quaker excepted, it made me very uneasy. I waited, and expected, and wondered, from other think a little, and come again, or at least, day to day, still thinking Amy would one time or 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 to the Quaker's, for fear of meeting that vexatious 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 haunting her for news from me; and that she had me, that the girl had been three or four times been so troublesome, that she had been obliged to shew 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) would not tell her, if she knew; upon which she refrained a while. But on the other hand, she told me it was not safe for me to send my coach for her to come in, for she had some reason to 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 bent upon a discovery that she spared no pains, and she believed she had taken a lodging very near their house for that purpose. I could 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. It is impossible to express the anxious thoughts that rolled about in my mind, and continually perplexed me about her; particularly, I reproached myself with my rashness in turning away so faithful a creature, that in 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. Here I received an account from my trusty Quaker, that the wench had really been at Tunbridge, had found out my lodgings, and had told her tale in a most dismal tone; that she had fol- Then I considered, too, that Amy knew all lowed us, as she thought, to London; but the the secret history of my life,—had been in all the Quaker had answered her, that she knew nothing intrigues of it, and been a party in both evil and of it, which was indeed true; and had admo-good,-and at best, there was no policy in it; nished her to be easy, and not to hunt after people of such fashion as we were, as if we were thieves; that she might be assured, that since I was not willing to see her, I would not be forced to do it; and treating me thus would effectually disoblige me. And with such discourses as these she quieted her; and she (the Quaker) added, 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 excessive care for my safety; so it must be only her steady kindness to me, and an excess of generous friendship for me, that should 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 perplexed me exceedingly, and what course to take I really did not know. I began indeed to give Amy quite over, for she had been gone above a fortnight; and as she had taken away all her clothes, 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 troubled on another account too, viz., that my spouse and I too had resolved 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 resolved to be gone, and go over to Holland; there, I believed, I should 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 amused him thus long, and that, at last, I doubted I was not with child; and that, since it was so, our things being packed up, and all in order for going to Holland, I would go away now, when he pleased. My spouse, who was perfectly easy, whether in going or staying, left it all entirely to me; so I considered of it, and began to prepare again for the 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, gathered in my rents, I mean my interest money,-and kept my accounts; and, in a word, did all my business; and without her, indeed, I knew not how to go away, or 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 watched her very door night and day. The truth was, she set a spy to watch so effectually, that she (the Quaker) neither went in nor out but she had notice of it. It This was too evident, when the next morning after she came to me, (for I kept her all night,) to my unspeakable surprise, I saw a hackneycoach stop at the door where I lodged, and saw her (my daughter) in the coach all alone. 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 nor soul left in me; I was so confounded, I knew not what to do or to say. || backward to go to her?" says she. Now it happened there was a back-door in the garden, by which we usually went and come 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 today, 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 from London. So having framed this orderly lie, I pulled 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 asked for my Quaker by name, and the girl asked 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 shewed 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, inadam ?" "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 here with me. G. Indeed, my business is not chiefly with cried.] Q. But why shouldst thou follow me for her, since thou knowest that I assured thee more than once that I knew not where she was? G. But I hoped you could. Q. Then thou must hope that I did not speak the truth, which would be very wicked. G. I doubt not but she is in this house. Q. If those be thy thoughts, thou mayest enquire in the house; so thou hast no more business with me. Farewell! [Offers to go.] G. I would not be uncivil; I beg you to let me see her. Q. I am here to visit some of my friends, and I think thou art not very civil in following me hither. G. I came in hopes of a discovery in my great affair which you know of. Q. Thou camest widely, indeed; I counsel thee to go back again, and be easy; I shall keep my word with thee, that I would not meddle in it, nor give thee any account, if I knew it, unless I had her orders. G. If you knew my distress, you could not be so cruel. My happy visitor had more presence of mind than I, and asked me if I had no acquaintance among the neighbours. I told her-Yes, there was a lady lodged two doors off that I was very Q. Thou hast told me all thy story, and I intimate with. "But hast thou no way out think it might be more cruelty to tell thee than not to tell thee; for I understand she is determined not to see thee, and declares she is not thy mother. Wilt thou be owned where thou hast no relation? G. O, if I could speak to her, I would prove my relation to her so that she could not deny it any longer. Q. Well, but thou canst not come to speak with her, it seems. G. 