PAMELA
or
VIRTUE REWARDED

By Samuel Richardson




CONTENTS

 PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
 PAMELA, or VIRTUE REWARDED
 LETTER I
 LETTER II
 LETTER III
 LETTER IV
 LETTER V
 LETTER VI
 LETTER VII
 LETTER VIII
 LETTER IX
 LETTER X
 LETTER XI
 LETTER XII
 LETTER XIII
 LETTER XIV
 LETTER XV
 LETTER XVI
 LETTER XVII
 LETTER XVIII
 LETTER XIX
 LETTER XX
 LETTER XXI
 LETTER XXII
 LETTER XXIII
 LETTER XXIV
 LETTER XXV
 LETTER XXVI
 LETTER XXVII
 LETTER XXVIII
 LETTER XXIX
 LETTER XXX
 LETTER XXXI
 LETTER XXXII




PUBLISHERS’ NOTE


Samuel Richardson, the first, in order of time, of the great English
novelists, was born in 1689 and died at London in 1761. He was a
printer by trade, and rose to be master of the Stationers’ Company.
That he also became a novelist was due to his skill as a letter-writer,
which brought him, in his fiftieth year, a commission to write a volume
of model “familiar letters” as an aid to persons too illiterate to
compose their own. The notion of connecting these letters by a story
which had interested him suggested the plot of “Pamela”; and determined
its epistolary form—a form which was retained in his later works.

This novel (published 1740) created an epoch in the history of English
fiction, and, with its successors, exerted a wide influence upon
Continental literature. It is appropriately included in a series which
is designed to form a group of studies of English life by the masters
of English fiction. For it marked the transition from the novel of
adventure to the novel of character—from the narration of entertaining
events to the study of men and of manners, of motives and of
sentiments. In it the romantic interest of the story (which is of the
slightest) is subordinated to the moral interest in the conduct of its
characters in the various situations in which they are placed. Upon
this aspect of the “drama of human life” Richardson cast a most
observant, if not always a penetrating glance. His works are an almost
microscopically detailed picture of English domestic life in the early
part of the eighteenth century.




PAMELA, or VIRTUE REWARDED


LETTER I




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I have great trouble, and some comfort, to acquaint you with. The
trouble is, that my good lady died of the illness I mentioned to you,
and left us all much grieved for the loss of her; for she was a dear
good lady, and kind to all us her servants. Much I feared, that as I
was taken by her ladyship to wait upon her person, I should be quite
destitute again, and forced to return to you and my poor mother, who
have enough to do to maintain yourselves; and, as my lady’s goodness
had put me to write and cast accounts, and made me a little expert at
my needle, and otherwise qualified above my degree, it was not every
family that could have found a place that your poor Pamela was fit for:
but God, whose graciousness to us we have so often experienced at a
pinch, put it into my good lady’s heart, on her death-bed, just an hour
before she expired, to recommend to my young master all her servants,
one by one; and when it came to my turn to be recommended, (for I was
sobbing and crying at her pillow) she could only say, My dear son!—and
so broke off a little; and then recovering—Remember my poor Pamela—And
these were some of her last words! O how my eyes run—Don’t wonder to
see the paper so blotted.

Well, but God’s will must be done!—And so comes the comfort, that I
shall not be obliged to return back to be a clog upon my dear parents!
For my master said, I will take care of you all, my good maidens; and
for you, Pamela, (and took me by the hand; yes, he took my hand before
them all,) for my dear mother’s sake, I will be a friend to you, and
you shall take care of my linen. God bless him! and pray with me, my
dear father and mother, for a blessing upon him, for he has given
mourning and a year’s wages to all my lady’s servants; and I having no
wages as yet, my lady having said she should do for me as I deserved,
ordered the housekeeper to give me mourning with the rest; and gave me
with his own hand four golden guineas, and some silver, which were in
my old lady’s pocket when she died; and said, if I was a good girl, and
faithful and diligent, he would be a friend to me, for his mother’s
sake. And so I send you these four guineas for your comfort; for
Providence will not let me want: And so you may pay some old debt with
part, and keep the other part to comfort you both. If I get more, I am
sure it is my duty, and it shall be my care, to love and cherish you
both; for you have loved and cherished me, when I could do nothing for
myself. I send them by John, our footman, who goes your way: but he
does not know what he carries; because I seal them up in one of the
little pill-boxes, which my lady had, wrapt close in paper, that they
mayn’t chink; and be sure don’t open it before him.

I know, dear father and mother, I must give you both grief and
pleasure; and so I will only say, Pray for your Pamela; who will ever
be

Your most dutiful DAUGHTER.

I have been scared out of my senses; for just now, as I was folding up
this letter in my late lady’s dressing-room, in comes my young master!
Good sirs! how was I frightened! I went to hide the letter in my bosom;
and he, seeing me tremble, said, smiling, To whom have you been
writing, Pamela?—I said, in my confusion, Pray your honour forgive
me!—Only to my father and mother. He said, Well then, let me see how
you are come on in your writing! O how ashamed I was!—He took it,
without saying more, and read it quite through, and then gave it me
again;—and I said, Pray your honour forgive me!—Yet I know not for
what: for he was always dutiful to his parents; and why should he be
angry that I was so to mine? And indeed he was not angry; for he took
me by the hand, and said, You are a good girl, Pamela, to be kind to
your aged father and mother. I am not angry with you for writing such
innocent matters as these: though you ought to be wary what tales you
send out of a family.—Be faithful and diligent; and do as you should
do, and I like you the better for this. And then he said, Why, Pamela,
you write a very pretty hand, and spell tolerably too. I see my good
mother’s care in your learning has not been thrown away upon you. She
used to say you loved reading; you may look into any of her books, to
improve yourself, so you take care of them. To be sure I did nothing
but courtesy and cry, and was all in confusion, at his goodness. Indeed
he is the best of gentlemen, I think! But I am making another long
letter: So will only add to it, that I shall ever be Your dutiful
daughter, PAMELA ANDREWS.


LETTER II




[In answer to the preceding.]

DEAR PAMELA,

Your letter was indeed a great trouble, and some comfort, to me and
your poor mother. We are troubled, to be sure, for your good lady’s
death, who took such care of you, and gave you learning, and, for three
or four years past, has always been giving you clothes and linen, and
every thing that a gentlewoman need not be ashamed to appear in. But
our chief trouble is, and indeed a very great one, for fear you should
be brought to anything dishonest or wicked, by being set so above
yourself. Every body talks how you have come on, and what a genteel
girl you are; and some say you are very pretty; and, indeed, six months
since, when I saw you last, I should have thought so myself, if you was
not our child. But what avails all this, if you are to be ruined and
undone!—Indeed, my dear Pamela, we begin to be in great fear for you;
for what signify all the riches in the world, with a bad conscience,
and to be dishonest! We are, ’tis true, very poor, and find it hard
enough to live; though once, as you know, it was better with us. But we
would sooner live upon the water, and, if possible, the clay of the
ditches I contentedly dig, than live better at the price of our child’s
ruin.

I hope the good ’squire has no design: but when he has given you so
much money, and speaks so kindly to you, and praises your coming on;
and, oh, that fatal word! that he would be kind to you, if you would do
as you should do, almost kills us with fears.

I have spoken to good old widow Mumford about it, who, you know, has
formerly lived in good families; and she puts us in some comfort; for
she says it is not unusual, when a lady dies, to give what she has
about her person to her waiting-maid, and to such as sit up with her in
her illness. But, then, why should he smile so kindly upon you? Why
should he take such a poor girl as you by the hand, as your letter says
he has done twice? Why should he stoop to read your letter to us; and
commend your writing and spelling? And why should he give you leave to
read his mother’s books?—Indeed, indeed, my dearest child, our hearts
ache for you; and then you seem so full of joy at his goodness, so
taken with his kind expressions, (which, truly, are very great favours,
if he means well) that we fear—yes, my dear child, we fear—you should
be too grateful,—and reward him with that jewel, your virtue, which no
riches, nor favour, nor any thing in this life, can make up to you.

I, too, have written a long letter, but will say one thing more; and
that is, that, in the midst of our poverty and misfortunes, we have
trusted in God’s goodness, and been honest, and doubt not to be happy
hereafter, if we continue to be good, though our lot is hard here; but
the loss of our dear child’s virtue would be a grief that we could not
bear, and would bring our grey hairs to the grave at once.

If, then, you love us, if you wish for God’s blessing, and your own
future happiness, we both charge you to stand upon your guard: and, if
you find the least attempt made upon your virtue, be sure you leave
every thing behind you, and come away to us; for we had rather see you
all covered with rags, and even follow you to the churchyard, than have
it said, a child of ours preferred any worldly conveniences to her
virtue.

We accept kindly your dutiful present; but, till we are out of pain,
cannot make use of it, for fear we should partake of the price of our
poor daughter’s shame: so have laid it up in a rag among the thatch,
over the window, for a while, lest we should be robbed. With our
blessings, and our hearty prayers for you, we remain,

Your careful, but loving Father and Mother,

JOHN AND ELIZABETH ANDREWS.


LETTER III




DEAR FATHER,

I must needs say, your letter has filled me with trouble, for it has
made my heart, which was overflowing with gratitude for my master’s
goodness, suspicious and fearful: and yet I hope I shall never find him
to act unworthy of his character; for what could he get by ruining such
a poor young creature as me? But that which gives me most trouble is,
that you seem to mistrust the honesty of your child. No, my dear father
and mother, be assured, that, by God’s grace, I never will do any thing
that shall bring your grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. I will die a
thousand deaths, rather than be dishonest any way. Of that be assured,
and set your hearts at rest; for although I have lived above myself for
some time past, yet I can be content with rags and poverty, and bread
and water, and will embrace them, rather than forfeit my good name, let
who will be the tempter. And of this pray rest satisfied, and think
better of Your dutiful DAUGHTER till death.

My master continues to be very affable to me. As yet I see no cause to
fear any thing. Mrs. Jervis, the housekeeper, too, is very civil to me,
and I have the love of every body. Sure they can’t all have designs
against me, because they are civil! I hope I shall always behave so as
to be respected by every one; and that nobody would do me more hurt
than I am sure I would do them. Our John so often goes your way, that I
will always get him to call, that you may hear from me, either by
writing, (for it brings my hand in,) or by word of mouth.


LETTER IV




DEAR MOTHER,

For the last was to my father, in answer to his letter; and so I will
now write to you; though I have nothing to say, but what will make me
look more like a vain hussy, than any thing else: However, I hope I
shan’t be so proud as to forget myself. Yet there is a secret pleasure
one has to hear one’s self praised. You must know, then, that my Lady
Davers, who, I need not tell you, is my master’s sister, has been a
month at our house, and has taken great notice of me, and given me good
advice to keep myself to myself. She told me I was a pretty wench, and
that every body gave me a very good character, and loved me; and bid me
take care to keep the fellows at a distance; and said, that I might do,
and be more valued for it, even by themselves.

But what pleased me much was, what I am going to tell you; for at
table, as Mrs. Jervis says, my master and her ladyship talking of me,
she told him she thought me the prettiest wench she ever saw in her
life; and that I was too pretty to live in a bachelor’s house; since no
lady he might marry would care to continue me with her. He said, I was
vastly improved, and had a good share of prudence, and sense above my
years; and that it would be pity, that what was my merit should be my
misfortune.—No, says my good lady, Pamela shall come and live with me,
I think. He said, with all his heart; he should be glad to have me so
well provided for. Well, said she, I’ll consult my lord about it. She
asked how old I was; and Mrs. Jervis said, I was fifteen last February.
O! says she, if the wench (for so she calls all us maiden servants)
takes care of herself, she’ll improve yet more and more, as well in her
person as mind.

Now, my dear father and mother, though this may look too vain to be
repeated by me; yet are you not rejoiced, as well as I, to see my
master so willing to part with me?—This shews that he has nothing bad
in his heart. But John is just going away; and so I have only to say,
that I am, and will always be,

Your honest as well as dutiful DAUGHTER.

Pray make use of the money. You may now do it safely.


LETTER V




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

John being to go your way, I am willing to write, because he is so
willing to carry any thing for me. He says it does him good at his
heart to see you both, and to hear you talk. He says you are both so
sensible, and so honest, that he always learns something from you to
the purpose. It is a thousand pities, he says, that such worthy hearts
should not have better luck in the world! and wonders, that you, my
father, who are so well able to teach, and write so good a hand,
succeeded no better in the school you attempted to set up; but was
forced to go to such hard labour. But this is more pride to me, that I
am come of such honest parents, than if I had been born a lady.

I hear nothing yet of going to Lady Davers; and I am very easy at
present here: for Mrs. Jervis uses me as if I were her own daughter,
and is a very good woman, and makes my master’s interest her own. She
is always giving me good counsel, and I love her next to you two, I
think, best of any body. She keeps so good rule and order, she is
mightily respected by us all; and takes delight to hear me read to her;
and all she loves to hear read, is good books, which we read whenever
we are alone; so that I think I am at home with you. She heard one of
our men, Harry, who is no better than he should be, speak freely to me;
I think he called me his pretty Pamela, and took hold of me, as if he
would have kissed me; for which, you may be sure, I was very angry: and
she took him to task, and was as angry at him as could be; and told me
she was very well pleased to see my prudence and modesty, and that I
kept all the fellows at a distance. And indeed I am sure I am not
proud, and carry it civilly to every body; but yet, methinks, I cannot
bear to be looked upon by these men-servants, for they seem as if they
would look one through; and, as I generally breakfast, dine, and sup,
with Mrs. Jervis, (so good she is to me,) I am very easy that I have so
little to say to them. Not but they are civil to me in the main, for
Mrs. Jervis’s sake, who they see loves me; and they stand in awe of
her, knowing her to be a gentlewoman born, though she has had
misfortunes. I am going on again with a long letter; for I love
writing, and shall tire you. But, when I began, I only intended to say,
that I am quite fearless of any danger now: and, indeed, cannot but
wonder at myself, (though your caution to me was your watchful love,)
that I should be so foolish as to be so uneasy as I have been: for I am
sure my master would not demean himself, so as to think upon such a
poor girl as I, for my harm. For such a thing would ruin his credit, as
well as mine, you know: who, to be sure, may expect one of the best
ladies in the land. So no more at present, but that I am

Your ever dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER VI




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

My master has been very kind since my last; for he has given me a suit
of my late lady’s clothes, and half a dozen of her shifts, and six fine
handkerchiefs, and three of her cambric aprons, and four holland ones.
The clothes are fine silk, and too rich and too good for me, to be
sure. I wish it was no affront to him to make money of them, and send
it to you: it would do me more good.

You will be full of fears, I warrant now, of some design upon me, till
I tell you, that he was with Mrs. Jervis when he gave them me; and he
gave her a mort of good things, at the same time, and bid her wear them
in remembrance of her good friend, my lady, his mother. And when he
gave me these fine things, he said, These, Pamela, are for you; have
them made fit for you, when your mourning is laid by, and wear them for
your good mistress’s sake. Mrs. Jervis gives you a very good word; and
I would have you continue to behave as prudently as you have done
hitherto, and every body will be your friend.

I was so surprised at his goodness, that I could not tell what to say.
I courtesied to him, and to Mrs. Jervis for her good word; and said, I
wished I might be deserving of his favour, and her kindness: and
nothing should be wanting in me, to the best of my knowledge.

O how amiable a thing is doing good!—It is all I envy great folks for.

I always thought my young master a fine gentleman, as every body says
he is: but he gave these good things to us both with such a
graciousness, as I thought he looked like an angel.

Mrs. Jervis says, he asked her, If I kept the men at a distance? for,
he said, I was very pretty; and to be drawn in to have any of them,
might be my ruin, and make me poor and miserable betimes. She never is
wanting to give me a good word, and took occasion to launch out in my
praise, she says. But I hope she has said no more than I shall try to
deserve, though I mayn’t at present. I am sure I will always love her,
next to you and my dear mother. So I rest

Your ever dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER VII




DEAR FATHER,

Since my last, my master gave me more fine things. He called me up to
my late lady’s closet, and, pulling out her drawers, he gave me two
suits of fine Flanders laced head-clothes, three pair of fine silk
shoes, two hardly the worse, and just fit for me, (for my lady had a
very little foot,) and the other with wrought silver buckles in them;
and several ribands and top-knots of all colours; four pair of white
fine cotton stockings, and three pair of fine silk ones; and two pair
of rich stays. I was quite astonished, and unable to speak for a while;
but yet I was inwardly ashamed to take the stockings; for Mrs. Jervis
was not there: If she had, it would have been nothing. I believe I
received them very awkwardly; for he smiled at my awkwardness, and
said, Don’t blush, Pamela: Dost think I don’t know pretty maids should
wear shoes and stockings?

I was so confounded at these words, you might have beat me down with a
feather. For you must think, there was no answer to be made to this:
So, like a fool, I was ready to cry; and went away courtesying and
blushing, I am sure, up to the ears; for, though there was no harm in
what he said, yet I did not know how to take it. But I went and told
all to Mrs. Jervis, who said, God put it into his heart to be good to
me; and I must double my diligence. It looked to her, she said, as if
he would fit me in dress for a waiting-maid’s place on Lady Davers’s
own person.

But still your kind fatherly cautions came into my head, and made all
these gifts nothing near to me what they would have been. But yet, I
hope, there is no reason; for what good could it do to him to harm such
a simple maiden as me? Besides, to be sure no lady would look upon him,
if he should so disgrace himself. So I will make myself easy; and,
indeed, I should never have been otherwise, if you had not put it into
my head; for my good, I know very well. But, may be, without these
uneasinesses to mingle with these benefits, I might be too much puffed
up: So I will conclude, all that happens is for our good; and God bless
you, my dear father and mother; and I know you constantly pray for a
blessing upon me; who am, and shall always be,

Your dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER VIII




DEAR PAMELA,

I cannot but renew my cautions on your master’s kindness, and his free
expression to you about the stockings. Yet there may not be, and I hope
there is not, any thing in it. But when I reflect, that there possibly
may, and that if there should, no less depends upon it than my child’s
everlasting happiness in this world and the next; it is enough to make
one fearful for you. Arm yourself, my dear child, for the worst; and
resolve to lose your life sooner than your virtue. What though the
doubts I filled you with, lessen the pleasure you would have had in
your master’s kindness; yet what signify the delights that arise from a
few paltry fine clothes, in comparison with a good conscience?

These are, indeed, very great favours that he heaps upon you, but so
much the more to be suspected; and when you say he looked so amiably,
and like an angel, how afraid I am, that they should make too great an
impression upon you! For, though you are blessed with sense and
prudence above your years, yet I tremble to think, what a sad hazard a
poor maiden of little more than fifteen years of age stands against the
temptations of this world, and a designing young gentleman, if he
should prove so, who has so much power to oblige, and has a kind of
authority to command, as your master.

I charge you, my dear child, on both our blessings, poor as we are, to
be on your guard; there can be no harm in that. And since Mrs. Jervis
is so good a gentlewoman, and so kind to you, I am the easier a great
deal, and so is your mother; and we hope you will hide nothing from
her, and take her counsel in every thing. So, with our blessings, and
assured prayers for you, more than for ourselves, we remain,

Your loving FATHER AND MOTHER.

Be sure don’t let people’s telling you, you are pretty, puff you up;
for you did not make yourself, and so can have no praise due to you for
it. It is virtue and goodness only, that make the true beauty. Remember
that, Pamela.


LETTER IX




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I am sorry to write you word, that the hopes I had of going to wait on
Lady Davers, are quite over. My lady would have had me; but my master,
as I heard by the by, would not consent to it. He said her nephew might
be taken with me, and I might draw him in, or be drawn in by him; and
he thought, as his mother loved me, and committed me to his care, he
ought to continue me with him; and Mrs. Jervis would be a mother to me.
Mrs. Jervis tells me the lady shook her head, and said, Ah! brother!
and that was all. And as you have made me fearful by your cautions, my
heart at times misgives me. But I say nothing yet of your caution, or
my own uneasiness, to Mrs. Jervis; not that I mistrust her, but for
fear she should think me presumptuous, and vain and conceited, to have
any fears about the matter, from the great distance between such a
gentleman, and so poor a girl. But yet Mrs. Jervis seemed to build
something upon Lady Davers’s shaking her head, and saying, Ah! brother!
and no more. God, I hope, will give me his grace: and so I will not, if
I can help it, make myself too uneasy; for I hope there is no occasion.
But every little matter that happens, I will acquaint you with, that
you may continue to me your good advice, and pray for

Your sad-hearted PAMELA.


LETTER X




DEAR MOTHER,

You and my good father may wonder you have not had a letter from me in
so many weeks; but a sad, sad scene, has been the occasion of it. For
to be sure, now it is too plain, that all your cautions were well
grounded. O my dear mother! I am miserable, truly miserable!—But yet,
don’t be frightened, I am honest!—God, of his goodness, keep me so!

O this angel of a master! this fine gentleman! this gracious benefactor
to your poor Pamela! who was to take care of me at the prayer of his
good dying mother; who was so apprehensive for me, lest I should be
drawn in by Lord Davers’s nephew, that he would not let me go to Lady
Davers’s: This very gentleman (yes, I must call him gentleman, though
he has fallen from the merit of that title) has degraded himself to
offer freedoms to his poor servant! He has now shewed himself in his
true colours; and, to me, nothing appear so black, and so frightful.

I have not been idle; but had writ from time to time, how he, by sly
mean degrees, exposed his wicked views; but somebody stole my letter,
and I know not what has become of it. It was a very long one. I fear,
he that was mean enough to do bad things, in one respect, did not stick
at this. But be it as it will, all the use he can make of it will be,
that he may be ashamed of his part; I not of mine: for he will see I
was resolved to be virtuous, and gloried in the honesty of my poor
parents.

I will tell you all, the next opportunity; for I am watched very
narrowly; and he says to Mrs. Jervis, This girl is always scribbling; I
think she may be better employed. And yet I work all hours with my
needle, upon his linen, and the fine linen of the family; and am,
besides, about flowering him a waistcoat.—But, oh! my heart’s broke
almost; for what am I likely to have for my reward, but shame and
disgrace, or else ill words, and hard treatment! I’ll tell you all
soon, and hope I shall find my long letter.

Your most afflicted DAUGHTER.

May-be, I _he_ and _him_ him too much: but it is his own fault if I do.
For why did he lose all his dignity with me?


LETTER XI




DEAR MOTHER,

Well, I can’t find my letter, and so I’ll try to recollect it all, and
be as brief as I can. All went well enough in the main for some time
after my letter but one. At last, I saw some reason to suspect; for he
would look upon me, whenever he saw me, in such a manner, as shewed not
well; and one day he came to me, as I was in the summer-house in the
little garden, at work with my needle, and Mrs. Jervis was just gone
from me; and I would have gone out, but he said, No don’t go, Pamela; I
have something to say to you; and you always fly me when I come near
you, as if you were afraid of me.

I was much out of countenance, you may well think; but said, at last,
It does not become your good servant to stay in your presence, sir,
without your business required it; and I hope I shall always know my
place.

Well, says he, my business does require it sometimes; and I have a mind
you should stay to hear what I have to say to you.

I stood still confounded, and began to tremble, and the more when he
took me by the hand; for now no soul was near us.

My sister Davers, said he, (and seemed, I thought, to be as much at a
loss for words as I,) would have had you live with her; but she would
not do for you what I am resolved to do, if you continue faithful and
obliging. What say’st thou, my girl? said he, with some eagerness;
had’st thou not rather stay with me, than go to my sister Davers? He
looked so, as filled me with affrightment; I don’t know how; wildly, I
thought.

I said, when I could speak, Your honour will forgive me; but as you
have no lady for me to wait upon, and my good lady has been now dead
this twelvemonth, I had rather, if it would not displease you, wait
upon Lady Davers, because—

I was proceeding, and he said, a little hastily—Because you are a
little fool, and know not what’s good for yourself. I tell you I will
make a gentlewoman of you, if you be obliging, and don’t stand in your
own light; and so saying, he put his arm about me, and kissed me!

Now, you will say, all his wickedness appeared plainly. I struggled and
trembled, and was so benumbed with terror, that I sunk down, not in a
fit, and yet not myself; and I found myself in his arms, quite void of
strength; and he kissed me two or three times, with frightful
eagerness.—At last I burst from him, and was getting out of the
summer-house; but he held me back, and shut the door.

I would have given my life for a farthing. And he said, I’ll do you no
harm, Pamela; don’t be afraid of me. I said, I won’t stay. You won’t,
hussy! said he: Do you know whom you speak to? I lost all fear, and all
respect, and said, Yes, I do, sir, too well!—Well may I forget that I
am your servant, when you forget what belongs to a master.

I sobbed and cried most sadly. What a foolish hussy you are! said he:
Have I done you any harm? Yes, sir, said I, the greatest harm in the
world: You have taught me to forget myself and what belongs to me, and
have lessened the distance that fortune has made between us, by
demeaning yourself, to be so free to a poor servant. Yet, sir, I will
be bold to say, I am honest, though poor: and if you was a prince, I
would not be otherwise.

He was angry, and said, Who would have you otherwise, you foolish slut!
Cease your blubbering. I own I have demeaned myself; but it was only to
try you. If you can keep this matter secret, you’ll give me the better
opinion of your prudence; and here’s something, said he, putting some
gold in my hand, to make you amends for the fright I put you in. Go,
take a walk in the garden, and don’t go in till your blubbering is
over: and I charge you say nothing of what is past, and all shall be
well, and I’ll forgive you.

I won’t take the money, indeed, sir, said I, poor as I am I won’t take
it. For, to say truth, I thought it looked like taking earnest, and so
I put it upon the bench; and as he seemed vexed and confused at what he
had done, I took the opportunity to open the door, and went out of the
summer-house.

He called to me, and said, Be secret; I charge you, Pamela; and don’t
go in yet, as I told you.

O how poor and mean must those actions be, and how little must they
make the best of gentlemen look, when they offer such things as are
unworthy of themselves, and put it into the power of their inferiors to
be greater than they!

I took a turn or two in the garden, but in sight of the house, for fear
of the worst; and breathed upon my hand to dry my eyes, because I would
not be too disobedient. My next shall tell you more.

Pray for me, my dear father and mother: and don’t be angry I have not
yet run away from this house, so late my comfort and delight, but now
my terror and anguish. I am forced to break off hastily.

Your dutiful and honest DAUGHTER.


LETTER XII




DEAR MOTHER,

Well, I will now proceed with my sad story. And so, after I had dried
my eyes, I went in, and began to ruminate with myself what I had best
to do. Sometimes I thought I would leave the house and go to the next
town, and wait an opportunity to get to you; but then I was at a loss
to resolve whether to take away the things he had given me or no, and
how to take them away: Sometimes I thought to leave them behind me, and
only go with the clothes on my back, but then I had two miles and a
half, and a byway, to the town; and being pretty well dressed, I might
come to some harm, almost as bad as what I would run away from; and
then may-be, thought I, it will be reported, I have stolen something,
and so was forced to run away; and to carry a bad name back with me to
my dear parents, would be a sad thing indeed!—O how I wished for my
grey russet again, and my poor honest dress, with which you fitted me
out, (and hard enough too it was for you to do it!) for going to this
place, when I was not twelve years old, in my good lady’s days!
Sometimes I thought of telling Mrs. Jervis, and taking her advice, and
only feared his command to be secret; for, thought I, he may be ashamed
of his actions, and never attempt the like again: And as poor Mrs.
Jervis depended upon him, through misfortunes, that had attended her, I
thought it would be a sad thing to bring his displeasure upon her for
my sake.

In this quandary, now considering, now crying, and not knowing what to
do, I passed the time in my chamber till evening; when desiring to be
excused going to supper, Mrs. Jervis came up to me, and said, Why must
I sup without you, Pamela? Come, I see you are troubled at something;
tell me what is the matter.

I begged I might be permitted to be with her on nights; for I was
afraid of spirits, and they would not hurt such a good person as she.
That was a silly excuse, she said; for why was not you afraid of
spirits before?—(Indeed I did not think of that.) But you shall be my
bed-fellow with all my heart, added she, let your reason be what it
will; only come down to supper. I begged to be excused; for, said I, I
have been crying so, that it will be taken notice of by my
fellow-servants; and I will hide nothing from you, Mrs. Jervis, when we
are alone.

She was so good to indulge me; but made haste to come up to bed; and
told the servants, that I should be with her, because she could not
rest well, and would get me to read her to sleep; for she knew I loved
reading, she said.

When we were alone, I told her all that had passed; for I thought,
though he had bid me not, yet if he should come to know I had told, it
would be no worse; for to keep a secret of such a nature, would be, as
I apprehended, to deprive myself of the good advice which I never
wanted more; and might encourage him to think I did not resent it as I
ought, and would keep worse secrets, and so make him do worse by me.
Was I right, my dear mother?

Mrs. Jervis could not help mingling tears with my tears; for I cried
all the time I was telling her the story, and begged her to advise me
what to do; and I shewed her my dear father’s two letters, and she
praised the honesty and editing of them, and said pleasing things to me
of you both. But she begged I would not think of leaving my service;
for, said she, in all likelihood, you behaved so virtuously, that he
will be ashamed of what he has done, and never offer the like to you
again: though, my dear Pamela, said she, I fear more for your
prettiness than for anything else; because the best man in the land
might love you: so she was pleased to say. She wished it was in her
power to live independent; then she would take a little private house,
and I should live with her like her daughter.

And so, as you ordered me to take her advice, I resolved to tarry to
see how things went, except he was to turn me away; although, in your
first letter, you ordered me to come away the moment I had any reason
to be apprehensive. So, dear father and mother, it is not disobedience,
I hope, that I stay; for I could not expect a blessing, or the good
fruits of your prayers for me, if I was disobedient.

All the next day I was very sad, and began my long letter. He saw me
writing, and said (as I mentioned) to Mrs. Jervis, That girl is always
scribbling; methinks she might find something else to do, or to that
purpose. And when I had finished my letter, I put it under the toilet
in my late lady’s dressing-room, whither nobody comes but myself and
Mrs. Jervis, besides my master; but when I came up again to seal it, to
my great concern, it was gone; and Mrs. Jervis knew nothing of it; and
nobody knew of my master’s having been near the place in the time; so I
have been sadly troubled about it: But Mrs. Jervis, as well as I,
thinks he has it, some how or other; and he appears cross and angry,
and seems to shun me, as much as he said I did him. It had better be so
than worse!

But he has ordered Mrs. Jervis to bid me not pass so much time in
writing; which is a poor matter for such a gentleman as he to take
notice of, as I am not idle other ways, if he did not resent what he
thought I wrote upon. And this has no very good look.

But I am a good deal easier since I lie with Mrs. Jervis; though, after
all, the fears I live in on one side, and his frowning and displeasure
at what I do on the other, make me more miserable than enough.

O that I had never left my little bed in the loft, to be thus exposed
to temptations on one hand, or disgusts on the other! How happy was I
awhile ago! How contrary now!—Pity and pray for

Your afflicted

PAMELA.


LETTER XIII




My DEAREST CHILD,

Our hearts bleed for your distress, and the temptations you are exposed
to. You have our hourly prayers; and we would have you flee this evil
great house and man, if you find he renews his attempts. You ought to
have done it at first, had you not had Mrs. Jervis to advise with. We
can find no fault in your conduct hitherto: But it makes our hearts
ache for fear of the worst. O my child! temptations are sore
things,—but yet, without them, we know not ourselves, nor what we are
able to do.

Your danger is very great; for you have riches, youth, and a fine
gentleman, as the world reckons him, to withstand; but how great will
be your honour to withstand them! And when we consider your past
conduct, and your virtuous education, and that you have been bred to be
more ashamed of dishonesty than poverty, we trust in God, that He will
enable you to overcome. Yet, as we can’t see but your life must be a
burthen to you, through the great apprehensions always upon you; and
that it may be presumptuous to trust too much to our own strength; and
that you are but very young; and the devil may put it into his heart to
use some stratagem, of which great men are full, to decoy you: I think
you had better come home to share our poverty with safety, than live
with so much discontent in a plenty, that itself may be dangerous. God
direct you for the best! While you have Mrs. Jervis for an adviser and
bed-fellow, (and, O my dear child! that was prudently done of you,) we
are easier than we should be; and so committing you to the divine
protection, remain

Your truly loving, but careful,

FATHER and MOTHER.


LETTER XIV




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

Mrs. Jervis and I have lived very comfortably together for this
fortnight past; for my master was all that time at his Lincolnshire
estate, and at his sister’s, the Lady Davers. But he came home
yesterday. He had some talk with Mrs. Jervis soon after, and mostly
about me. He said to her, it seems, Well, Mrs. Jervis, I know Pamela
has your good word; but do you think her of any use in the family? She
told me she was surprised at the question, but said, That I was one of
the most virtuous and industrious young creatures that ever she knew.
Why that word virtuous, said he, I pray you? Was there any reason to
suppose her otherwise? Or has any body taken it into his head to try
her?—I wonder, sir, says she, you ask such a question! Who dare offer
any thing to her in such an orderly and well-governed house as yours,
and under a master of so good a character for virtue and honour? Your
servant, Mrs. Jervis, says he, for your good opinion: but pray, if any
body did, do you think Pamela would let you know it? Why, sir, said
she, she is a poor innocent young creature, and I believe has so much
confidence in me, that she would take my advice as soon as she would
her mother’s. Innocent! again, and virtuous, I warrant! Well, Mrs.
Jervis, you abound with your epithets; but I take her to be an artful
young baggage; and had I a young handsome butler or steward, she’d soon
make her market of one of them, if she thought it worth while to snap
at him for a husband. Alack-a-day, sir, said she, it is early days with
Pamela; and she does not yet think of a husband, I dare say: and your
steward and butler are both men in years, and think nothing of the
matter. No, said he, if they were younger, they’d have more wit than to
think of such a girl; I’ll tell you my mind of her, Mrs. Jervis: I
don’t think this same favourite of yours so very artless a girl as you
imagine. I am not to dispute with your honour, said Mrs. Jervis; but I
dare say, if the men will let her alone, she’ll never trouble herself
about them. Why, Mrs. Jervis, said he, are there any men that will not
let her alone, that you know of? No, indeed, sir, said she; she keeps
herself so much to herself, and yet behaves so prudently, that they all
esteem her, and shew her as great a respect as if she was a gentlewoman
born.

Ay, says he, that’s her art, that I was speaking of: but, let me tell
you, the girl has vanity and conceit, and pride too, or I am mistaken;
and, perhaps, I could give you an instance of it. Sir, said she, you
can see farther than such a poor silly woman as I am; but I never saw
any thing but innocence in her—And virtue too, I’ll warrant ye! said
he. But suppose I could give you an instance, where she has talked a
little too freely of the kindnesses that have been shewn her from a
certain quarter; and has had the vanity to impute a few kind words,
uttered in mere compassion to her youth and circumstances, into a
design upon her, and even dared to make free with names that she ought
never to mention but with reverence and gratitude; what would you say
to that?—Say, sir! said she, I cannot tell what to say. But I hope
Pamela incapable of such ingratitude.

Well, no more of this silly girl, says he; you may only advise her, as
you are her friend, not to give herself too much licence upon the
favours she meets with; and if she stays here, that she will not write
the affairs of my family purely for an exercise to her pen, and her
invention. I tell you she is a subtle, artful gipsy, and time will shew
it you.

Was ever the like heard, my dear father and mother? It is plain he did
not expect to meet with such a repulse, and mistrusts that I have told
Mrs. Jervis, and has my long letter too, that I intended for you; and
so is vexed to the heart. But I can’t help it. I had better be thought
artful and subtle, than be so, in his sense; and, as light as he makes
of the words virtue and innocence in me, he would have made a less
angry construction, had I less deserved that he should do so; for then,
may be, my crime should have been my virtue with him naughty gentleman
as he is!

I will soon write again; but must now end with saying, that I am, and
shall always be, Your honest DAUGHTER.


LETTER XV




DEAR MOTHER,

I broke off abruptly my last letter; for I feared he was coming; and so
it happened. I put the letter in my bosom, and took up my work, which
lay by me; but I had so little of the artful, as he called it, that I
looked as confused as if I had been doing some great harm.

Sit still, Pamela, said he, mind your work, for all me.—You don’t tell
me I am welcome home, after my journey to Lincolnshire. It would be
hard, sir, said I, if you was not always welcome to your honour’s own
house.

I would have gone; but he said, Don’t run away, I tell you. I have a
word or two to say to you. Good sirs, how my heart went pit-a-pat! When
I was a little kind to you, said he, in the summer-house, and you
carried yourself so foolishly upon it, as if I had intended to do you
great harm, did I not tell you you should take no notice of what passed
to any creature? and yet you have made a common talk of the matter, not
considering either my reputation, or your own.—I made a common talk of
it, sir! said I: I have nobody to talk to, hardly.

He interrupted me, and said, Hardly! you little equivocator! what do
you mean by hardly? Let me ask you, have not you told Mrs. Jervis for
one? Pray your honour, said I, all in agitation, let me go down; for it
is not for me to hold an argument with your honour. Equivocator, again!
said he, and took my hand, what do you talk of an argument? Is it
holding an argument with me to answer a plain question? Answer me what
I asked. O, good sir, said I, let me beg you will not urge me farther,
for fear I forget myself again, and be saucy.

Answer me then, I bid you, says he, Have you not told Mrs. Jervis? It
will be saucy in you if you don’t answer me directly to what I ask.
Sir, said I, and fain would have pulled my hand away, perhaps I should
be for answering you by another question, and that would not become me.
What is it you would say? replies he; speak out.

Then, sir, said I, why should your honour be so angry I should tell
Mrs. Jervis, or any body else, what passed, if you intended no harm?

Well said, pretty innocent and artless! as Mrs. Jervis calls you, said
he; and is it thus you taunt and retort upon me, insolent as you are!
But still I will be answered directly to my question. Why then, sir,
said I, I will not tell a lie for the world: I did tell Mrs. Jervis;
for my heart was almost broken; but I opened not my mouth to any other.
Very well, bold-face, said he, and equivocator again! You did not open
your mouth to any other; but did not you write to some other? Why, now,
and please your honour, said I, (for I was quite courageous just then,)
you could not have asked me this question, if you had not taken from me
my letter to my father and mother, in which I own I had broken my mind
freely to them, and asked their advice, and poured forth my griefs!

And so I am to be exposed, am I, said he, in my own house, and out of
my house, to the whole world, by such a sauce-box as you? No, good sir,
said I, and I hope your honour won’t be angry with me; it is not I that
expose you, if I say nothing but the truth. So, taunting again!
Assurance as you are! said he: I will not be thus talked to!

Pray, sir, said I, of whom can a poor girl take advice, if it must not
be of her father and mother, and such a good woman as Mrs. Jervis, who,
for her sex-sake, should give it me when asked? Insolence! said he, and
stamped with his foot, am I to be questioned thus by such a one as you?
I fell down on my knees, and said, For Heaven’s sake, your honour, pity
a poor creature, that knows nothing of her duty, but how to cherish her
virtue and good name: I have nothing else to trust to: and, though poor
and friendless here, yet I have always been taught to value honesty
above my life. Here’s ado with your honesty, said he, foolish girl! Is
it not one part of honesty to be dutiful and grateful to your master,
do you think? Indeed, sir, said I, it is impossible I should be
ungrateful to your honour, or disobedient, or deserve the names of
bold-face or insolent, which you call me, but when your commands are
contrary to that first duty which shall ever be the principle of my
life!

He seemed to be moved, and rose up, and walked into the great chamber
two or three turns, leaving me on my knees; and I threw my apron over
my face, and laid my head on a chair, and cried as if my heart would
break, having no power to stir.

At last he came in again, but, alas! with mischief in his heart! and
raising me up, he said, Rise, Pamela, rise; you are your own enemy.
Your perverse folly will be your ruin: I tell you this, that I am very
much displeased with the freedoms you have taken with my name to my
housekeeper, as also to your father and mother; and you may as well
have real cause to take these freedoms with me, as to make my name
suffer for imaginary ones. And saying so, he offered to take me on his
knee, with some force. O how I was terrified! I said, like as I had
read in a book a night or two before, Angels and saints, and all the
host of heaven, defend me! And may I never survive one moment that
fatal one in which I shall forfeit my innocence! Pretty fool! said he,
how will you forfeit your innocence, if you are obliged to yield to a
force you cannot withstand? Be easy, said he; for let the worst happen
that can, you will have the merit, and I the blame; and it will be a
good subject for letters to your father and mother, and a tale into the
bargain for Mrs. Jervis.