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. Q. Í much wonder how thou couldst have such an account. If I had come out to see her, thou hast happened to miss the house, for I assure thee she is not to be found in this house. would believe her, she would assure her, she should never get any intelligence of me by her. That set her into tears again; but after while, recovering herself, she told her,-Perhaps she might be mistaken; and she (the Quaker) should watch herself very narrowly, or she might one time or another get some intelligence from her, whether she would or no; and she was satisfied she had gained 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 would find me out. "Very well," says the Quaker; "then if the lady is not willing to see thee, thou givest 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 would follow her, Here the girl importuned her again with the utinost earnestness, and cried bitterly, insomuch, horrid things upon her, as frightened the poor and her children after her, and denounced such that my poor Quaker was softened with it, and began to persuade me to consider of it, and, if tender-hearted Quaker strangely, and put her more out of temper than ever I saw her before; it might consist with my affairs, to see her, and hear what she had to say; but this was after-ing, and I, that was ten times more uneasy than so that she resolved to go home the next morn wards. I return to the discourse. The Quaker was perplexed with her a long time; she talked of sending back 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, though dangerous if it 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 as she was in a strange place, she would so much befriend her, that she would speak to the people of the house, that if they had room, she might have a lodging there for one night, rather than be forced back to London, before she was free to go. This was a cunning, though a dangerous step, and it succeeded accordingly, for it amused the creature entirely, and she presently concluded, that really I could not be there then; otherwise she would never have asked 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 would go back that afternoon, but she would come back again in two or three days, and search that and all the surrounding towns in an effectual manner, if she staid a week or two to do it; for in short, if I was in England or Holland, she would 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 expense, and the country to a great deal of unnecessary trouble."-" Not unnecessary," says she. Yes, truly," says the Quaker; "it must be unnecessary, because it will be to no purpose. I think I must abide in my house, to save thee that charge and trouble." 66 She said little to that, except that, she said, she would give her as little trouble as possible; but she was afraid she should sometimes be uneasy to her, which she hoped she would excuse. My Quaker told her, she would much rather excuse her, if she would forbear; for that, if she she, resolved 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 owned, if she came any more; but I │ heard no more of her for some time. I stayed there about a fortnight, and in all that time I heard no more of her, or of my Quaker about her; but after two days more, I had a letter from my Quaker, intimating that she had something of moment to say, that she could not communicate by a letter, but wished I would 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 everything gave me the alarm, and this especially, so that I was very uneasy; but I could not bring matters to bear to make my coming to London so clear to my husband as I would have done; for be liked the place, and had a mind, he said, to stay a little longer, if it was not against my inclu→ tion; so I wrote my friend the Quaker word. that I could not come to town yet; and that. besides, I could not think of being there under spies, and afraid to look out of doors; and so. 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 see the impertinent visitor, which had been so troublesome; but that she had seen my trusty agent Amy, who told her that she had cried for six weeks without intermission; that Amy had given her an account how troublesome the cros ture had been, and to what straits and perplexties I was driven by her hunting after and sellowing me from place to place; upon which Amy had said, that notwithstanding I was angry with her, and had used her so hardly for say something about her of the same kind, yet the was an absolute necessity of securing her, s removing her out of the way; and that, in abart, without asking my leave, or any body's leave, dhe would take care she should trouble her mitrs T THE FORTUNATE MISTRESS. (meaning me) no more; and that after Amy had said so, she had indeed heard no more of the girl; so that she supposed Amy had managed 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 persuade her to be quiet and easy, and to give over teazing and following me, and rejoiced in it for my sake; as she thought nothing of any evil herself, so she suspected none in anybody else; and was exceeding glad of having such good news to write to me; but my thoughts of it ran 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 I threw myself upon had almost overcome me. the bed, and cried out-"Lord, be merciful to me, she has murdered my child!"