He by force kissed my neck and lips; and said, Whoever blamed Lucretia?
All the shame lay on the ravisher only and I am content to take all the
blame upon me, as I have already borne too great a share for what I
have not deserved.

May I, said I, Lucretia like, justify myself with my death, if I am
used barbarously! O my good girl! said he, tauntingly, you are well
read, I see; and we shall make out between us, before we have done, a
pretty story in romance, I warrant ye.

He then put his hand in my bosom, and indignation gave me double
strength, and I got loose from him by a sudden spring, and ran out of
the room! and the next chamber being open, I made shift to get into it,
and threw to the door, and it locked after me; but he followed me so
close, he got hold of my gown, and tore a piece off, which hung without
the door; for the key was on the inside.

I just remember I got into the room; for I knew nothing further of the
matter till afterwards; for I fell into a fit with my terror, and there
I lay, till he, as I suppose, looking through the key-hole, spyed me
upon the floor, stretched out at length, on my face; and then he called
Mrs. Jervis to me, who, by his assistance, bursting open the door, he
went away, seeing me coming to myself; and bid her say nothing of the
matter, if she was wise.

Poor Mrs. Jervis thought it was worse, and cried over me like as if she
was my mother; and I was two hours before I came to myself; and just as
I got a little up on my feet, he coming in, I fainted away again with
the terror; and so he withdrew: but he staid in the next room to let
nobody come near us, that his foul proceedings might not be known.

Mrs. Jervis gave me her smelling-bottle, and had cut my laces, and set
me in a great chair, and he called her to him: How is the girl? said
he: I never saw such a fool in my life. I did nothing at all to her.
Mrs. Jervis could not speak for crying. So he said, She has told you,
it seems, that I was kind to her in the summer-house, though I’ll
assure you, I was quite innocent then as well as now; and I desire you
to keep this matter to yourself, and let me not be named in it.

O, sir, said she, for your honour’s sake, and for Christ’s sake!—But he
would not hear her, and said—For your own sake, I tell you, Mrs.
Jervis, say not a word more. I have done her no harm. And I won’t have
her stay in my house; prating, perverse fool, as she is! But since she
is so apt to fall into fits, or at least pretend to do so, prepare her
to see me to-morrow after dinner, in my mother’s closet, and do you be
with her, and you shall hear what passes between us.

And so he went out in a pet, and ordered his chariot and four to be got
ready, and went a visiting somewhere.

Mrs. Jervis then came to me, and I told her all that had happened, and
said, I was resolved not to stay in the house: And she replying, He
seemed to threaten as much; I said, I am glad of that; then I shall be
easy. So she told me all he had said to her, as above.

Mrs. Jervis is very loath I should go; and yet, poor woman! she begins
to be afraid for herself; but would not have me ruined for the world.
She says to be sure he means no good; but may be, now he sees me so
resolute, he will give over all attempts; and that I shall better know
what to do after to-morrow, when I am to appear before a very bad
judge, I doubt.

O how I dread this to-morrow’s appearance! But be as assured, my dear
parents, of the honesty of your poor child, as I am of your prayers for

Your dutiful DAUGHTER.

O this frightful to-morrow; how I dread it!


LETTER XVI




MY DEAR PARENTS,

I know you longed to hear from me soon; and I send you as soon as I
could.

Well, you may believe how uneasily I passed the time, till his
appointed hour came. Every minute, as it grew nearer, my terrors
increased; and sometimes I had great courage, and sometimes none at
all; and I thought I should faint when it came to the time my master
had dined. I could neither eat nor drink, for my part; and do what I
could, my eyes were swelled with crying.

At last he went up to the closet, which was my good lady’s
dressing-room; a room I once loved, but then as much hated.

Don’t your heart ache for me?—I am sure mine fluttered about like a
new-caught bird in a cage. O Pamela, said I to myself, why art thou so
foolish and fearful? Thou hast done no harm! What, if thou fearest an
unjust judge, when thou art innocent, would’st thou do before a just
one, if thou wert guilty? Have courage, Pamela, thou knowest the worst!
And how easy a choice poverty and honesty is, rather than plenty and
wickedness.

So I cheered myself; but yet my poor heart sunk, and my spirits were
quite broken. Everything that stirred, I thought was to call me to my
account. I dreaded it, and yet I wished it to come.

Well, at last he rung the bell: O, thought I, that it was my
passing-bell! Mrs. Jervis went up, with a full heart enough, poor good
woman! He said, Where’s Pamela? Let her come up, and do you come with
her. She came to me: I was ready to go with my feet; but my heart was
with my dear father and mother, wishing to share your poverty and
happiness. I went up, however.

O how can wicked men seem so steady and untouched with such black
hearts, while poor innocents stand like malefactors before them!

He looked so stern, that my heart failed me, and I wished myself any
where but there, though I had before been summoning up all my courage.
Good Heaven, said I to myself, give me courage to stand before this
naughty master! O soften him, or harden me!

Come in, fool, said he, angrily, as soon as he saw me; (and snatched my
hand with a pull;) you may well be ashamed to see me, after your noise
and nonsense, and exposing me as you have done. I ashamed to see you!
thought I: Very pretty indeed!—But I said nothing.

Mrs. Jervis, said he, here you are both together. Do you sit down; but
let her stand, if she will. Ay, thought I, if I can; for my knees beat
one against the other. Did you not think, when you saw the girl in the
way you found her in, that I had given her the greatest occasion for
complaint, that could possibly be given to a woman? And that I had
actually ruined her, as she calls it? Tell me, could you think any
thing less? Indeed, said she, I feared so at first. Has she told you
what I did to her, and all I did to her, to occasion all this folly, by
which my reputation might have suffered in your opinion, and in that of
all the family.—Inform me, what she has told you?

She was a little too much frightened, as she owned afterwards, at his
sternness, and said, Indeed she told me you only pulled her on your
knee, and kissed her.

Then I plucked up my spirits a little. Only! Mrs. Jervis? said I; and
was not that enough to shew me what I had to fear? When a master of his
honour’s degree demeans himself to be so free as that to such a poor
servant as me, what is the next to be expected?—But your honour went
farther, so you did; and threatened me what you would do, and talked of
Lucretia, and her hard fate.—Your honour knows you went too far for a
master to a servant, or even to his equal; and I cannot bear it. So I
fell a crying most sadly.

Mrs. Jervis began to excuse me, and to beg he would pity a poor maiden,
that had such a value for her reputation. He said, I speak it to her
face, I think her very pretty, and I thought her humble, and one that
would not grow upon my favours, or the notice I took of her; but I
abhor the thoughts of forcing her to any thing. I know myself better,
said he, and what belongs to me: And to be sure I have enough demeaned
myself to take notice of such a one as she; but I was bewitched by her,
I think, to be freer than became me; though I had no intention to carry
the jest farther.

What poor stuff was all this, my dear mother, from a man of his sense!
But see how a bad cause and bad actions confound the greatest wits!—It
gave me a little more courage then; for innocence, I find, in a low
fortune, and weak mind, has many advantages over guilt, with all its
riches and wisdom.

So I said, Your honour may call this jest or sport, or what you please;
but indeed, sir, it is not a jest that becomes the distance between a
master and a servant. Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis? said he: do you hear
the pertness of the creature? I had a good deal of this sort before in
the summer-house, and yesterday too, which made me rougher with her
than perhaps I had otherwise been.

Says Mrs. Jervis, Pamela, don’t be so pert to his honour: you should
know your distance; you see his honour was only in jest.—O dear Mrs.
Jervis, said I, don’t you blame me too. It is very difficult to keep
one’s distance to the greatest of men, when they won’t keep it
themselves to their meanest servants.

See again! said he; could you believe this of the young baggage, if you
had not heard it? Good your honour, said the well-meaning gentlewoman,
pity and forgive the poor girl; she is but a girl, and her virtue is
very dear to her; and I will pawn my life for her, she will never be
pert to your honour, if you’ll be so good as to molest her no more, nor
frighten her again. You saw, sir, by her fit, she was in terror; she
could not help it; and though your honour intended her no harm, yet the
apprehension was almost death to her: and I had much ado to bring her
to herself again. O the little hypocrite! said he; she has all the arts
of her sex; they were born with her; and I told you awhile ago you did
not know her. But this was not the reason principally of my calling you
before me together. I find I am likely to suffer in my reputation by
the perverseness and folly of this girl. She has told you all, and
perhaps more than all; nay, I make no doubt of it; and she has written
letters (for I find she is a mighty letter-writer!) to her father and
mother, and others, as far as I know, in which representing herself as
an angel of light, she makes her kind master and benefactor, a devil
incarnate—(O how people will sometimes, thought I, call themselves by
their right names!)—And all this, added he, I won’t hear; and so I am
resolved she shall return to the distresses and poverty she was taken
from; and let her be careful how she uses my name with freedom, when
she is gone from me.

I was brightened up at once with these welcome words, and I threw
myself upon my knees at his feet, with a most sincere glad heart; and I
said, May your honour be for ever blessed for your resolution! Now I
shall be happy. And permit me, on my bended knees, to thank you for all
the benefits and favours you have heaped upon me; for the opportunities
I have had of improvement and learning, through my good lady’s means,
and yours. I will now forget all your honour has offered me: and I
promise you, that I will never let your name pass my lips, but with
reverence and gratitude: and so God Almighty bless your honour, for
ever and ever! Amen.

Then rising from my knees, I went away with another-guise sort of heart
than I came into his presence with: and so I fell to writing this
letter. And thus all is happily over.

And now, my dearest father and mother, expect to see soon your poor
daughter, with an humble and dutiful mind, returned to you: and don’t
fear but I know how to be as happy with you as ever: for I will be in
the loft, as I used to do; and pray let my little bed be got ready; and
I have a small matter of money, which will buy me a suit of clothes,
fitter for my condition than what I have; and I will get Mrs. Mumford
to help me to some needle-work: and fear not that I shall be a burden
to you, if my health continues. I know I shall be blessed, if not for
my own sake, for both your sakes, who have, in all your trials and
misfortunes, preserved so much integrity as makes every body speak well
of you both. But I hope he will let good Mrs. Jervis give me a
character, for fear it should be thought that I was turned away for
dishonesty.

And so, my dear parents, may you be blest for me, and I for you! And I
will always pray for my master and Mrs. Jervis. So good night; for it
is late, and I shall be soon called to bed.

I hope Mrs. Jervis is not angry with me. She has not called me to
supper: though I could eat nothing if she had. But I make no doubt I
shall sleep purely to-night, and dream that I am with you, in my dear,
dear, happy loft once more.

So good night again, my dear father and mother, says

Your poor honest DAUGHTER.

Perhaps I mayn’t come this week, because I must get up the linen, and
leave in order every thing belonging to my place. So send me a line, if
you can, to let me know if I shall be welcome, by John, who will call
for it as he returns. But say nothing of my coming away to him, as yet:
for it will be said I blab every thing.


v LETTER XVII




MY DEAREST DAUGHTER,

Welcome, welcome, ten times welcome shall you be to us; for you come to
us innocent, and happy, and honest; and you are the staff of our old
age, and our comfort. And though we cannot do for you as we would, yet,
fear not, we shall live happily together; and what with my diligent
labour, and your poor mother’s spinning, and your needle-work, I make
no doubt we shall do better and better. Only your poor mother’s eyes
begin to fail her; though, I bless God, I am as strong and able, and
willing to labour as ever; and, O my dear child! your virtue has made
me, I think, stronger and better than I was before. What blessed things
are trials and temptations, when we have the strength to resist and
subdue them!

But I am uneasy about those same four guineas; I think you should give
them back again to your master; and yet I have broken them. Alas! I
have only three left; but I will borrow the fourth, if I can, part upon
my wages, and part of Mrs. Mumford, and send the whole sum back to you,
that you may return it, against John comes next, if he comes again
before you.

I want to know how you come. I fancy honest John will be glad to bear
you company part of the way, if your master is not so cross as to
forbid him. And if I know time enough, your mother will go one five
miles, and I will go ten on the way, or till I meet you, as far as one
holiday will go; for that I can get leave to make on such an occasion.

And we shall receive you with more pleasure than we had at your birth,
when all the worst was over; or than we ever had in our lives.

And so God bless you till the happy time comes! say both your mother
and I, which is all at present, from

Your truly loving PARENTS.


LETTER XVIII




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I thank you a thousand tines for your goodness to me, expressed in your
last letter. I now long to get my business done, and come to my new old
lot again, as I may call it. I have been quite another thing since my
master has turned me off: and as I shall come to you an honest
daughter, what pleasure it is to what I should have had, if I could not
have seen you but as a guilty one. Well, my writing-time will soon be
over, and so I will make use of it now, and tell you all that has
happened since my last letter.

I wondered Mrs. Jervis did not call me to sup with her, and feared she
was angry; and when I had finished my letter, I longed for her coming
to bed. At last she came up, but seemed shy and reserved; and I said,
My dear Mrs. Jervis, I am glad to see you: you are not angry with me, I
hope. She said she was sorry things had gone so far; and that she had a
great deal of talk with my master, after I was gone; that he seemed
moved at what I said, and at my falling on my knees to him, and my
prayer for him, at my going away. He said I was a strange girl; he knew
not what to make of me. And is she gone? said he: I intended to say
something else to her; but she behaved so oddly, that I had not power
to stop her. She asked, if she should call me again? He said, Yes; and
then, No, let her go; it is best for her and me too; and she shall go,
now I have given her warning. Where she had it, I can’t tell; but I
never met with the fellow of her in any life, at any age. She said, he
had ordered her not to tell me all: but she believed he would never
offer any thing to me again; and I might stay, she fancied, if I would
beg it as a favour; though she was not sure neither.

I stay! dear Mrs. Jervis; said I; why it is the best news that could
have come to me, that he will let me go. I do nothing but long to go
back again to my poverty and distress, as he threatened I should; for
though I am sure of the poverty, I shall not have half the distress I
have had for some months past, I’ll assure you.

Mrs. Jervis, dear good soul! wept over me, and said, Well, well,
Pamela, I did not think I had shewn so little love to you, as that you
should express so much joy upon leaving me. I am sure I never had a
child half so dear to me as you are.

I went to hear her so good to me, as indeed she has always been, and
said, What would you have me to do, dear Mrs. Jervis? I love you next
to my own father and mother, and to leave you is the chief concern I
have at quitting this place; but I am sure it is certain ruin if I
stay. After such offers, and such threatenings, and his comparing
himself to a wicked ravisher in the very time of his last offer; and
turning it into a jest, that we should make a pretty story in a
romance; can I stay and be safe? Has he not demeaned himself twice? And
it behoves me to beware of the third time, for fear he should lay his
snares surer; for perhaps he did not expect a poor servant would resist
her master so much. And must it not be looked upon as a sort of warrant
for such actions, if I stay after this? For, I think, when one of our
sex finds she is attempted, it is an encouragement to the attempter to
proceed, if one puts one’s self in the way of it, when one can help it:
’Tis neither more nor less than inviting him to think that one
forgives, what, in short, ought not to be forgiven: Which is no small
countenance to foul actions, I’ll assure you.

She hugged me to her, and said I’ll assure you! Pretty-face, where
gottest thou all thy knowledge, and thy good notions, at these years?
Thou art a miracle for thy age, and I shall always love thee.—But, do
you resolve to leave us, Pamela?

Yes, my dear Mrs. Jervis, said I; for, as matters stand, how can I do
otherwise?—But I’ll finish the duties of my place first, if I may; and
hope you’ll give me a character, as to my honesty, that it may not be
thought I was turned away for any harm. Ay, that I will, said she; I
will give thee such a character as never girl at thy years deserved.
And I am sure, said I, I will always love and honour you, as my
third-best friend, wherever I go, or whatever becomes of me.

And so we went to bed; and I never waked till ’twas time to rise; which
I did as blithe as a bird, and went about my business with great
pleasure.

But I believe my master is fearfully angry with me; for he passed by me
two or three times, and would not speak to me; and towards evening, he
met me in the passage, going into the garden, and said such a word to
me as I never heard in my life from him to man, woman, or child; for he
first said, This creature’s always in the way, I think. I said,
standing up as close as I could, (and the entry was wide enough for a
coach too,) I hope I shan’t be long in your honour’s way. D—mn you!
said he, (that was the hard word,) for a little witch; I have no
patience with you.

I profess I trembled to hear him say so; but I saw he was vexed; and,
as I am going away, I minded it the less. Well! I see, my dear parents,
that when a person will do wicked things, it is no wonder he will speak
wicked words. May God keep me out of the way of them both!

Your dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XIX




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

Our John having an opportunity to go your way, I write again, and send
both letters at once. I can’t say, yet, when I shall get away, nor how
I shall come, because Mrs. Jervis shewed my master the waistcoat I am
flowering for him, and he said, It looks well enough: I think the
creature had best stay till she has finished it.

There is some private talk carried on betwixt him and Mrs. Jervis, that
she don’t tell me of; but yet she is very kind to me, and I don’t
mistrust her at all. I should be very base if I did. But to be sure she
must oblige him, and keep all his lawful commands; and other, I dare
say, she won’t keep: She is too good; and loves me too well; but she
must stay when I am gone, and so must get no ill will.

She has been at me again to ask to stay, and humble myself. But what
have I done, Mrs. Jervis? said I: If I have been a sauce-box, and a
bold-face, and a pert, and a creature, as he calls me, have I not had
reason? Do you think I should ever have forgot myself, if he had not
forgot to act as my master? Tell me from your own heart, dear Mrs.
Jervis, said I, if you think I could stay and be safe: What would you
think, or how would you act in my case?

My dear Pamela, said she, and kissed me, I don’t know how I should act,
or what I should think. I hope I should act as you do. But I know
nobody else that would. My master is a fine gentleman; he has a great
deal of wit and sense, and is admired, as I know, by half a dozen
ladies, who would think themselves happy in his addresses. He has a
noble estate; and yet I believe he loves my good maiden, though his
servant, better than all the ladies in the land; and he has tried to
overcome it, because you are so much his inferior; and ’tis my opinion
he finds he can’t; and that vexes his proud heart, and makes him
resolve you shan’t stay; and so he speaks so cross to you, when he sees
you by accident.

Well, but, Mrs. Jervis, said I, let me ask you, if he can stoop to like
such a poor girl as me, as perhaps he may, (for I have read of things
almost as strange, from great men to poor damsels,) What can it be
for?—He may condescend, perhaps, to think I may be good enough for his
harlot; and those things don’t disgrace men that ruin poor women, as
the world goes. And so if I was wicked enough, he would keep me till I
was undone, and till his mind changed; for even wicked men, I have
read, soon grow weary of wickedness with the same person, and love
variety. Well, then, poor Pamela must be turned off, and looked upon as
a vile abandoned creature, and every body would despise her; ay, and
justly too, Mrs. Jervis; for she that can’t keep her virtue, ought to
live in disgrace.

But, Mrs. Jervis, I continued, let me tell you, that I hope, if I was
sure he would always be kind to me, and never turn me off at all, that
I shall have so much grace, as to hate and withstand his temptations,
were he not only my master, but my king: and that for the sin’s sake.
This my poor dear parents have always taught me; and I should be a sad
wicked creature indeed, if, for the sake of riches or favour, I should
forfeit my good name; yea, and worse than any other young body of my
sex; because I can so contentedly return to my poverty again, and think
it a less disgrace to be obliged to wear rags, and live upon rye-bread
and water, as I used to do, than to be a harlot to the greatest man in
the world.

Mrs. Jervis lifted up her hands, and had her eyes full of tears. God
bless you, my dear love! said she; you are my admiration and
delight.—How shall I do to part with you!

Well, good Mrs. Jervis, said I, let me ask you now:—You and he have had
some talk, and you mayn’t be suffered to tell me all. But, do you
think, if I was to ask to stay, that he is sorry for what he has done?
Ay, and ashamed of it too? For I am sure he ought, considering his high
degree, and my low degree, and how I have nothing in the world to trust
to but my honesty: Do you think in your own conscience now, (pray
answer me truly,) that he would never offer any thing to me again, and
that I could be safe?

Alas! my dear child, said she, don’t put thy home questions to me, with
that pretty becoming earnestness in thy look. I know this, that he is
vexed at what he has done; he was vexed the first time, more vexed the
second time.

Yes, said I, and so he will be vexed, I suppose, the third, and the
fourth time too, till he has quite ruined your poor maiden; and who
will have cause to be vexed then?

Nay, Pamela, said she, don’t imagine that I would be accessory to your
ruin for the world. I only can say, that he has, yet, done you no hurt;
and it is no wonder he should love you, you are so pretty; though so
much beneath him but, I dare swear for him, he never will offer you any
force.

You say, said I, that he was sorry for his first offer in the
summer-house. Well, and how long did his sorrow last?—Only till he
found me by myself; and then he was worse than before: and so became
sorry again. And if he has deigned to love me, and you say can’t help
it, why, he can’t help it neither, if he should have an opportunity, a
third time to distress me. And I have read that many a man has been
ashamed of his wicked attempts, when he has been repulsed, that would
never have been ashamed of them, had he succeeded. Besides, Mrs.
Jervis, if he really intends to offer no force, What does that
mean?—While you say he can’t help liking me, for love it cannot be—Does
it not imply that he hopes to ruin me by my own consent? I think, said
I, (and hope I should have grace to do so,) that I should not give way
to his temptations on any account; but it would be very presumptuous in
me to rely upon my own strength against a gentleman of his
qualifications and estate, and who is my master; and thinks himself
entitled to call me bold-face, and what not? only for standing on my
necessary defence: and that, too, where the good of my soul and body,
and my duty to God, and my parents, are all concerned. How then, Mrs.
Jervis, said I, can I ask or wish to stay?

Well, well, says she; as he seems very desirous you should not stay, I
hope it is from a good motive; for fear he should be tempted to
disgrace himself as well as you. No, no, Mrs. Jervis, said I; I have
thought of that too; for I would be glad to consider him with that duty
that becomes me: but then he would have let me go to Lady Davers, and
not have hindered my preferment: and he would not have said, I should
return to my poverty and distress, when, by his mother’s goodness, I
had been lifted out of it; but that he intended to fright me, and
punish me, as he thought, for not complying with his wickedness: And
this shews me well enough what I have to expect from his future
goodness, except I will deserve it at his own dear price.

She was silent; and I added, Well, there’s no more to be said; I must
go, that’s certain: All my concern will be how to part with you: and,
indeed, after you, with every body; for all my fellow-servants have
loved me, and you and they will cost me a sigh, and a tear too, now and
then, I am sure. And so I fell a crying: I could not help it. For it is
a pleasant thing to one to be in a house among a great many
fellow-servants, and be beloved by them all.

Nay, I should have told you before now, how kind and civil Mr. Longman
our steward is; vastly courteous, indeed, on all occasions! And he said
once to Mrs. Jervis, he wished he was a young man for my sake; I should
be his wife, and he would settle all he had upon me on marriage; and,
you must know, he is reckoned worth a power of money.

I take no pride in this; but bless God, and your good examples, my dear
parents, that I have been enabled so to carry myself, as to have every
body’s good word; Not but our cook one day, who is a little snappish
and cross sometimes, said once to me, Why this Pamela of ours goes as
fine as a lady. See what it is to have a fine face!—I wonder what the
girl will come to at last!

She was hot with her work; and I sneaked away; for I seldom go down
into the kitchen; and I heard the butler say, Why, Jane, nobody has
your good word: What has Mrs. Pamela done to you? I am sure she offends
nobody. And what, said the peevish wench, have I said to her, foolatum;
but that she was pretty? They quarrelled afterwards, I heard: I was
sorry for it, but troubled myself no more about it. Forgive this silly
prattle, from

Your dutiful DAUGHTER.

Oh! I forgot to say, that I would stay to finish the waistcoat, if I
might with safety. Mrs. Jervis tells me I certainly may. I never did a
prettier piece of work; and I am up early and late to get it over; for
I long to be with you.


LETTER XX




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I did not send my last letters so soon as I hoped, because John
(whether my master mistrusts or no, I can’t say) had been sent to Lady
Davers’s instead of Isaac, who used to go; and I could not be so free
with, nor so well trust Isaac; though he is very civil to me too. So I
was forced to stay till John returned.

As I may not have opportunity to send again soon, and yet, as I know
you keep my letters, and read them over and over, (so John told me,)
when you have done work, (so much does your kindness make you love all
that comes from your poor daughter,) and as it may be some little
pleasure to me, perhaps, to read them myself, when I am come to you, to
remind me of what I have gone through, and how great God’s goodness has
been to me, (which, I hope, will further strengthen my good
resolutions, that I may not hereafter, from my bad conduct, have reason
to condemn myself from my own hand as it were): For all these reasons,
I say, I will write as I have time, and as matters happen, and send the
scribble to you as I have opportunity; and if I don’t every time, in
form, subscribe as I ought, I am sure you will always believe, that it
is not for want of duty. So I will begin where I left off, about the
talk between Mrs. Jervis and me, for me to ask to stay.

Unknown to Mrs. Jervis, I put a project, as I may call it, in practice.
I thought with myself some days ago, Here I shall go home to my poor
father and mother, and have nothing on my back, that will be fit for my
condition; for how should your poor daughter look with a silk
night-gown, silken petticoats, cambric head-clothes, fine holland
linen, laced shoes that were my lady’s; and fine stockings! And how in
a little while must these have looked, like old cast-offs, indeed, and
I looked so for wearing them! And people would have said, (for poor
folks are envious as well as rich,) See there Goody Andrews’s daughter,
turned home from her fine place! What a tawdry figure she makes! And
how well that garb becomes her poor parents’ circumstances!—And how
would they look upon me, thought I to myself, when they should come to
be threadbare and worn out? And how should I look, even if I could
purchase homespun clothes, to dwindle into them one by one, as I got
them?—May be, an old silk gown, and a linsey-woolsey petticoat, and the
like. So, thought I, I had better get myself at once equipped in the
dress that will become my condition; and though it may look but poor to
what I have been used to wear of late days, yet it will serve me, when
I am with you, for a good holiday and Sunday suit; and what, by a
blessing on my industry, I may, perhaps, make shift to keep up to.

So, as I was saying, unknown to any body, I bought of farmer Nichols’s
wife and daughters a good sad-coloured stuff, of their own spinning,
enough to make me a gown and two petticoats; and I made robings and
facings of a pretty bit of printed calico I had by me.

I had a pretty good camblet quilted coat, that I thought might do
tolerably well; and I bought two flannel undercoats; not so good as my
swanskin and fine linen ones, but what will keep me warm, if any
neighbour should get me to go out to help ’em to milk, now and then, as
sometimes I used to do formerly; for I am resolved to do all your good
neighbours what kindness I can; and hope to make myself as much beloved
about you, as I am here.

I got some pretty good Scotch cloth, and made me, of mornings and
nights, when nobody saw me, two shifts; and I have enough left for two
shirts, and two shifts, for you my dear father and mother. When I come
home, I’ll make them for you, and desire your acceptance.

Then I bought of a pedlar, two pretty enough round-eared caps, a little
straw-hat, and a pair of knit mittens, turned up with white calico; and
two pair of ordinary blue worsted hose, that make a smartish
appearance, with white clocks, I’ll assure you; and two yards of black
riband for my shift sleeves, and to serve as a necklace; and when I had
’em all come home, I went and looked upon them once in two hours, for
two days together: For, you must know, though I be with Mrs. Jervis, I
keep my own little apartment still for my clothes, and nobody goes
thither but myself. You’ll say I was no bad housewife to have saved so
much money; but my dear good lady was always giving me something.

I believed myself the more obliged to do this, because, as I was turned
away for what my good master thought want of duty; and as he expected
other returns for his presents, than I intended to make him, so I
thought it was but just to leave his presents behind me when I went
away; for, you know, if I would not earn his wages, why should I have
them?

Don’t trouble yourself about the four guineas, nor borrow to make them
up; for they were given me, with some silver, as I told you, as a
perquisite, being what my lady had about her when she died; and, as I
hope for no wages, I am so vain as to think I have deserved all that
money in the fourteen months, since my lady’s death, for she, good
soul, overpaid me before, in learning and other kindnesses. Had she
lived, none of these things might have happened!—But I ought to be
thankful ’tis no worse. Every thing will turn about for the best:
that’s my confidence.

So, as I was saying, I have provided a new and more suitable dress, and
I long to appear in it, more than ever I did in any new clothes in my
life: for then I shall be soon after with you, and at ease in my
mind—But, mum! Here he comes, I believe.—I am, etc.


LETTER XXI




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I was forced to break off: for I feared my master was coming: but it
proved to be only Mrs. Jervis. She said, I can’t endure you should be
so much by yourself, Pamela. And I, said I, dread nothing so much as
company; for my heart was up at my mouth now, for fear my master was
coming. But I always rejoice to see dear Mrs. Jervis.

Said she, I have had a world of talk with my master about you. I am
sorry for it, said I, that I am made of so much consequence as to be
talked of by him. O, said she, I must not tell you all; but you are of
more consequence to him than you think for——

Or wish for, said I; for the fruits of being of consequence to him,
would make me of none to myself, or any body else.

Said she, Thou art as witty as any lady in the land; I wonder where
thou gottest it. But they must be poor ladies, with such great
opportunities, I am sure, if they have no more wit than I.—But let that
pass.

I suppose, said I, that I am of so much consequence, however, as to vex
him, if it be but to think he can’t make a fool of such a one as I; and
that is nothing at all, but a rebuke to the pride of his high
condition, which he did not expect, and knows not how to put up with.

There is something in that, may be, said she: but, indeed, Pamela, he
is very angry with you too; and calls you twenty perverse things;
wonders at his own folly, to have shewn you so much favour, as he calls
it; which he was first inclined to, he says, for his mother’s sake, and
would have persisted to shew you for your own, if you was not your own
enemy.

Nay, now I shan’t love you, Mrs. Jervis, said I; you are going to
persuade me to ask to stay, though you know the hazards I run.—No, said
she, he says you shall go; for he thinks it won’t be for his reputation
to keep you: but he wished (don’t speak of it for the world, Pamela,)
that he knew a lady of birth, just such another as yourself, in person
and mind, and he would marry her to-morrow.

I coloured up to the ears at this word: but said, Yet, if I was the
lady of birth, and he would offer to be rude first, as he has twice
done to poor me, I don’t know whether I would have him: For she that
can bear an insult of that kind, I should think not worthy to be a
gentleman’s wife: any more than he would be a gentleman that would
offer it.

Nay, now, Pamela, said she, thou carriest thy notions a great way.
Well, dear Mrs. Jervis, said I, very seriously, for I could not help
it, I am more full of fears than ever. I have only to beg of you, as
one of the best friends I have in the world, to say nothing of my
asking to stay. To say my master likes me, when I know what end he aims
at, is abomination to my ears; and I shan’t think myself safe till I am
at my poor father’s and mother’s.

She was a little angry with me, till I assured her that I had not the
least uneasiness on her account, but thought myself safe under her
protection and friendship. And so we dropt the discourse for that time.

I hope to have finished this ugly waistcoat in two days; after which I
have only some linen to get up, and shall then let you know how I
contrive as to my passage; for the heavy rains will make it sad
travelling on foot: but may be I may get a place to which is ten miles
of the way, in farmer Nichols’s close cart; for I can’t sit a horse
well at all, and may be nobody will be suffered to see me on upon the
way. But I hope to let you know more. From, etc.


LETTER XXII




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

All my fellow-servants have now some notion that I am to go away; but
can’t imagine for what. Mrs. Jervis tells them, that my father and
mother, growing in years, cannot live without me; and so I go home to
them, to help to comfort their old age; but they seem not to believe
it.

What they found it out by was; the butler heard him say to me, as I
passed by him, in the entry leading to the hall, Who’s that? Pamela,
sir, said I. Pamela! said he, How long are you to stay here?—Only,
please your honour, said I, till I have done the waistcoat; and it is
almost finished.—You might, says he, (very roughly indeed,) have
finished that long enough ago, I should have thought. Indeed, and
please your honour, said I, I have worked early and late upon it; there
is a great deal of work in it.—Work in it! said he; You mind your pen
more than your needle; I don’t want such idle sluts to stay in my
house.

He seemed startled, when he saw the butler, as he entered the hall,
where Mr. Jonathan stood. What do you here? said he.—The butler was as
much confounded as I; for, never having been taxed so roughly, I could
not help crying sadly; and got out of both their ways to Mrs. Jervis,
and told my complaint. This love, said she, is the d——! In how many
strange shapes does it make people shew themselves! And in some the
farthest from their hearts.

So one, and then another, has been since whispering, Pray, Mrs. Jervis,
are we to lose Mrs. Pamela? as they always call me—What has she done?
And she tells them, as above, about going home to you.

She said afterwards to me, Well, Pamela, you have made our master, from
the sweetest tempered gentleman in the world, one of the most peevish.
But you have it in your power to make him as sweet-tempered as ever;
though I hope you’ll never do it on his terms.

This was very good in Mrs. Jervis; but it intimated, that she thought
as ill of his designs as I; and as she knew his mind more than I, it
convinced me that I ought to get away as fast as I could.

My master came in, just now, to speak to Mrs. Jervis about household
matters, having some company to dine with him to-morrow; and I stood
up, and having been crying at his roughness in the entry, I turned away
my face.

You may well, said he, turn away your cursed face; I wish I had never
seen it!—Mrs. Jervis, how long is she to be about this waistcoat?

Sir, said I, if your honour had pleased, I would have taken it with me;
and though it would be now finished in a few hours, I will do so still;
and remove this hated poor Pamela out of your house and sight for ever.

Mrs. Jervis, said he, not speaking to me, I believe this little slut
has the power of witchcraft, if ever there was a witch; for she
enchants all that come near her. She makes even you, who should know
better what the world is, think her an angel of light.

I offered to go away; for I believe he wanted me to ask to stay in my
place, for all this his great wrath: and he said, Stay here! Stay here,
when I bid you! and snatched my hand. I trembled, and said, I will! I
will! for he hurt my fingers, he grasped me so hard.

He seemed to have a mind to say something to me; but broke off
abruptly, and said, Begone! And away I tripped as fast as I could: and
he and Mrs. Jervis had a deal of talk, as she told me; and among the
rest, he expressed himself vexed to have spoken in Mr. Jonathan’s
hearing.

Now you must know, that Mr. Jonathan, our butler, is a very grave good
sort of old man, with his hair as white as silver! and an honest worthy
man he is. I was hurrying out with a flea in my ear, as the saying is,
and going down stairs into the parlour, met him. He took hold of my
hand (in a gentler manner, though, than my master) with both his; and
he said, Ah! sweet, sweet Mrs. Pamela! what is it I heard but just
now!—I am sorry at my heart; but I am sure I will sooner believe any
body in fault than you. Thank you, Mr. Jonathan, said I; but as you
value your place, don’t be seen speaking to such a one as me. I cried
too; and slipt away as fast as I could from him, for his own sake, lest
he should be seen to pity me.

And now I will give you an instance how much I am in Mr. Longman’s
esteem also.

I had lost my pen some how; and my paper being written out, I stepped
to Mr. Longman’s, our steward’s, office, to beg him to give me a pen or
two, and a sheet or two of paper. He said, Ay, that I will, my sweet
maiden! and gave me three pens, some wafers, a stick of wax, and twelve
sheets of paper; and coming from his desk, where he was writing, he
said, Let me have a word or two with you, my sweet little mistress:
(for so these two good old gentlemen often call me; for I believe they
love me dearly:) I hear bad news; that we are going to lose you: I hope
it is not true. Yes it is, sir, said I; but I was in hopes it would not
be known till I went away.

What a d—l, said he, ails our master of late! I never saw such an
alteration in any man in my life! He is pleased with nobody as I see;
and by what Mr. Jonathan tells me just now, he was quite out of the way
with you. What could you have done to him, tro’? Only Mrs. Jervis is a
very good woman, or I should have feared she had been your enemy.

No, said I, nothing like it. Mrs. Jervis is a just good woman; and,
next to my father and mother, the best friend I have in the world—Well,
then, said he, it must be worse. Shall I guess? You are too pretty, my
sweet mistress, and, may be, too virtuous. Ah! have I not hit it? No,
good Mr. Longman, said I, don’t think any thing amiss of my master; he
is cross and angry with me indeed, that’s true; but I may have given
occasion for it, possibly; and because I am desirous to go to my father
and mother, rather than stay here, perhaps he may think me ungrateful.
But, you know, sir, said I, that a father and mother’s comfort is the
dearest thing to a good child that can be. Sweet excellence! said he,
this becomes you; but I know the world and mankind too well; though I
must hear, and see, and say nothing. And so a blessing attend my little
sweeting, said he, wherever you go! And away went I with a courtesy and
thanks.

Now this pleases one, my dear father and mother, to be so beloved.—How
much better, by good fame and integrity, is it to get every one’s good
word but one, than, by pleasing that one, to make every one else one’s
enemy, and be an execrable creature besides! I am, etc.


LETTER XXIII




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

We had a great many neighbouring gentlemen, and their ladies, this day,
at dinner; and my master made a fine entertainment for them: and Isaac,
and Mr. Jonathan, and Benjamin, waited at table: And Isaac tells Mrs.
Jervis, that the ladies will by and by come to see the house, and have
the curiosity to see me; for, it seems, they said to my master, when
the jokes flew about, Well, Mr. B——, we understand you have a
servant-maid, who is the greatest beauty in the county; and we promise
ourselves to see her before we go.

The wench is well enough, said he; but no such beauty as you talk of,
I’ll assure ye. She was my mother’s waiting-maid, who, on her
death-bed, engaged me to be kind to her. She is young, and every thing
is pretty that is young.

Ay, ay, said one of the ladies, that’s true; but if your mother had not
recommended her so strongly, there is so much merit in beauty, that I
make no doubt such a fine gentleman would have wanted no inducement to
be kind to it.

They all laughed at my master: And he, it seems, laughed for company;
but said, I don’t know how it is, but I see with different eyes from
other people; for I have heard much more talk of her prettiness, than I
think it deserves: She is well enough, as I said: but her greatest
excellence is, that she is humble, and courteous, and faithful, and
makes all her fellow-servants love her: My housekeeper, in particular,
doats upon her; and you know, ladies, she is a woman of discernment:
And, as for Mr. Longman, and Jonathan, here, if they thought themselves
young enough, I am told, they would fight for her. Is it not true,
Jonathan? Troth, sir, said he, an’t please your honour, I never knew
her peer, and all your honour’s family are of the same mind. Do you
hear now? said my master.—Well, said the ladies, we will make a visit
to Mrs. Jervis by and by, and hope to see this paragon.

I believe they are coming; and will tell you the rest by and by. I wish
they had come, and were gone. Why can’t they make their game without
me?

Well, these fine ladies have been here, and are gone back again. I
would have been absent, if I could, and did step into the closet: so
they saw me when they came in.

There were four of them, Lady Arthur at the great white house on the
hill, Lady Brooks, Lady Towers, and the other, it seems, a countess, of
some hard name, I forget what.

So Mrs. Jervis, says one of the ladies, how do you do? We are all come
to inquire after your health. I am much obliged to your ladyships, said
Mrs. Jervis: Will your ladyships please to sit down? But, said the
countess, we are not only come to ask after Mrs. Jervis’s health
neither; but we are come to see a rarity besides. Ah, says Lady Arthur,
I have not seen your Pamela these two years, and they tell me she is
grown wondrous pretty in that time.

Then I wished I had not been in the closet; for when I came out, they
must needs know I heard them; but I have often found, that bashful
bodies owe themselves a spite, and frequently confound themselves more,
by endeavouring to avoid confusion.

Why, yes, says Mrs. Jervis, Pamela is very pretty indeed; she’s but in
the closet there:—Pamela, pray step hither. I came out all covered with
blushes, and they smiled at one another.

The countess took me by the hand: Why, indeed, she was pleased to say,
report has not been too lavish, I’ll assure you. Don’t be ashamed,
child; (and stared full in my face;) I wish I had just such a face to
be ashamed of. O how like a fool I looked!

Lady Arthur said, Ay, my good Pamela, I say as her ladyship says: Don’t
be so confused; though, indeed, it becomes you too. I think your good
lady departed made a sweet choice of such a pretty attendant. She would
have been mighty proud of you, as she always was praising you, had she
lived till now.

Ah! madam, said Lady Brooks, do you think that so dutiful a son as our
neighbour, who always admired what his mother loved, does not pride
himself, for all what he said at table, in such a pretty maiden?