—and with that a flood of tears burst out, and I cried vehemently for above an hour. My husband was very happily gone out ahunting, so that I had an opportunity of being alone, and to give my passions some vent, by which I had a little recovered myself. But after my crying was over, then I fell into a new rage at Amy; I called her a thousand devils, and monsters, and hard-hearted tigers; I reproached her with knowing that I abhorred it, and had let her know it sufficiently, in that I had, as it were, kicked 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 could 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 I seemed to bring it he pressed me to tell him. out with reluctance, but told him, my backward. ness was more because I was ashamed that such a trifle should 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 should have been friends with her again, and the like; and that, in short, I had lost the best servant by rashness that ever woman had. 66 Well, well," says he, "if that be all your grief, I hope you will soon shake it off; I'll warrant you that 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 uneasy and terrified to the last degree, and wanted to get some further account of the thing. So I went to my sure and certain comforter the Quaker, and there I had the whole story about it; and the good innocent Quaker gave me joy of my being rid of such an unsufferable tor mentor. “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 has not made her away?"-" Oh fie !" says my Quaker ; "how canst thou entertain such a notion? no. No, Made her away! Amy did not talk like But it would not do; it run in my head continually; night and day I could think of nothing else; and it fixed such a horror of the fact upon my spirits, and such a detestation of Amy, whom I looked upon as the murderer, that, as for her, I believe if I could have seen her I should certainly have sent her to Newgate, or some worse place, upon suspicion; indeed, I think I could have killed 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 showed 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 knocked out; other times And all these hanged up upon a beam; another time drowned in the great pond at Camberwell. appearances were terrifying to the last degree; and that which was still worse, I could really hear nothing of her; I sent to the captain's wife in I sent thither, and Redriff, and she answered me,-She was gone to her relations in Spitalfields. they said she was there about three weeks ago, but that she went out in a coach with the gentlewoman that used to be so kind to her, but I sent back the messenger whither she was gone they knew not, for she had not been there since. for a description of the woman she went out with, and they described her so perfectly that I knew it to be Amy, and none but Amy. I sent her word again that Mrs Amy, whom she went out with, left her in two or three hours, and that they should search for her, for I had reason to fear she was murdered. This frightened them They believed Amy had carried all intolerably. her to pay a sum of money, and that somebody had watched her after having received it, and had robbed and murdered her. I believed nothing of that part, but I believed, as it was, that whatever was done, Amy had done it; and that, in short, Amy had made her away; and I believed it the more, because Amy came no more near me, but confirmed her guilt by her absence. Upon the whole, I mourned thus for her for above a month; but finding Amy still not come near me, and that I must put my affairs in a posture that I might go to Holland, I opened all my affairs to my dear trusty friend the Quaker, and placed her, in matters of trust, in the room of Amy; and with a heavy bleeding heart for my poor girl, I embarked with my spouse, and all our equipage and goods on board another Holland trader, not a packet-boat, and went over to Holland, where I arrived, as I have said. I must put in a caution, however, here, that you must not understand me as if I let my friend the Quaker into any part of the secret history of my former life; nor did I commit the grand reserved article of all to her, viz., that I was really the girl's mother, and the lady Roxana; there was no need of that part being exposed; and it was always a maxim with me, that secrets should never be opened without evident utility. It could be no manner of use to me or her to communicate that part to her; besides, she was too honest herself to make it safe to me; for though she loved me sincerely, and it was plain by many circumstances that she did so, yet she would not lie for me upon occasion, as Amy would, and therefore it was not advisable on any terms to communicate that part; for if the girl, or any one else, should have come to her afterwards, and put it home to her, whether she knew that I was the girl's mother or not, or was the same as the lady Roxana or not, she either would not have denied it, or would have done it with so ill a grace, such blushing, such hesitations and falterings in her answers, as would have put the matter out of doubt, and betray herself and the secret too. For