She looked with such a malicious sneering countenance, I can’t abide
her.

Lady Towers said with a free air, (for it seems she is called a wit,)
Well, Mrs. Pamela, I can’t say I like you so well as these ladies do;
for I should never care, if you were my servant, to have you and your
master in the same house together. Then they all set up a great laugh.

I know what I could have said, if I durst. But they are ladies—and
ladies may say any thing.

Says Lady Towers, Can the pretty image speak, Mrs. Jervis? I vow she
has speaking eyes! O you little rogue, said she, and tapped me on the
cheek, you seem born to undo, or to be undone!

God forbid, and please your ladyship, said I, it should be either!—I
beg, said I, to withdraw; for the sense I have of my unworthiness
renders me unfit for such a presence.

I then went away, with one of my best courtesies; and Lady Towers said,
as I went out, Prettily said, I vow!—And Lady Brooks said, See that
shape! I never saw such a face and shape in my life; why, she must be
better descended than you have told me!

And so they run on for half an hour more in my praises, as I was told;
and glad was I, when I got out of the hearing of them.

But, it seems, they went down with such a story to my master, and so
full of me, that he had much ado to stand it; but as it was very little
to my reputation, I am sure I could take no pride in it; and I feared
it would make no better for me. This gives me another cause for wishing
myself out of this house.

This is Thursday morning, and next Thursday I hope to set out; for I
have finished my task, and my master is horrid cross! And I am vexed
his crossness affects me so. If ever he had any kindness towards me, I
believe he now hates me heartily.

Is it not strange, that love borders so much upon hate? But this wicked
love is not like the true virtuous love, to be sure: that and hatred
must be as far off, as light and darkness. And how must this hate have
been increased, if he had met with such a base compliance, after his
wicked will had been gratified.

Well, one may see by a little, what a great deal means. For if
innocence cannot attract common civility, what must guilt expect, when
novelty has ceased to have its charms, and changeableness had taken
place of it? Thus we read in Holy Writ, that wicked Amnon, when he had
ruined poor Tamar, hated her more than he ever loved her, and would
have turned her out of door.

How happy am I, to be turned out of door, with that sweet companion my
innocence!—O may that be always my companion! And while I presume not
upon my own strength, and am willing to avoid the tempter, I hope the
divine grace will assist me.

Forgive me, that I repeat in my letter part of my hourly prayer. I owe
every thing, next to God’s goodness, to your piety and good examples,
my dear parents, my dear poor parents! I say that word with pleasure;
for your poverty is my pride, as your integrity shall be my imitation.

As soon as I have dined, I will put on my new clothes. I long to have
them on. I know I shall surprise Mrs. Jervis with them; for she shan’t
see me till I am full dressed.—John is come back, and I’ll soon send
you some of what I have written.—I find he is going early in the
morning; and so I’ll close here, that I am

Your most dutiful DAUGHTER.

Don’t lose your time in meeting me; because I am so uncertain. It is
hard if, some how or other, I can’t get a passage to you. But may be my
master won’t refuse to let John bring me. I can ride behind him, I
believe, well enough; for he is very careful, and very honest; and you
know John as well as I; for he loves you both. Besides, may be, Mrs.
Jervis can put me in some way.


LETTER XXIV




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I shall write on, as long as I stay, though I should have nothing but
silliness to write; for I know you divert yourselves on nights with
what I write, because it is mine. John tells me how much you long for
my coming; but he says, he told you he hoped something would happen to
hinder it.

I am glad you did not tell him the occasion of my coming away; for if
my fellow-servants should guess, it were better so, than to have it
from you or me. Besides, I really am concerned, that my master should
cast away a thought upon such a poor creature as me; for, besides the
disgrace, it has quite turned his temper; and I begin to believe what
Mrs. Jervis told me, that he likes me, and can’t help it; and yet
strives to conquer it; and so finds no way but to be cross to me.

Don’t think me presumptuous and conceited; for it is more my concern
than my pride, to see such a gentleman so demean himself, and lessen
the regard he used to have in the eyes of all his servants, on my
account.—But I am to tell you of my new dress to-day.

And so, when I had dined, up stairs I went, and locked myself into my
little room. There I tricked myself up as well as I could in my new
garb, and put on my round-eared ordinary cap; but with a green knot,
however, and my homespun gown and petticoat, and plain leather shoes;
but yet they are what they call Spanish leather; and my ordinary hose,
ordinary I mean to what I have been lately used to; though I shall
think good yarn may do very well for every day, when I come home. A
plain muslin tucker I put on, and my black silk necklace, instead of
the French necklace my lady gave me; and put the ear-rings out of my
ears; and when I was quite equipped, I took my straw hat in my hand,
with its two blue strings, and looked about me in the glass, as proud
as any thing—To say truth, I never liked myself so well in my life.

O the pleasure of descending with ease, innocence, and
resignation!—Indeed, there is nothing like it! An humble mind, I
plainly see, cannot meet with any very shocking disappointment, let
fortune’s wheel turn round as it will.

So I went down to look for Mrs. Jervis, to see how she liked me.

I met, as I was upon the stairs, our Rachel, who is the house-maid; and
she made me a low courtesy, and I found did not know me. So I smiled,
and went to the housekeeper’s parlour; and there sat good Mrs. Jervis
at work, making a shift: and, would you believe it? she did not know me
at first; but rose up, and pulled off her spectacles; and said, Do you
want me, forsooth? I could not help laughing, and said, Hey-day! Mrs.
Jervis, what! don’t you know me?—She stood all in amaze, and looked at
me from top to toe: Why, you surprise me, said she: What! Pamela thus
metamorphosed! How came this about?

As it happened, in stept my master; and my back being to him, he
thought it was a stranger speaking to Mrs. Jervis, and withdrew again:
and did not hear her ask, If his honour had any commands for her?—She
turned me about and about, and I shewed her all my dress, to my
under-petticoat: and she said, sitting down, Why, I am all in amaze, I
must sit down. What can all this mean? I told her, I had no clothes
suitable to my condition when I returned to my father’s; and so it was
better to begin here, as I was soon to go away, that all my
fellow-servants might see I knew how to suit myself to the state I was
returning to.

Well, said she, I never knew the like of thee. But this sad preparation
for going away (for now I see you are quite in earnest) is what I know
not how to get over. O my dear Pamela, how can I part with you!

My master rung in the back-parlour, and so I withdrew, and Mrs. Jervis
went to attend him. It seems, he said to her, I was coming in to let
you know, that I shall go to Lincolnshire, and possibly to my sister
Davers’s, and be absent some weeks. But, pray, what pretty neat damsel
was with you? She says, she smiled, and asked, If his honour did not
know who it was? No, said he, I never saw her before. Farmer Nichols,
or Farmer Brady, have neither of them such a tight prim lass for a
daughter! have they?—Though I did not see her face neither, said he. If
your honour won’t be angry, said she, I will introduce her into your
presence; for I think, says she, she outdoes our Pamela.

Now I did not thank her for this, as I told her afterwards, (for it
brought a great deal of trouble upon me, as well as crossness, as you
shall hear). That can’t be, he was pleased to say. But if you can find
an excuse for it, let her come in.

At that she stept to me, and told me, I must go in with her to her
master; but, said she, for goodness’ sake, let him find you out; for he
don’t know you. O fie, Mrs. Jervis, said I, how could you serve me so?
Besides, it looks too free both in me, and to him. I tell you, said
she, you shall come in; and pray don’t reveal yourself till he finds
you out.

So I went in, foolish as I was; though I must have been seen by him
another time, if I had not then. And she would make me take my straw
hat in my hand.

I dropt a low courtesy, but said never a word. I dare say he knew me as
soon as he saw my face: but was as cunning as Lucifer. He came up to
me, and took me by the hand, and said, Whose pretty maiden are you?—I
dare say you are Pamela’s sister, you are so like her. So neat, so
clean, so pretty! Why, child, you far surpass your sister Pamela!

I was all confusion, and would have spoken: but he took me about the
neck: Why, said he, you are very pretty, child: I would not be so free
with your sister, you may believe; but I must kiss you.

O sir, said I, I am Pamela, indeed I am: indeed I am Pamela, her own
self!

He kissed me for all I could do; and said, Impossible! you are a
lovelier girl by half than Pamela; and sure I may be innocently free
with you, though I would not do her so much favour.

This was a sad trick upon me, indeed, and what I could not expect; and
Mrs. Jervis looked like a fool as much as I, for her officiousness.—At
last I got away, and ran out of the parlour, most sadly vexed, as you
may well think.

He talked a good deal to Mrs. Jervis, and at last ordered me to come in
to him. Come in, said he, you little villain!—for so he called me.
(Good sirs! what a name was there!)—who is it you put your tricks upon?
I was resolved never to honour your unworthiness, said he, with so much
notice again; and so you must disguise yourself to attract me, and yet
pretend, like an hypocrite as you are——

I was out of patience then: Hold, good sir, said I; don’t impute
disguise and hypocrisy to me, above all things; for I hate them both,
mean as I am. I have put on no disguise.—What a plague, said he, for
that was his word, do you mean then by this dress?—Why, and please your
honour, said I, I mean one of the honestest things in the world.

I have been in disguise, indeed, ever since my good lady your mother
took me from my poor parents. I came to her ladyship so poor and mean,
that these clothes I have on, are a princely suit to those I had then:
and her goodness heaped upon me rich clothes, and other bounties: and
as I am now returning to my poor parents again so soon, I cannot wear
those good things without being hooted at; and so have bought what will
be more suitable to my degree, and be a good holiday-suit too, when I
get home.

He then took me in his arms, and presently pushed me from him. Mrs.
Jervis, said he, take the little witch from me; I can neither bear, nor
forbear her—(Strange words these!)—But stay; you shan’t go!—Yet
begone!—No, come back again.

I thought he was mad, for my share; for he knew not what he would have.
I was going, however; but he stept after me, and took hold of my arm,
and brought me in again: I am sure he made my arm black and blue; for
the marks are upon it still. Sir, sir, said I, pray have mercy; I will,
I will come in!

He sat down, and looked at me, and, as I thought afterwards, as sillily
as such a poor girl as I. At last he said, Well, Mrs. Jervis, as I was
telling you, you may permit her to stay a little longer, till I see if
my sister Davers will have her; if, mean time, she humble herself, and
ask this as a favour, and is sorry for her pertness, and the liberty
she has taken with my character out of the house, and in the house.
Your honour indeed told me so, said Mrs. Jervis: but I never found her
inclinable to think herself in a fault. Pride and perverseness, said
he, with a vengeance! Yet this is your doating-piece!—Well, for once,
I’ll submit myself to tell you, hussy, said he to me, you may stay a
fortnight longer, till I see my sister Davers: Do you hear what I say
to you, statue? Can you neither speak nor be thankful?—Your honour
frights me so, said I, that I can hardly speak: But I will venture to
say, that I have only to beg, as a favour, that I may go to my father
and mother.—Why fool, said he, won’t you like to go to wait on my
sister Davers? Sir, said I, I was once fond of that honour; but you
were pleased to say, I might be in danger from her ladyship’s nephew,
or he from me.—D——d impertinence! said he; Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis, do
you hear, how she retorts upon me? Was ever such matchless assurance!——

I then fell a weeping; for Mrs. Jervis said, Fie, Pamela, fie!—And I
said, My lot is very hard indeed; I am sure I would hurt nobody; and I
have been, it seems, guilty of indiscretions, which have cost me my
place, and my master’s favour, and so have been turned away: and when
the time is come, that I should return to my poor parents, I am not
suffered to go quietly. Good your honour, what have I done, that I must
be used worse than if I had robbed you?

Robbed me! said he, why so you have, hussy; you have robbed me. Who? I,
sir? said I; have I robbed you? Why then you are a justice of peace,
and may send me to gaol, if you please, and bring me to a trial for my
life! If you can prove that I have robbed you, I am sure I ought to
die.

Now I was quite ignorant of his meaning; though I did not like it, when
it was afterwards explained, neither: And well, thought I, what will
this come to at last, if poor Pamela is esteemed a thief! Then I
thought in an instant, how I should shew my face to my honest poor
parents, if I was but suspected. But, sir, said I, let me ask you but
one question, and pray don’t let me be called names for it; for I don’t
mean disrespectfully: Why, if I have done amiss, am I not left to be
discharged by your housekeeper, as the other maids have been? And if
Jane, or Rachel, or Hannah, were to offend, would your honour stoop to
take notice of them? And why should you so demean yourself to take
notice of me? Pray, sir, if I have not been worse than others, why
should I suffer more than others? and why should I not be turned away,
and there’s an end of it? For indeed I am not of consequence enough for
my master to concern himself, and be angry about such a creature as me.

Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis, cried he again, how pertly I am interrogated
by this saucy slut? Why, sauce-box, says he, did not my good mother
desire me to take care of you? And have you not been always
distinguished by me, above a common servant? And does your ingratitude
upbraid me for this?

I said something mutteringly, and he vowed he would hear it. I begged
excuse; but he insisted upon it. Why, then, said I, if your honour must
know, I said, That my good lady did not desire your care to extend to
the summer-house, and her dressing-room.

Well, this was a little saucy, you’ll say—And he flew into such a
passion, that I was forced to run for it; and Mrs. Jervis said, It was
happy I got out of the way.

Why what makes him provoke one so, then?—I’m almost sorry for it; but I
would be glad to get away at any rate. For I begin to be more fearful
now.

Just now Mr. Jonathan sent me these lines—(Bless me! what shall I do?)

‘Dear Mrs. Pamela, Take care of yourself; for Rachel heard my master
say to Mrs. Jervis, who, she believes, was pleading for you, Say no
more, Mrs. Jervis; for by G—d I will have her! Burn this instantly.’

O pray for your poor daughter. I am called to go to bed by Mrs. Jervis,
for it is past eleven; and I am sure she shall hear of it; for all this
is owing to her, though she did not mean any harm. But I have been, and
am, in a strange fluster; and I suppose too, she’ll say, I have been
full pert.

O my dear father and mother, power and riches never want advocates!
But, poor gentlewoman, she cannot live without him: and he has been
very good to her.

So good night. May be I shall send this in the morning; but may be not;
so won’t conclude: though I can’t say too often, that I am (though with
great apprehension)

Your most dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXV




MY DEAR PARENTS,

O let me take up my complaint, and say, Never was poor creature so
unhappy, and so barbarously used, as poor Pamela! Indeed, my dear
father and mother, my heart’s just broke! I can neither write as I
should do, nor let it alone, for to whom but you can I vent my griefs,
and keep my poor heart from bursting! Wicked, wicked man!—I have no
patience when I think of him!—But yet, don’t be frightened—for—I hope—I
hope, I am honest!—But if my head and my hand will let me, you shall
hear all.—Is there no constable, nor headborough, though, to take me
out of his house? for I am sure I can safely swear the peace against
him: But, alas! he is greater than any constable: he is a justice
himself: Such a justice deliver me from!—But God Almighty, I hope, in
time, will right me—For he knows the innocence of my heart!

John went your way in the morning; but I have been too much distracted
to send by him; and have seen nobody but Mrs. Jervis or Rachel, and one
I hate to see or be seen by and indeed I hate now to see any body.
Strange things I have to tell you, that happened since last night, that
good Mr. Jonathan’s letter, and my master’s harshness, put me into such
a fluster; but I will not keep you in suspense.

I went to Mrs. Jervis’s chamber; and, O dreadful! my wicked master had
hid himself, base gentleman as he is! in her closet, where she has a
few books, and chest of drawers, and such like. I little suspected it;
though I used, till this sad night, always to look into that closet and
another in the room, and under the bed, ever since the summer-house
trick; but never found any thing; and so I did not do it then, being
fully resolved to be angry with Mrs. Jervis for what had happened in
the day, and so thought of nothing else.

I sat myself down on one side of the bed, and she on the other, and we
began to undress ourselves; but she on that side next the wicked
closet, that held the worst heart in the world. So, said Mrs. Jervis,
you won’t speak to me, Pamela! I find you are angry with me. Why, Mrs.
Jervis, said I, so I am, a little; ’tis a folly to deny it. You see
what I have suffered by your forcing me in to my master: and a
gentlewoman of your years and experience must needs know, that it was
not fit for me to pretend to be any body else for my own sake, nor with
regard to my master.

But, said she, who would have thought it would have turned out so? Ay,
said I, little thinking who heard me, Lucifer always is ready to
promote his own work and workmen. You see presently what use he made of
it, pretending not to know me, on purpose to be free with me. And when
he took upon himself to know me, to quarrel with me, and use me hardly:
And you too, said I, to cry, Fie, fie, Pamela! cut me to the heart: for
that encouraged him.

Do you think, my dear, said she, that I would encourage him?—I never
said so to you before; but, since you have forced it from me, I must
tell you, that, ever since you consulted me, I have used my utmost
endeavours to divert him from his wicked purposes: and he has promised
fair; but, to say all in a word, he doats upon you; and I begin to see
it is not in his power to help it.

I luckily said nothing of the note from Mr. Jonathan; for I began to
suspect all the world almost: but I said, to try Mrs. Jervis, Well
then, what would you have me do? You see he is for having me wait on
Lady Davers now.

Why, I’ll tell you freely, my dear Pamela, said she, and I trust to
your discretion to conceal what I say: my master has been often
desiring me to put you upon asking him to let you stay——

Yes, said I, Mrs. Jervis, let me interrupt you: I will tell you why I
could not think of that: It was not the pride of my heart, but the
pride of my honesty: For what must have been the case? Here my master
has been very rude to me, once and twice; and you say he cannot help
it, though he pretends to be sorry for it: Well, he has given me
warning to leave my place, and uses me very harshly; perhaps to
frighten me to his purposes, as he supposes I would be fond of staying
(as indeed I should, if I could be safe; for I love you and all the
house, and value him, if he would act as my master). Well then, as I
know his designs, and that he owns he cannot help it; must I have asked
to stay, knowing he would attempt me again? for all you could assure me
of, was, he would do nothing by force; so I, a poor weak girl, was to
be left to my own strength! And was not this to allow him to tempt me,
as one may say? and to encourage him to go on in his wicked
devices?—How then, Mrs. Jervis, could I ask or wish to stay?

You say well, my dear child, says she; and you have a justness of
thought above your years; and for all these considerations, and for
what I have heard this day, after you ran away, (and I am glad you went
as you did,) I cannot persuade you to stay; and I shall be glad, (which
is what I never thought I could have said,) that you were well at your
father’s; for if Lady Davers will entertain you, she may as well have
you from thence as here. There’s my good Mrs. Jervis! said I; God will
bless you for your good counsel to a poor maiden, that is hard beset.
But pray what did he say, when I was gone? Why, says she, he was very
angry with you. But he would hear it! said I: I think it was a little
bold; but then he provoked me to it. And had not my honesty been in the
case, I would not by any means have been so saucy. Besides, Mrs.
Jervis, consider it was the truth; if he does not love to hear of the
summer-house, and the dressing-room, why should he not be ashamed to
continue in the same mind? But, said she, when you had muttered this to
yourself, you might have told him any thing else. Well, said I, I
cannot tell a wilful lie, and so there’s an end of it. But I find you
now give him up, and think there’s danger in staying.—Lord bless me! I
wish I was well out of the house; so it was at the bottom of a wet
ditch, on the wildest common in England.

Why, said she, it signifies nothing to tell you all he said but it was
enough to make me fear you would not be so safe as I could wish; and,
upon my word, Pamela, I don’t wonder he loves you; for, without
flattery, you are a charming girl! and I never saw you look more lovely
in your life than in that same new dress of yours. And then it was such
a surprise upon us all!—I believe truly, you owe some of your danger to
the lovely appearance you made. Then, said I, I wish the clothes in the
fire: I expected no effect from them; but, if any, a quite contrary
one.

Hush! said I, Mrs. Jervis, did you not hear something stir in the
closet? No, silly girl, said she, your fears are always awake.—But
indeed, said I, I think I heard something rustle.—May be, says she, the
cat may be got there: but I hear nothing.

I was hush; but she said, Pr’ythee, my good girl, make haste to bed.
See if the door be fast. So I did, and was thinking to look into the
closet; but, hearing no more noise, thought it needless, and so went
again and sat myself down on the bed-side, and went on undressing
myself. And Mrs. Jervis being by this time undressed, stepped into bed,
and bid me hasten, for she was sleepy.

I don’t know what was the matter, but my heart sadly misgave me:
Indeed, Mr. Jonathan’s note was enough to make it do so, with what Mrs.
Jervis had said. I pulled off my stays, and my stockings, and all my
clothes to an under-petticoat; and then hearing a rustling again in the
closet, I said, Heaven protect us! but before I say my prayers, I must
look into this closet. And so was going to it slip-shod, when, O
dreadful! out rushed my master in a rich silk and silver morning gown.

I screamed, and ran to the bed, and Mrs. Jervis screamed too; and he
said, I’ll do you no harm, if you forbear this noise; but otherwise
take what follows.

Instantly he came to the bed (for I had crept into it, to Mrs. Jervis,
with my coat on, and my shoes); and taking me in his arms, said, Mrs.
Jervis, rise, and just step up stairs to keep the maids from coming
down at this noise: I’ll do no harm to this rebel.

O, for Heaven’s sake! for pity’s sake! Mrs. Jervis, said I, if I am not
betrayed, don’t leave me; and, I beseech you, raise all the house. No,
said Mrs. Jervis, I will not stir, my dear lamb; I will not leave you.
I wonder at you, sir, said she; and kindly threw herself upon my coat,
clasping me round the waist: You shall not hurt this innocent, said
she: for I will lose my life in her defence. Are there not, said she,
enough wicked ones in the world, for your base purpose, but you must
attempt such a lamb as this?

He was desperate angry, and threatened to throw her out of the window;
and to turn her out of the house the next morning. You need not, sir,
said she; for I will not stay in it. God defend my poor Pamela till
to-morrow, and we will both go together.—Says he, let me but
expostulate a word or two with you, Pamela. Pray, Pamela, said Mrs.
Jervis, don’t hear a word, except he leaves the bed, and goes to the
other end of the room. Ay, out of the room, said I; expostulate
to-morrow, if you must expostulate!

I found his hand in my bosom; and when my fright let me know it, I was
ready to die; and I sighed and screamed, and fainted away. And still he
had his arms about my neck; and Mrs. Jervis was about my feet, and upon
my coat. And all in a cold dewy sweat was I. Pamela! Pamela! said Mrs.
Jervis, as she tells me since, O—h, and gave another shriek, my poor
Pamela is dead for certain! And so, to be sure, I was for a time; for I
knew nothing more of the matter, one fit following another, till about
three hours after, as it proved to be, I found myself in bed, and Mrs.
Jervis sitting upon one side, with her wrapper about her, and Rachel on
the other; and no master, for the wicked wretch was gone. But I was so
overjoyed, that I hardly could believe myself; and I said, which were
my first words, Mrs. Jervis, Mrs. Rachel, can I be sure it is you? Tell
me! can I?—Where have I been? Hush, my dear, said Mrs. Jervis; you have
been in fit after fit. I never saw any body so frightful in my life!

By this I judged Rachel knew nothing of the matter; and it seems my
wicked master had, upon Mrs. Jervis’s second noise on my fainting away,
slipt out, and, as if he had come from his own chamber, disturbed by
the screaming, went up to the maids’ room, (who, hearing the noise, lay
trembling, and afraid to stir,) and bid them go down, and see what was
the matter with Mrs. Jervis and me. And he charged Mrs. Jervis, and
promised to forgive her for what she had said and done, if she would
conceal the matter. So the maids came down, and all went up again, when
I came to myself a little, except Rachel, who staid to sit up with me,
and bear Mrs. Jervis company. I believe they all guess the matter to be
bad enough; though they dare not say any thing.

When I think of my danger, and the freedoms he actually took, though I
believe Mrs. Jervis saved me from worse, and she said she did, (though
what can I think, who was in a fit, and knew nothing of the matter?) I
am almost distracted.

At first I was afraid of Mrs. Jervis; but I am fully satisfied she is
very good, and I should have been lost but for her; and she takes on
grievously about it. What would have become of me, had she gone out of
the room, to still the maids, as he bid her! He’d certainly have shut
her out, and then, mercy on me! what would have become of your poor
Pamela?

I must leave off a little; for my eyes and my head are sadly bad.—This
was a dreadful trial! This was the worst of all! Oh, that I was out of
the power of this dreadfully wicked man! Pray for

Your distressed DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXVI




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I did not rise till ten o’clock, and I had all the concerns and wishes
of the family, and multitudes of inquiries about me. My wicked master
went out early to hunt; but left word he would be in to breakfast. And
so he was.

He came up to our chamber about eleven, and had nothing to do to be
sorry; for he was our master, and so put on sharp anger at first.

I had great emotions at his entering the room, and threw my apron over
my head, and fell a crying, as if my heart would break.

Mrs. Jervis, said he, since I know you, and you me so well, I don’t
know how we shall live together for the future. Sir, said she, I will
take the liberty to say, what I think is best for both. I have so much
grief, that you should attempt to do any injury to this poor girl, and
especially in my chamber, that I should think myself accessary to the
mischief, if I was not to take notice of it. Though my ruin, therefore,
may depend upon it, I desire not to stay; but pray let poor Pamela and
me go together. With all my heart, said he; and the sooner the better.
She fell a crying. I find, says he, this girl has made a party of the
whole house in her favour against me. Her innocence deserves it of us
all, said she very kindly: and I never could have thought that the son
of my dear good lady departed, could have so forfeited his honour, as
to endeavour to destroy a virtue he ought to protect. No more of this,
Mrs. Jervis! said he; I will not hear it. As for Pamela, she has a
lucky knack of falling into fits, when she pleases. But the cursed
yellings of you both made me not myself. I intended no harm to her, as
I told you both, if you’d have left your squallings: And I did no harm
neither, but to myself; for I raised a hornet’s nest about my ears,
that, as far as I know, may have stung to death my reputation. Sir,
said Mrs. Jervis, then I beg Mr. Longman may take my accounts, and I
will go away as soon as I can. As for Pamela, she is at her liberty, I
hope, to go away next Thursday, as she intends?

I sat still; for I could not speak nor look up, and his presence
discomposed me extremely; but I was sorry to hear myself the unhappy
occasion of Mrs. Jervis’s losing her place, and hope that may be still
made up.

Well, said he, let Mr. Longman make up your accounts, as soon as you
will; and Mrs. Jewkes (who is his housekeeper in Lincolnshire) shall
come hither in your place, and won’t be less obliging, I dare say, than
you have been. Said she, I have never disobliged you till now; and let
me tell you, sir, if you knew what belonged to your own reputation or
honour—No more, no more, said he, of these antiquated topics. I have
been no bad friend to you; and I shall always esteem you, though you
have not been so faithful to my secrets as I could have wished, and
have laid me open to this girl, which has made her more afraid of me
than she had occasion. Well, sir, said she, after what passed
yesterday, and last night, I think I went rather too far in favour of
your injunctions than otherwise; and I should have deserved every
body’s censure, as the basest of creatures, had I been capable of
contributing to your lawless attempts. Still, Mrs. Jervis, still
reflecting upon me, and all for imaginary faults! for what harm have I
done the girl?—I won’t bear it, I’ll assure you. But yet, in respect to
my mother, I am willing to part friendly with you though you ought both
of you to reflect on the freedom of your conversation, in relation to
me; which I should have resented more than I do, but that I am
conscious I had no business to demean myself so as to be in your
closet, where I might have expected to hear a multitude of impertinence
between you.

Well, sir, said she, you have no objection, I hope, to Pamela’s going
away on Thursday next? You are mighty solicitous, said he, about
Pamela: But no, not I; let her go as soon as she will: She is a naughty
girl, and has brought all this upon herself; and upon me more trouble
than she can have had from me: But I have overcome it all, and will
never concern myself about her.

I have a proposal made me, added he, since I have been out this
morning, that I shall go near to embrace; and so wish only, that a
discreet use may be made of what is past; and there’s an end of every
thing with me, as to Pamela, I’ll assure you. I clasped my hands
together through my apron, overjoyed at this, though I was soon to go
away: For, naughty as he has been to me, I wish his prosperity with all
my heart, for my good old lady’s sake. Well, Pamela, said he, you need
not now be afraid to speak to me; tell me what you lifted up your hands
at? I said not a word. Says he, If you like what I have said, give me
your hand upon it. I held my hand up through my apron; for I could not
speak to him; and he took hold of it, and pressed it, though less hard
than he did my arm the day before. What does the little fool cover her
face for? said he: Pull your apron away; and let me see how you look,
after your freedom of speech of me last night. No wonder you are
ashamed to see me. You know you were very free with my character.

I could not stand this barbarous insult, as I took it to be,
considering his behaviour to me; and I then spoke and said, O the
difference between the minds of thy creatures, good God! How shall some
be cast down in their innocence, while others can triumph in their
guilt!

And so saying, I went up stairs to my chamber, and wrote all this; for
though he vexed me at his taunting, yet I was pleased to hear he was
likely to be married, and that his wicked intentions were so happily
overcome as to me; and this made me a little easier. And I hope I have
passed the worst; or else it is very hard. And yet I shan’t think
myself at ease quite, till I am with you: For, methinks, after all, his
repentance and amendment are mighty suddenly resolved upon. But the
divine grace is not confined to space; and remorse may, and I hope has,
smitten him to the heart at once, for his injuries to poor me! Yet I
won’t be too secure neither.

Having opportunity, I send now what I know will grieve you to the
heart. But I hope I shall bring my next scribble myself; and so
conclude, though half broken-hearted, Your ever dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXVII




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I am glad I desired you not to meet me, and John says you won’t; for he
told you he is sure I shall get a passage well enough, either behind
some one of my fellow-servants on horseback, or by farmer Nichols’s
means: but as to the chariot he talked to you of, I can’t expect that
favour, to be sure; and I should not care for it, because it would look
so much above me. But farmer Brady, they say, has a chaise with one
horse, and we hope to borrow that, or hire it, rather than fail; though
money runs a little lowish, after what I have laid out; but I don’t
care to say so here; though I warrant I might have what I would of Mrs.
Jervis, or Mr. Jonathan, or Mr. Longman; but then how shall I pay it?
you’ll say: And, besides, I don’t love to be beholden.

But the chief reason I’m glad you don’t set out to meet me, is the
uncertainty; for it seems I must stay another week still, and hope
certainly to go Thursday after. For poor Mrs. Jervis will go at the
same time, she says, and can’t be ready before.

Oh! that I was once well with you!—Though he is very civil too at
present, and not so cross as he was: and yet he is as vexatious another
way, as you shall hear. For yesterday he had a rich suit of clothes
brought home, which they call a birth-day suit; for he intends to go to
London against next birth-day, to see the court; and our folks will
have it he is to be made a lord.—I wish they may make him an honest
man, as he was always thought; but I have not found it so, alas for me!

And so, as I was saying, he had these clothes come home, and he tried
them on. And before he pulled them off, he sent for me, when nobody
else was in the parlour with him: Pamela, said he, you are so neat and
so nice in your own dress, (Alack-a-day, I didn’t know I was!) that you
must be a judge of ours. How are these clothes made? Do they fit me?—I
am no judge, said I, and please your honour; but I think they look very
fine.

His waistcoat stood on end with silver lace, and he looked very grand.
But what he did last, has made me very serious, and I could make him no
compliments. Said he, Why don’t you wear your usual clothes? Though I
think every thing looks well upon you (for I still continue in my new
dress). I said, I have no clothes, sir, I ought to call my own, but
these: and it is no matter what such an one as I wears. Said he, Why
you look very serious, Pamela. I see you can bear malice.—Yes, so I
can, sir, said I, according to the occasion! Why, said he, your eyes
always look red, I think. Are you not a fool to take my last freedom so
much to heart? I am sure you, and that fool Mrs. Jervis, frightened me,
by your hideous squalling, as much as I could frighten you. That is all
we had for it, said I; and if you could be so afraid of your own
servants knowing of your attempts upon a poor unworthy creature, that
is under your protection while I stay, surely your honour ought to be
more afraid of God Almighty, in whose presence we all stand, in every
action of our lives, and to whom the greatest, as well as the least,
must be accountable, let them think what they list.

He took my hand, in a kind of good-humoured mockery, and said, Well
urged, my pretty preacher! When my Lincolnshire chaplain dies, I’ll put
thee on a gown and cassock, and thou’lt make a good figure in his
place.—I wish, said I, a little vexed at his jeer, your honour’s
conscience would be your preacher, and then you would need no other
chaplain. Well, well, Pamela, said he, no more of this unfashionable
jargon. I did not send for you so much for your opinion of my new suit,
as to tell you, you are welcome to stay, since Mrs. Jervis desires it,
till she goes. I welcome! said I; I am sure I shall rejoice when I am
out of the house!

Well, said he, you are an ungrateful baggage; but I am thinking it
would be pity, with these fair soft hands, and that lovely skin, (as he
called it, and took hold of my hand,) that you should return again to
hard work, as you must if you go to your father’s; and so I would
advise her to take a house in London, and let lodgings to us members of
parliament, when we come to town; and such a pretty daughter as you may
pass for, will always fill her house, and she’ll get a great deal of
money.

I was sadly vexed at this barbarous joke; but being ready to cry
before, the tears gushed out, and (endeavouring to get my hand from
him, but in vain) I said, I can expect no better: Your behaviour, sir,
to me, has been just of a piece with these words: Nay, I will say it,
though you were to be ever so angry.—I angry, Pamela? No, no, said he,
I have overcome all that; and as you are to go away, I look upon you
now as Mrs. Jervis’s guest while you both stay, and not as my servant;
and so you may say what you will. But I’ll tell you, Pamela, why you
need not take this matter in such high disdain!—You have a very pretty
romantic turn for virtue, and all that.—And I don’t suppose but you’ll
hold it still: and nobody will be able to prevail upon you. But, my
child, (sneeringly he spoke it,) do but consider what a fine
opportunity you will then have for a tale every day to good mother
Jervis, and what subjects for letter-writing to your father and mother,
and what pretty preachments you may hold forth to the young gentlemen.
Ad’s my heart! I think it would be the best thing you and she could do.

You do well, sir, said I, to even your wit to such a poor maiden as me:
but, permit me to say, that if you was not rich and great, and I poor
and little, you would not insult me thus.—Let me ask you, sir, if you
think this becomes your fine clothes, and a master’s station: Why so
serious, my pretty Pamela? said he: Why so grave? And would kiss me;
but my heart was full, and I said, Let me alone; I will tell you, if
you was a king, and insulted me as you have done, that you have
forgotten to act like a gentleman; and I won’t stay to be used thus: I
will go to the next farmer’s, and there wait for Mrs. Jervis, if she
must go: and I’d have you know, sir, that I can stoop to the
ordinariest work of your scullions, for all these nasty soft hands,
sooner than bear such ungentlemanly imputations.

I sent for you, said he, in high good humour; but it is impossible to
hold it with such an impertinent: however, I’ll keep my temper. But
while I see you here, pray don’t put on those dismal grave looks: Why,
girl, you should forbear them, if it were but for your pride-sake; for
the family will think you are grieving to leave the house. Then, sir,
said I, I will try to convince them of the contrary, as well as your
honour; for I will endeavour to be more cheerful while I stay, for that
very reason.

Well, replied he, I will set this down by itself, as the first time
that ever what I had advised had any weight with you. And I will add,
said I, as the first advice you have given me of late, that was fit to
be followed.—I wish said he, (I am almost ashamed to write it, impudent
gentleman as he is!) I wish I had thee as quick another way, as thou
art in thy repartees—And he laughed, and I snatched my hand from him,
and I tripped away as fast as I could. Ah! thought I, married? I am
sure it is time you were married, or, at this rate, no honest maiden
ought to live with you.

Why, dear father and mother, to be sure he grows quite a rake! How easy
it is to go from bad to worse, when once people give way to vice!

How would my poor lady, had she lived, have grieved to see it! but may
be he would have been better then! Though it seems he told Mrs. Jervis,
he had an eye upon me in his mother’s life-time; and he intended to let
me know as much, by the bye, he told her! Here is shamelessness for
you! Sure the world must be near at an end! for all the gentlemen about
are as bad as he almost, as far as I can hear!—And see the fruits of
such bad examples! There is ’Squire Martin in the grove, has had three
lyings-in, it seems, in his house, in three months past; one by
himself; and one by his coachman; and one by his woodman; and yet he
has turned none of them away. Indeed, how can he, when they but follow
his own vile example? There is he, and two or three more such as he,
within ten miles of us, who keep company, and hunt with our fine
master, truly; and I suppose he is never the better for their examples.
But, Heaven bless me, say I, and send me out of this wicked house!

But, dear father and mother, what sort of creatures must the womenkind
be, do you think, to give way to such wickedness? Why, this it is that
makes every one be thought of alike: And, alack-a-day! what a world we
live in! for it is grown more a wonder that the men are resisted, than
that the women comply. This, I suppose, makes me such a sauce-box, and
bold-face, and a creature, and all because I won’t be a sauce-box and
bold-face indeed.

But I am sorry for these things; one don’t know what arts and
stratagems men may devise to gain their vile ends; and so I will think
as well as I can of these poor undone creatures, and pity them. For you
see, by my sad story, and narrow escapes, what hardships poor maidens
go through, whose lot it is to go out to service, especially to houses
where there is not the fear of God, and good rule kept by the heads of
the family.

You see I am quite grown grave and serious; indeed it becomes the
present condition of Your dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXVIII




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

John says you wept when you read my last letter, that he carried. I am
sorry you let him see that; for they all mistrust already how matters
are, and as it is no credit that I have been attempted, though it is
that I have resisted; yet I am sorry they have cause to think so evil
of my master from any of us.

Mrs. Jervis has made up her accounts with Mr. Longman, and will stay in
her place. I am glad of it, for her own sake, and for my master’s; for
she has a good master of him; so indeed all have, but poor me—and he
has a good housekeeper in her.

Mr. Longman, it seems, took upon him to talk to my master, how faithful
and careful of his interests she was, and how exact in her accounts;
and he told him, there was no comparison between her accounts and Mrs.
Jewkes’s, at the Lincolnshire estate.

He said so many fine things, it seems, of Mrs. Jervis, that my master
sent for her in Mr. Longman’s presence, and said Pamela might come
along with her; I suppose to mortify me, that I must go while she was
to stay: But as, when I go away, I am not to go with her, nor was she
to go with me; so I did not matter it much; only it would have been
creditable to such a poor girl, that the housekeeper would bear me
company, if I went.

Said he to her, Well, Mrs. Jervis, Longman says you have made up your
accounts with him with your usual fidelity and exactness. I had a good
mind to make you an offer of continuing with me, if you can be a little
sorry for your hasty words, which, indeed, were not so respectful as I
have deserved at your hands. She seemed at a sad loss what to say,
because Mr. Longman was there, and she could not speak of the occasion
of those words, which was me.

Indeed, said Mr. Longman, I must needs say before your face, that since
I have known my master’s family, I have never found such good
management in it, nor so much love and harmony neither. I wish the
Lincolnshire estate was as well served!—No more of that, said my
master; but Mrs. Jervis may stay, if she will: and here, Mrs. Jervis,
pray accept of this, which at the close of every year’s accounts I will
present you with, besides your salary, as long as I find your care so
useful and agreeable. And he gave her five guineas.—She made him a low
courtesy, and thanking him, looked to me, as if she would have spoken
to me.

He took her meaning, I believe; for he said,—Indeed I love to encourage
merit and obligingness, Longman; but I can never be equally kind to
those who don’t deserve it at my hands, as to those who do; and then he
looked full on me. Longman, continued he, I said that girl might come
in with Mrs. Jervis, because they love to be always together. For Mrs.
Jervis is very good to her, and loves her as well as if she was her
daughter. But else—Mr. Longman, interrupting him, said, Good to Mrs.
Pamela! Ay, sir, and so she is, to be sure! But every body must be good
to her; for——

He was going on: but my master said, No more, no more, Mr. Longman. I
see old men are taken with pretty young girls, as well as other folks;
and fair looks hide many a fault, where a person has the art to behave
obligingly. Why, and please your honour, said Mr. Longman, every
body—and was going on, I believe, to say something more in my praise,
but he interrupted him, and said, Not a word more of this Pamela. I
can’t let her stay, I’ll assure you; not only for her own freedom of
speech, but her letter-writing of all the secrets of my family. Ay,
said the good old man, I am sorry for that too! But, sir,—No more, I
say, said my master; for my reputation is so well known, (mighty fine,
thought I!) that I care not what any body writes or says of me: But to
tell you the truth, (not that it need go further,) I think of changing
my condition soon; and, you know, young ladies of birth and fortune
will choose their own servants, and that’s my chief reason why Pamela
can’t stay. As for the rest, said he, the girl is a good sort of body,
take her altogether; though I must needs say, a little pert, since my
mother’s death, in her answers, and gives me two words for one; which I
can’t bear; nor is there reason I should, you know, Longman. No, to be
sure, sir, said he: but ’tis strange, methinks, she should be so mild
and meek to every one of us in the house, and forget herself so, where
she should shew most respect! Very true, Mr. Longman, said he, but so
it is, I’ll assure you; and it was from her pertness, that Mrs. Jervis
and I had the words: And I should mind it the less, but that the girl
(there she stands, I say it to her face) has wit and sense above her
years, and knows better.