this reason, I say, I did not discover any. thing of that kind to her; but I placed her, as I have said, in Amy's stead, in the other affairs of receiving money, interests, rents, and the like, and she was as faithful as Amy could be, and as diligent. But there fell out a great difficulty here, which I knew not how to get over; and this was how to convey the usual supply or provision and money to the uncle and the other sister, who depended, especially the sister, upon the said supply for her support; and, indeed, though Amy had said rashly that she would not take any more notice of the sister, and would leave her to perish, as above, yet it was neither in my nature or Amy's either, much less was it my design; and therefore I resolved to leave the management of what I had reserved for that work with my faithful Quaker, but how to direct her to manage them was the great difficulty. Amy had told them in so many words that she was not their mother, but that she was the maid Amy that carried them to their aunts; that she and their mother went over to the East Indies to seek their fortune, and that there good things had befallen them; and that their mother was very rich and happy; that she (Amy) had married in the Indies, but being now a widow, and resolving to come over to England, their mother had obliged her to inquire them out, and do for them as she had done; and that now she was resolved to go back to the Indies again; but that she had orders to do very handsomely by them; and, in a word, told them she had 2,000ž, a piece for them, upon condition that they proved sober, and married suitably to themselves, and did not throw themselves away upon scoundrels. The good family in whose care they had been I had resolved to take more than ordinary notice of; and Amy, by my order, had acquainted them with it, and obliged my daughters to promise to submit to their government, as formerly, and to be ruled by the honest man as by a father and counsellor; and engaged him to treat them as his children; and to oblige him effectually to take care of them, and to make his old age comfortable both to him and his wife, who had been so good to the orphans, I had ordered her to settle the other 2,000/., that is to say, the interest of it, which was 1201. a-year, upon them, to be theirs for both their lives; but to come to my two daughters after them. This was so just, and was so prudently managed by Amy, that nothing she ever did for me, pleased me better. And in this posture, leaving my two daughters with their ancient friend, and so coming away to me, (as they thought to the East Indies,) she had prepared everything in order to her going over with me to Holland; and in this posture that matter stood when the unhappy girl, whom I have said so much of, broke in upon all our measures, as you have heard, and by an obstinacy never to be conquered or pacified, either with threats or persuasions, pursued her search after me (her mother) as I have said, till she brought me even to the brink of destruction, and would, in all probability, have traced me out at last, if Amy had not, by the violence of her passion, and by a way which I had no knowledge of, and indeed abhorred, put a stop to her, of which I cannot enter into the particulars here. However, notwithstanding this, I could not think of going away and leaving this work so unfinished as Amy had threatened to do, and for the folly of one child to leave the other to starve; or to stop my determined bounty to the good family I have mentioned. So, in a word, I com mitted the finishing it all to my good friend the Quaker, to whom I communicated as much of the old story as needful to empower her to per form what Amy had promised, and to make her talk so much to the purpose, as one employed more remotely than Amy had been, needed to do. doTo this purpose, she had first of all a full pos session of the money; and went first to the honest man and his wife, and settled all the matter with them; when she talked of Mrs Amy, she talked of her as one that had been empowered by the mother of the girls, in the Indies, but was obliged to go back to the Indies, and had settled all sooner, if she had not been hindered by the obstinate humour of the other daughter; that she had left instructions with her for the rest; but that the other had affronted her so much, that she was gone away without doing anything for her; and that now, if anything was done, it must be by fresh orders from the East Indies. I need not say how punctually my new agent acted; but what was more, she brought the old man and his wife, and my other daughter, several times to her house, by which I had an oppor tunity, being there only as a lodger, and a stranger, to see my other girl, which I had never done before since she was a little child. The day I contrived to see them, I was dressed up in a Quaker's habit, and looked so like a Quaker, that it was impossible for them, whe had never seen me before, to suppose that I had ever been anything else; also my way of talking was suitable enough to it, for I had learned that long before. I have not time here to take notice what a surprise it was to me to see my child, how it worked upon my affections; with what infinite struggle I mastered a strong inclination that I had to discover myself to her; how the girl was the very counterpart of myself, only much handsomer; and how sweetly and modestly she behaved; how on that occasion I resolved to do more for her, than I had appointed by Amy, and the like. It is enough to mention here, that as the set |