I was in great pain to say something, but yet I knew not what, before
Mr. Longman; and Mrs. Jervis looked at me, and walked to the window to
hide her concern for me. At last, I said, It is for you, sir, to say
what you please; and for me only to say, God bless your honour!

Poor Mr. Longman faltered in his speech, and was ready to cry. Said my
insulting master to me, Why, pr’ythee, Pamela, now, shew thyself as
thou art, before Longman. Can’st not give him a specimen of that
pertness which thou hast exercised upon me sometimes?

Did he not, my dear father and mother, deserve all the truth to be
told? Yet I overcame myself so far, as to say, Well, your honour may
play upon a poor girl, that you know can answer you, but dare not.

Why, pr’ythee now, insinuator, said he, say the worst you can before
Longman and Mrs. Jervis. I challenge the utmost of thy impertinence:
and as you are going away, and have the love of every body, I would be
a little justified to my family, that you have no reason to complain of
hardships from me, as I have pert saucy answers from you, besides
exposing me by your letters.

Surely, sir, said I, I am of no consequence equal to this, in your
honour’s family, that such a great gentleman as you, should need to
justify yourself about me. I am glad Mrs. Jervis stays with your
honour; and I know I have not deserved to stay: and, more than that, I
don’t desire to stay.

Ads-bobbers! said Mr. Longman, and ran to me; don’t say so, don’t say
so, dear Mrs. Pamela! We all love you dearly: and pray down of your
knees, and ask his honour pardon, and we will all become pleaders in a
body, and I, and Mrs. Jervis too, at the head of it, to beg his
honour’s pardon, and to continue you, at least, till his honour
marries.—No, Mr. Longman, said I, I cannot ask; nor will I stay, if I
might. All I desire is, to return to my poor father and mother: and
though I love you all, I won’t stay.—O well-a-day, well-a-day! said the
good old man, I did not expect this!—When I had got matters thus far,
and had made all up for Mrs. Jervis, I was in hopes to have got a
double holiday of joy for all the family, in your pardon too. Well,
said my master, this is a little specimen of what I told you, Longman.
You see there’s a spirit you did not expect.

Mrs. Jervis told me after, that she could stay no longer, to hear me so
hardly used; and must have spoken, had she staid, what would never have
been forgiven her; so she went out. I looked after her to go too; but
my master said, Come, Pamela, give another specimen, I desire you, to
Longman I am sure you must, if you will but speak. Well, sir, said I,
since it seems your greatness wants to be justified by my lowness, and
I have no desire you should suffer in the sight of your family, I will
say, on my bended knees, (and so I kneeled down,) that I have been a
very faulty, and a very ungrateful creature to the best of masters: I
have been very perverse and saucy; and have deserved nothing at your
hands but to be turned out of your family with shame and disgrace. I,
therefore, have nothing to say for myself, but that I am not worthy to
stay, and so cannot wish to stay, and will not stay: And so God
Almighty bless you, and you Mr. Longman, and good Mrs. Jervis, and
every living soul of the family! and I will pray for you as long as I
live!—And so I rose up, and was forced to lean upon my master’s
elbow-chair, or I should have sunk down.

The poor old man wept more than I, and said, Ads-bobbers, was ever the
like heard! ’Tis too much, too much; I can’t bear it. As I hope to
live, I am quite melted. Dear sir, forgive her! The poor thing prays
for you; she prays for us all! She owns her fault; yet won’t be
forgiven! I profess I know not what to make of it.

My master himself, hardened wretch as he was, seemed a little moved,
and took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and walked to the window:
What sort of a day is it? said he.—And then, getting a little more
hard-heartedness, he said, Well, you may be gone from my presence, thou
strange medley of inconsistence! but you shan’t stay after your time in
the house.

Nay, pray, sir, pray, sir, said the good old man, relent a little.
Ads-heartikins! you young gentlemen are made of iron and steel, I
think; I’m sure, said he, my heart’s turned into butter, and is running
away at my eyes. I never felt the like before.—Said my master, with an
imperious tone, Get out of my presence, hussy! I can’t bear you in my
sight. Sir, said I, I’m going as fast as I can.

But, indeed, my dear father and mother, my head was so giddy, and my
limbs trembled so, that I was forced to go holding by the wainscot all
the way with both my hands, and thought I should not have got to the
door: But when I did, as I hoped this would be my last interview with
this terrible hard-hearted master, I turned about, and made a low
courtesy, and said, God bless you, sir! God bless you, Mr. Longman! and
I went into the lobby leading to the great hall, and dropt into the
first chair; for I could get no farther a good while.

I leave all these things to your reflection, my dear parents but I can
write no more. My poor heart’s almost broken! Indeed it is—O when shall
I get away!—Send me, good God, in safety, once more to my poor father’s
peaceful cot!—and there the worst that can happen will be joy in
perfection to what I now bear!—O pity

Your distressed DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXIX




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I must write on, though I shall come so soon; for now I have hardly any
thing else to do. I have finished all that lay upon me, and only wait
the good time of setting out. Mrs. Jervis said, I must be low in
pocket, for what I had laid out; and so would have presented me with
two guineas of her five; but I could not take them of her, because,
poor gentlewoman, she pays old debts for her children, that were
extravagant, and wants them herself. This, though, was very good in
her.

I am sorry I shall have but little to bring with me; but I know you
won’t, you are so good!—and I will work the harder, when I come home,
if I can get a little plain-work, or any thing, to do. But all your
neighbourhood is so poor, that I fear I shall want work, except, may
be, dame Mumford can help me to something, from any good family she is
acquainted with.

Here, what a sad thing it is! I have been brought up wrong, as matters
stand. For, you know, my good lady, now in heaven, loved singing and
dancing; and, as she would have it, I had a voice, she made me learn
both; and often and often has she made me sing her an innocent song,
and a good psalm too, and dance before her. And I must learn to flower
and draw too, and to work fine work with my needle; why, all this too I
have got pretty tolerably at my finger’s end, as they say; and she used
to praise me, and was a good judge of such matters.

Well now, what is all this to the purpose, as things have turned about?

Why, no more nor less, than that I am like the grasshopper in the
fable, which I have read of in my lady’s book, as follows:—[See the
Aesop’s Fables which have lately been selected and reformed from those
of Sir R. L’Estrange, and the most eminent mythologists.]

‘As the ants were airing their provisions one winter, a hungry
grasshopper (as suppose it was poor I) begged a charity of them. They
told him, That he should have wrought in summer, if he would not have
wanted in winter. Well, says the grasshopper, but I was not idle
neither; for I sung out the whole season. Nay, then, said they, you’ll
e’en do well to make a merry year of it, and dance in winter to the
time you sung in summer.’

So I shall make a fine figure with my singing and my dancing, when I
come home to you! Nay, I shall be unfit even for a May-day
holiday-time; for these minuets, rigadoons, and French dances, that I
have been practising, will make me but ill company for my milk-maid
companions that are to be. To be sure I had better, as things stand,
have learned to wash and scour, and brew and bake, and such like. Put I
hope, if I can’t get work, and can meet with a place, to learn these
soon, if any body will have the goodness to bear with me till I am
able: For, notwithstanding what my master says, I hope I have an humble
and teachable mind; and, next to God’s grace, that’s all my comfort:
for I shall think nothing too mean that is honest. It may be a little
hard at first; but woe to my proud heart, if I find it so on trial; for
I will make it bend to its condition, or break it.

I have read of a good bishop that was to be burnt for his religion; and
he tried how he could bear it, by putting his fingers into the lighted
candle: So I, t’other day, tried, when Rachel’s back was turned, if I
could not scour a pewter plate she had begun. I see I could do’t by
degrees: It only blistered my hand in two places.

All the matter is, if I could get plain-work enough, I need not spoil
my fingers. But if I can’t, I hope to make my hands as red as a
blood-pudding, and as hard as a beechen trencher, to accommodate them
to my condition.—But I must break off; here’s somebody coming.

’Tis only our Hannah with a message from Mrs. Jervis.—But, hold, here’s
somebody else. Well, it is only Rachel.

I am as much frighted, as were the city mouse and the country mouse, in
the same book of fables, at every thing that stirs. O! I have a power
of these things to entertain you with in winter evenings, when I come
home. If I can but get work, with a little time for reading, I hope we
shall be very happy over our peat fires.

What made me hint to you, that I should bring but little with me, is
this:

You must know, I did intend to do, as I have this afternoon: and that
is, I took all my clothes, and all my linen, and I divided them into
three parcels, as I had before told Mrs. Jervis I intended to do; and I
said, It is now Monday, Mrs. Jervis, and I am to go away on Thursday
morning betimes; so, though I know you don’t doubt my honesty, I beg
you will look over my poor matters, and let every one have what belongs
to them; for, said I, you know I am resolved to take with me only what
I can properly call my own.

Said she, (I did not know her drift then; to be sure she meant well;
but I did not thank her for it, when I did know it,) Let your things be
brought down in the green-room, and I will do any thing you will have
me do.

With all my heart, said I, green-room or any where; but I think you
might step up, and see ’em as they lie.

However, I fetched ’em down, and laid them in three parcels, as before;
and, when I had done, I went down to call her up to look at them.

Now, it seems, she had prepared my master for this scene, unknown to
me; and in this green-room was a closet, with a sash-door, and a
curtain before it; for there she puts her sweet-meats and such things;
and she did it, it seems, to turn his heart, as knowing what I
intended, I suppose that he should make me take the things; for, if he
had, I should have made money of them, to help us when we got together;
for, to be sure, I could never have appeared in them.

Well, as I was saying, he had got, unknown to me, into this closet; I
suppose while I went to call Mrs. Jervis: and she since owned to me, it
was at his desire, when she told him something of what I intended, or
else she would not have done it: though I have reason, I am sure, to
remember the last closet-work.

So I said, when she came up, Here, Mrs. Jervis, is the first parcel; I
will spread it all abroad. These are the things my good lady gave
me.—In the first place, said I—and so I went on describing the clothes
and linen my lady had given me, mingling blessings, as I proceeded, for
her goodness to me; and when I had turned over that parcel, I said,
Well, so much for the first parcel, Mrs. Jervis; that was my lady’s
gifts.

Now I come to the presents of my dear virtuous master: Hey, you know
closet for that! Mrs. Jervis. She laughed, and said, I never saw such a
comical girl in my life! But go on. I will, Mrs. Jervis, said I, as
soon as I have opened the bundle; for I was as brisk and as pert as
could be, little thinking who heard me.

Now here, Mrs. Jervis, said I, are my ever worthy master’s presents;
and then I particularised all those in the second bundle.

After which, I turned to my own, and said,

Now, Mrs. Jervis, comes poor Pamela’s bundle; and a little one it is to
the others. First, here is a calico nightgown, that I used to wear o’
mornings. ’Twill be rather too good for me when I get home; but I must
have something. Then there is a quilted calamanco coat, and a pair of
stockings I bought of the pedlar, and my straw-hat with blue strings;
and a remnant of Scots cloth, which will make two shirts and two
shifts, the same I have on, for my poor father and mother. And here are
four other shifts, one the fellow to that I have on; another pretty
good one, and the other two old fine ones, that will serve me to turn
and wind with at home, for they are not worth leaving behind me; and
here are two pair of shoes, I have taken the lace off, which I will
burn, and may be will fetch me some little matter at a pinch, with an
old silver buckle or two.

What do you laugh for, Mrs. Jervis? said I.—Why you are like an April
day; you cry and laugh in a breath.

Well, let me see; ay, here is a cotton handkerchief I bought of the
pedlar—there should be another somewhere. O, here it is! and here too
are my new-bought knit mittens; and this is my new flannel coat, the
fellow to that I have on and in this parcel, pinned together, are
several pieces of printed calico, remnants of silks, and such like,
that, if good luck should happen, and I should get work, would serve
for robins and facings, and such like uses. And here too are a pair of
pockets: they are too fine for me; but I have no worse. Bless me, said
I, I did not think I had so many good things!

Well, Mrs. Jervis, said I, you have seen all my store, and I will now
sit down, and tell you a piece of my mind.

Be brief then, said she, my good girl: for she was afraid, she said
afterwards, that I should say too much.

Why then the case is this: I am to enter upon a point of equity and
conscience, Mrs. Jervis; and I must beg, if you love me, you’d let me
have my own way. Those things there of my lady’s, I can have no claim
to, so as to take them away; for she gave them me, supposing I was to
wear them in her service, and to do credit to her bountiful heart. But,
since I am to be turned away, you know, I cannot wear them at my poor
father’s; for I should bring all the little village upon my back; and
so I resolve not to have them.

Then, Mrs. Jervis, said I, I have far less right to these of my worthy
master’s; for you see what was his intention in giving them to me. So
they were to be the price of my shame, and if I could make use of them,
I should think I should never prosper with them; and, besides, you
know, Mrs. Jervis, if I would not do the good gentleman’s work, why
should I take his wages? So, in conscience, in honour, in every thing,
I have nothing to say to thee, thou second wicked bundle!

But, said I, cone to my arms, my dear third parcel, the companion of my
poverty, and the witness of my honesty; and may I never deserve the
least rag that is contained in thee, when I forfeit a title to that
innocence, that I hope will ever be the pride of my life! and then I am
sure it will be my highest comfort at my death, when all the riches and
pomps of the world will be worse than the vilest rags that can be worn
by beggars! And so I hugged my third bundle.

But, said I, Mrs. Jervis, (and she wept to hear me,) one thing more I
have to trouble you with, and that’s all.

There are four guineas, you know, that came out of my good lady’s
pocket, when she died; that, with some silver, my master gave me: Now
these same four guineas I sent to my poor father and mother, and they
have broken them; but would make them up, if I would: and if you think
it should be so, it shall. But pray tell me honestly your mind: As to
the three years before my lady’s death, do you think, as I had no
wages, I may be supposed to be quits?—By quits, I cannot mean that my
poor services should be equal to my lady’s goodness; for that’s
impossible. But as all her learning and education of me, as matters
have turned, will be of little service to me now; for it had been
better for me to have been brought up to hard labour, to be sure; for
that I must turn to at last, if I can’t get a place: (and you know, in
places too, one is subject to such temptations as are dreadful to think
of:) so, I say, by quits I only mean, as I return all the good things
she gave me, whether I may not set my little services against my
keeping; because, as I said, my learning is not now in the question;
and I am sure my dear good lady would have thought so, had she lived;
but that too is now out of the question. Well then, if so, I would ask,
Whether, in above this year that I have lived with my master, as I am
resolved to leave all his gifts behind me, I may not have earned,
besides my keeping, these four guineas, and these poor clothes here
upon my back, and in my third bundle? Now tell me your mind freely,
without favour or affection.

Alas! my dear girl, says she, you make me unable to speak to you at
all: To be sure it will be the highest affront that can be offered, for
you to leave any of these things behind you; and you must take all your
bundles with you, or my master will never forgive you.

Well, well, Mrs. Jervis, said I, I don’t care; I have been too much
used to be snubbed and hardly treated by my master, of late. I have
done him no harm; and I shall always pray for him and wish him happy.
But I don’t deserve these things; I know I don’t. Then, I can’t wear
them, if I should take them; so they can be of no use to me: And I
trust I shall not want the poor pittance, that is all I desire to keep
life and soul together. Bread and water I can live upon, Mrs. Jervis,
with content. Water I shall get any where; and if I can’t get me bread,
I will live like a bird in winter upon hips and haws, and at other
times upon pig-nuts and potatoes, or turnips, or any thing. So what
occasion have I for these things?—But all I ask is about these four
guineas, and if you think I need not return them, that is all I want to
know.—To be sure, my dear, you need not, said she; you have well earned
them by that waistcoat only. No, I think not so, in that only; but in
the linen, and other things, do you think I have? Yes, yes, said she,
and more. And my keeping allowed for, I mean, said I, and these poor
clothes on my back, besides? Remember that, Mrs. Jervis. Yes, my dear
odd-one, no doubt you have. Well then, said I, I am as happy as a
princess. I am quite as rich as I wish to be: and once more, my dear
third bundle, I will hug thee to my bosom. And I beg you’ll say nothing
of all this till I am gone, that my master mayn’t be so angry, but that
I may go in peace; for my heart, without other matters, will be ready
to break to part with you all.

Now, Mrs. Jervis, said I, as to one matter more: and that is my
master’s last usage of me, before Mr. Longman.—Said she, Pr’ythee, dear
Pamela, step to my chamber, and fetch me a paper I left on my table. I
have something to shew you in it. I will, said I, and stepped down; but
that was only a fetch, to take the orders of my master, I found. It
seems he said, he thought two or three times to have burst out upon me;
but he could not stand it, and wished I might not know he was there.
But I tripped up again so nimbly, (for there was no paper,) that I just
saw his back, as if coming out of that green-room, and going into the
next to it, the first door that was open—I whipped in, and shut the
door, and bolted it. O Mrs. Jervis! said I, what have you done by me?—I
see I can’t confide in any body. I am beset on all hands. Wretched,
wretched Pamela, where shalt thou expect a friend, if Mrs. Jervis joins
to betray thee thus? She made so many protestations, (telling me all,
and that he owned I had made him wipe his eyes two or three times, and
said she hoped it would have a good effect, and remembered me, that I
had said nothing but what would rather move compassion than
resentment,) that I forgave her. But O! that I was safe from this
house! for never poor creature sure was so flustered as I have been so
many months together;—I am called down from this most tedious scribble.
I wonder what will next befall Your dutiful DAUGHTER.

Mrs. Jervis says, she is sure I shall have the chariot to carry me home
to you. Though this will look too great for me, yet it will shew as if
I was not turned away quite in disgrace. The travelling chariot is come
from Lincolnshire, and I fancy I shall go in that; for the other is
quite grand.


LETTER XXX




MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I write again, though, may be, I shall bring it to you in my pocket:
for I shall have no writing, nor writing-time, I hope, when I come to
you. This is Wednesday morning, and I shall, I hope, set out to you
to-morrow morning; but I have had more trials and more vexations; but
of another complexion too a little, though all from the same quarter.

Yesterday my master, after he came from hunting, sent for me. I went
with great terror: for I expected he would storm, and be in a fine
passion with me for my freedom of speech before: so I was resolved to
begin first, with submission, to disarm his anger; and I fell upon my
knees as soon as I saw him; and said, Good sir, let me beseech you, as
you hope to be forgiven yourself, and for the sake of my dear good lady
your mother, who recommended me to you with her last words, to forgive
me all my faults; and only grant me this favour, the last I shall ask
you, that you will let me depart your house with peace and quietness of
mind, that I may take such a leave of my dear fellow-servants as befits
me; and that my heart be not quite broken.

He took me up, in a kinder manner than ever I had known; and he said,
Shut the door, Pamela, and come to me in my closet: I want to have a
little serious talk with you. How can I, sir, said I, how can I! and
wrung my hands. O pray, sir, let me go out of your presence, I beseech
you! By the God that made me, said he, I’ll do you no harm. Shut the
parlour door, and come to me in my library.

He then went into his closet, which is his library, and full of rich
pictures besides; a noble apartment, though called a closet, and next
the private garden, into which it has a door that opens. I shut the
parlour door, as he bid me; but stood at it irresolute. Place some
confidence in me, said he: Surely you may, when I have spoken thus
solemnly. So I crept towards him with trembling feet, and my heart
throbbing through my handkerchief. Come in, said he, when I bid you. I
did so. Pray, sir, said I, pity and spare me. I will, said he, as I
hope to be saved. He sat down upon a rich settee; and took hold of my
hand, and said, Don’t doubt me, Pamela. From this moment I will no more
consider you as my servant: and I desire you’ll not use me with
ingratitude for the kindness I am going to express towards you. This a
little emboldened me; and he said, holding both my hands between his,
You have too much wit and good sense not to discover, that I, in spite
of my heart, and all the pride of it, cannot but love you. Yes, look up
to me, my sweet-faced girl! I must say I love you; and have put on a
behaviour to you, that was much against my heart, in hopes to frighten
you from your reservedness. You see I own it ingenuously; and don’t
play your sex upon me for it.

I was unable to speak; and he, seeing me too much oppressed with
confusion to go on in that strain, said, Well, Pamela, let me know in
what situation of life is your father: I know he is a poor man; but is
he as low and as honest as he was when my mother took you?

Then I could speak a little; and with a down look, (and I felt my face
glow like fire,) I said, Yes, sir, as poor and as honest too; and that
is my pride. Says he, I will do something for him, if it be not your
fault, and make all your family happy. All, sir, said I, he is happier
already than ever he can be, if his daughter’s innocence is to be the
price of your favour: and I beg you will not speak to me on the only
side that can wound me. I have no design of that sort, said he. O sir,
said I, tell me not so, tell me not so!—’Tis easy, said he, for me to
be the making of your father, without injuring you. Well, sir, said I,
if this can be done, let me know how; and all I can do with innocence
shall be the study and practice of my life.—But, O! what can such a
poor creature as I do, and do my duty?—Said he, I would have you stay a
week or fortnight only, and behave yourself with kindness to me; I
stoop to beg it of you, and you shall see all shall turn out beyond
your expectation. I see, said he, you are going to answer otherwise
than I would have you; and I begin to be vexed I should thus meanly
sue; and so I will say, that your behaviour before honest Longman, when
I used you as I did, and you could so well have vindicated yourself,
has quite charmed me. And though I am not pleased with all you said
yesterday, while I was in the closet, yet you have moved me more to
admire you than before; and I am awakened to see more worthiness in
you, than ever I saw in any lady in the world. All the servants, from
the highest to the lowest, doat upon you, instead of envying you; and
look upon you in so superior a light, as speaks what you ought to be. I
have seen more of your letters than you imagine, (This surprised me!)
and am quite overcome with your charming manner of writing, so free, so
easy, and many of your sentiments so much above your years, and your
sex; and all put together, makes me, as I tell you, love you to
extravagance. Now, Pamela, when I have stooped to acknowledge all this,
oblige me only to stay another week or fortnight, to give me time to
bring about some certain affairs, and you shall see how much you may
find your account in it.

I trembled to find my poor heart giving way.—O good sir, said I, spare
a poor girl that cannot look up to you, and speak. My heart is full;
and why should you wish to undo me?—Only oblige me, said he, to stay a
fortnight longer, and John shall carry word to your father, that I will
see him in the time, either here, or at the Swan in his village. O sir,
said I, my heart will burst; but, on my bended knees, I beg you to let
me go to-morrow, as I designed: and don’t offer to tempt a poor
creature, whose whole will would be to do yours, if my virtue would
permit!—I shall permit it, said he; for I intend no injury to you, God
is my witness! Impossible! said I; I cannot, sir, believe you, after
what has passed: How many ways are there to undo poor creatures! Good
God, protect me this one time, and send me but to my dear father’s cot
in safety!—Strange, d——d fate! said he, that when I speak so solemnly,
I can’t be believed!—What should I believe, sir? said I, what can I
believe? What have you said, but that I am to stay a fortnight longer?
and what then is to become of me?—My pride of birth and fortune (d—n
them both! said he, since they cannot obtain credit with you, but must
add to your suspicions) will not let me descend all at once; and I ask
you but a fortnight’s stay, that, after this declaration, I may pacify
those proud demands upon me.

O how my heart throbbed! and I began (for I did not know what I did) to
say the Lord’s prayer. None of your beads to me Pamela! said he; thou
art a perfect nun, I think.

But I said aloud, with my eyes lifted up to heaven, Lead me not into
temptation: but deliver me from evil, O my good God! He hugged me in
his arms, and said, Well, my dear girl, then you stay this fortnight,
and you shall see what I will do for you—I’ll leave you a moment, and
walk into the next room, to give you time to think of it, and to shew
you I have no design upon you. Well, this, I thought, did not look
amiss.

He went out, and I was tortured with twenty different doubts in a
minute; sometimes I thought that to stay a week or fortnight longer in
this house to obey him, while Mrs. Jervis was with me, could do no
great harm: But then, thought I, how do I know what I may be able to
do? I have withstood his anger; but may I not relent at his
kindness?—How shall I stand that.—Well, I hope, thought I, by the same
protecting grace in which I will always confide!—But, then, what has he
promised? Why, he will make my poor father and mother’s life
comfortable. O! said I to myself, that is a rich thought; but let me
not dwell upon it, for fear I should indulge it to my ruin.—What can he
do for me, poor girl as I am!—What can his greatness stoop to! He
talks, thought I, of his pride of heart, and pride of condition; O
these are in his head, and in his heart too, or he would not confess
them to me at such an instant. Well then, thought I, this can be only
to seduce me.—He has promised nothing.—But I am to see what he will do,
if I stay a fortnight; and this fortnight, thought I again, is no such
great matter; and I shall see in a few days how he carries it.—But
then, when I again reflected upon this distance between him and me, and
his now open declaration of love, as he called it; and that after this
he would talk with me on that subject more plainly than ever, and I
shall be less armed, may be, to withstand him; and then I bethought
myself, why, if he meant no dishonour, he should not speak before Mrs.
Jervis; and the odious frightful closet came again into my head, and my
narrow escape upon it; and how easy it might be for him to send Mrs.
Jervis and the maids out of the way; and so that all the mischief he
designed me might be brought about in less than that time; I resolved
to go away and trust all to Providence, and nothing to myself. And how
ought I to be thankful for this resolution!—as you shall hear.

But just as I have writ to this place, John sends me word, that he is
going this minute your way; and so I will send you so far as I have
written, and hope by to-morrow night, to ask your blessings, at your
own poor, but happy abode, and tell you the rest by word of mouth; and
so I rest, till then, and for ever, Your dutiful DAUGHTER.


LETTER XXXI




DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I will continue my writing still, because, may be, I shall like to read
it, when I am with you, to see what dangers I have been enabled to
escape; and though I bring it along with me.

I told you my resolution, my happy resolution as I have reason to think
it: and just then he came in again, with great kindness in his looks,
and said, I make no doubt, Pamela, you will stay this fortnight to
oblige me. I knew not how to frame my words so as to deny, and yet not
make him storm. But, said I, Forgive, sir, your poor distressed
servant. I know I cannot possibly deserve any favour at your hands,
consistent with virtue; and I beg you will let me go to my poor father.
Why, said he, thou art the veriest fool that I ever knew. I tell you I
will see your father; I’ll send for him hither to-morrow, in my
travelling chariot, if you will; and I’ll let him know what I intend to
do for him and you. What, sir, may I ask you, can that be? Your
honour’s noble estate may easily make him happy, and not unuseful,
perhaps to you, in some respect or other. But what price am I to pay
for all this?—You shall be happy as you can wish, said he, I do assure
you: And here I will now give you this purse, in which are fifty
guineas, which I will allow your father yearly, and find an employ
suitable to his liking, to deserve that and more: Pamela, he shall
never want, depend upon it. I would have given you still more for him,
but that, perhaps, you’d suspect I intended it as a design upon you.—O
sir, said I, take back your guineas! I will not touch one, nor will my
father, I am sure, till he knows what is to be done for them; and
particularly what is to become of me. Why then, Pamela, said he,
suppose I find a man of probity, and genteel calling, for a husband for
you, that shall make you a gentlewoman as long as you live?—I want no
husband, sir, said I: for now I began to see him in all his black
colours!—Yet being so much in his power, I thought I would a little
dissemble. But, said he, you are so pretty, that go where you will, you
can never be free from the designs of some or other of our sex; and I
shall think I don’t answer the care of my dying mother for you, who
committed you to me, if I don’t provide you a husband to protect your
virtue, and your innocence; and a worthy one I have thought of for you.

O black, perfidious creature! thought I, what an implement art thou in
the hands of Lucifer, to ruin the innocent heart!—Yet still I
dissembled: for I feared much both him and the place I was in. But,
whom, pray sir, have you thought of?—Why, said he, young Mr. Williams,
my chaplain, in Lincolnshire, who will make you happy. Does he know,
sir, said I, any thing of your honour’s intentions?—No, my girl, said
he, and kissed me, (much against my will; for his very breath was now
poison to me,) but his dependance upon my favour, and your beauty and
merit, will make him rejoice at my kindness to him. Well, sir, said I,
then it is time enough to consider of this matter; and it cannot hinder
me from going to my father’s: for what will staying a fortnight longer
signify to this? Your honour’s care and goodness may extend to me
there, as well as here; and Mr. Williams, and all the world, shall know
that I am not ashamed of my father’s poverty.

He would kiss me again, and I said, If I am to think of Mr. Williams,
or any body, I beg you’ll not be so free with me: that is not pretty,
I’m sure. Well, said he, but you stay this next fortnight, and in that
time I’ll have both Williams and your father here; for I will have the
match concluded in my house; and when I have brought it on, you shall
settle it as you please together. Meantime take and send only these
fifty pieces to your father, as an earnest of my favour, and I’ll make
you all happy.—Sir, said I, I beg at least two hours to consider of
this. I shall, said he, be gone out in one hour; and I would have you
write to your father what I propose; and John shall carry it on
purpose: and he shall take the purse with him for the good old man, if
you approve it. Sir, said I, I will then let you know in one hour my
resolution. Do so, said he; and gave me another kiss, and let me go.

O how I rejoiced I had got out of his clutches!—So I write you this,
that you may see how matters stand; for I am resolved to come away, if
possible. Base, wicked, treacherous gentleman as he is!

So here was a trap laid for your poor Pamela! I tremble to think of it!
O what a scene of wickedness was here laid down for all my wretched
life! Black-hearted wretch! how I hate him!—For, at first, as you’ll
see by what I have written, he would have made me believe other things;
and this of Mr. Williams, I suppose, came into his head after he walked
out from his closet, to give himself time to think how to delude me
better: but the covering was now too thin, and easy to be seen through.

I went to my chamber, and the first thing I did was to write to him;
for I thought it was best not to see him again, if I could help it; and
I put it under his parlour door, after I had copied it, as follows:

‘HONOURED SIR,

‘Your last proposal to me convinces me, that I ought not to stay, but
to go to my father, if it were but to ask his advice about Mr.
Williams. And I am so set upon it, that I am not to be persuaded. So,
honoured sir, with a thousand thanks for all favours, I will set out
to-morrow early; and the honour you designed me, as Mrs. Jervis tells
me, of your chariot, there will be no occasion for: because I can hire,
I believe, farmer Brady’s chaise. So, begging you will not take it
amiss, I shall ever be ‘Your dutiful Servant.’

‘As to the purse, sir, my poor father, to be sure, won’t forgive me, if
I take it, till he can know how to deserve it which is impossible.’

So he has just now sent Mrs. Jervis to tell me, that since I am
resolved to go, go I may, and the travelling chariot shall be ready;
but it shall be worse for me; for that he will never trouble himself
about me as long as he lives. Well, so I get out of the house, I care
not; only I should have been glad I could, with innocence, have made
you, my dear parents, happy.

I cannot imagine the reason of it, but John, who I thought was gone
with my last, is but now going; and he sends to know if I have any
thing else to carry. So I break off to send you this with the former.

I am now preparing for my journey, and about taking leave of my good
fellow-servants: and if I have not time to write, I must tell you the
rest, when I am so happy as to be with you.

One word more: I slip in a paper of verses, on my going: sad poor
stuff! but as they come from me, you’ll not dislike them, may be. I
shewed them to Mrs. Jervis, and she liked them, and took a copy; and
made one sing them to her, and in the green-room too; but I looked into
the closet first. I will only add, that I am Your dutiful DAUGHTER.

Let me just say, That he has this moment sent me five guineas by Mrs.
Jervis, as a present for my pocket: So I shall be very rich; for as she
brought them, I thought I might take them. He says he won’t see me: and
I may go when I will in the morning; and Lincolnshire Robin shall drive
me: but he is so angry, he orders that nobody shall go out at the door
with me, not so much as into the coach-yard. Well! I can’t help it, not
I! But does not this expose himself more than me?

But John waits, and I would have brought this and the other myself; but
he says, he has put it up among other things, and so can take both as
well as one.

John is very good, and very honest; I am under great obligations to
him. I’d give him a guinea, now I’m so rich, if I thought he’d take it.
I hear nothing of my lady’s clothes, and those my master gave me: for I
told Mrs. Jervis, I would not take them; but I fancy, by a word or two
that was dropped, they will be sent after me. Dear sirs! what a rich
Pamela you’ll have if they should! But as I can’t wear them if they do,
I don’t desire them; and if I have them, will turn them into money, as
I can have opportunity. Well, no more—I’m in a fearful hurry!

VERSES ON MY GOING AWAY.


I.


  My fellow-servants dear, attend
  To these few lines, which I have penn’d:
  I’m sure they’re from your honest friend,
  And wisher-well, poor PAMELA.




II.


  I, from a state of low degree,
  Was plac’d in this good family:
  Too high a fate for humble me,
  The helpless, hopeless PAMELA.




III.


  Yet though my happy lot was so,
  Joyful, I homeward from it go,
  No less content, when poor and low,
  Than here you find your PAMELA.




IV.


  For what indeed is happiness,
  But conscience innocence and peace?
  And that’s a treasure I possess;
  Thank Heaven that gave it PAMELA.




V.


  My future lot I cannot know
  But this I’m sure, where’er I go,
  Whate’er I am, whate’er I do,
  I’ll be the grateful PAMELA.




VI.


  No sad regrets my heart annoy,
  I’ll pray for all your peace and joy,
  From master high, to scullion boy,
  For all your loves to PAMELA.




VII.


  One thing or two I’ve more to say;
  God’s holy will, be sure, obey;
  And for our master always pray,
  As ever shall poor PAMELA.




VIII.


  For, oh! we pity should the great,
  Instead of envying their estate;
  Temptations always on ’em wait,
  Exempt from which are such as we.




IX.


  Their riches, gay deceitful snares,
  Enlarge their fears, increase their cares
  Their servants’ joy surpasses theirs;
  At least so judges PAMELA.




X.


  Your parents and relations love
  Let them your duty ever prove;
  And you’ll be bless’d by Heav’n above,
  As will, I hope, poor PAMELA.




XI.


  For if asham’d I e’er could be
  Of my dear parents’ low degree,
  What lot had been too mean for me,
  Unbless’d, unvirtuous PAMELA.




XII.


  Thrice happy may you ever be,
  Each one in his and her degree;
  And, sirs, whene’er you think of me,
  Pray for content to PAMELA.




XIII.


  Pray for her wish’d content and peace;
  And rest assur’d she’ll never cease,
  To pray for all your joys increase,
  While life is lent to PAMELA.




XIV.


  On God all future good depends:
  Serve him.  And so my sonnet ends,
  With, thank ye, thank ye, honest friends,
  For all your loves to PAMELA.




Here it is necessary the reader should know, that the fair Pamela’s
trials were not yet over; but the worst were to come, at a time when
she thought them at an end, and that she was returning to her father:
for when her master found her virtue was not to be subdued, and he had
in vain tried to conquer his passion for her, being a gentleman of
pleasure and intrigue, he had ordered his Lincolnshire coachman to
bring his travelling chariot from thence, not caring to trust his
Bedfordshire coachman, who, with the rest of the servants, so greatly
loved and honoured the fair damsel; and having given him instructions
accordingly, and prohibited the other servants, on pretence of
resenting Pamela’s behaviour, from accompanying her any part of the
road, he drove her five miles on the way to her father’s; and then
turning off, crossed the country, and carried her onwards toward his
Lincolnshire estate.

It is also to be observed, that the messenger of her letters to her
father, who so often pretended business that way, was an implement in
his master’s hands, and employed by him for that purpose; and always
gave her letters first to him, and his master used to open and read
them, and then send them on; by which means, as he hints to her, (as
she observes in her letter XXX) he was no stranger to what she wrote.
Thus every way was the poor virgin beset: And the whole will shew the
base arts of designing men to gain their wicked ends; and how much it
behoves the fair sex to stand upon their guard against artful
contrivances, especially when riches and power conspire against
innocence and a low estate.

A few words more will be necessary to make the sequel better
understood. The intriguing gentleman thought fit, however, to keep back
from her father her three last letters; in which she mentions his
concealing himself to hear her partitioning out her clothes, his last
effort to induce her to stay a fortnight, his pretended proposal of the
chaplain, and her hopes of speedily seeing them, as also her verses;
and to send himself a letter to her father, which is as follows:

‘GOODMAN ANDREWS,

‘You will wonder to receive a letter from me. But I think I am obliged
to let you know, that I have discovered the strange correspondence
carried on between you and your daughter, so injurious to my honour and
reputation, and which, I think, you should not have encouraged, till
you knew there were sufficient grounds for those aspersions, which she
so plentifully casts upon me. Something possibly there might be in what
she has written from time to time; but, believe me, with all her
pretended simplicity and innocence, I never knew so much romantic
invention as she is mistress of. In short, the girl’s head’s turned by
romances, and such idle stuff, to which she has given herself up, ever
since her kind lady’s death. And she assumes airs, as if she was a
mirror of perfection, and every body had a design upon her.

‘Don’t mistake me, however; I believe her very honest, and very
virtuous; but I have found out also, that she is carrying on a sort of
correspondence, or love affair, with a young clergyman, that I hope in
time to provide for; but who, at present, is destitute of any
subsistence but my favour: And what would be the consequence, can you
think, of two young folks, who have nothing in the world to trust to of
their own to come together with a family multiplying upon them before
they have bread to eat.

‘For my part, I have too much kindness to them both, not to endeavour
to prevent it, if I can; and for this reason I have sent her out of his
way for a little while, till I can bring them both to better
consideration; and I would not, therefore, have you be surprised you
don’t see your daughter so soon as you might possibly expect.

‘Yet I do assure you, upon my honour, that she shall be safe and
inviolate; and I hope you don’t doubt me, notwithstanding any airs she
may have given herself, upon my jocular pleasantry to her, and perhaps
a little innocent romping with her, so usual with young folks of the
two sexes, when they have been long acquainted, and grown up together;
for pride is not my talent.

‘As she is a mighty letter-writer, I hope she has had the duty to
apprise you of her intrigue with the young clergyman; and I know not
whether it meets with your countenance: But now she is absent for a
little while, (for I know he would have followed her to your village,
if she had gone home; and there, perhaps, they would have ruined one
another, by marrying,) I doubt not I shall bring him to see his
interest, and that he engages not before he knows how to provide for a
wife: And when that can be done, let them come together in God’s name,
for me.

‘I expect not to be answered on this head, but by your good opinion,
and the confidence you may repose in my honour: being

‘Your hearty friend to serve you.’

‘P. S. I find my man John has been the manager of the correspondence,
in which such liberties have been taken with me. I shall soon, in a
manner that becomes me, let the saucy fellow know how much I resent his
part of the affair. It is hard thing, that a man of my character in the
world should be used thus freely by his own servants.’

It is easy to guess at the poor old man’s concern, upon reading this
letter from a gentleman of so much consideration. He knew not what
course to take, and had no manner of doubt of his poor daughter’s
innocence, and that foul play was designed her. Yet he sometimes hoped
the best, and was ready to believe the surmised correspondence between
the clergyman and her, having not received the letters she wrote, which
would have cleared up that affair.

But, after all, he resolved, as well to quiet his own as her mother’s
uneasiness, to undertake a journey to the ’squire’s; and leaving his
poor wife to excuse him to the farmer who employed him, he set out that
very evening, late as it was; and travelling all night, found himself,
soon after day-light, at the gate of the gentleman, before the family
was up: and there he sat down to rest himself till he should see
somebody stirring.

The grooms were the first he saw, coming out to water their horses; and
he asked, in so distressful a manner, what was become of Pamela, that
they thought him crazy: and said, Why, what have you to do with Pamela,
old fellow? Get out of the horses’ way.—Where is your master? said the
poor man: Pray, gentlemen, don’t be angry: my heart’s almost broken.—He
never gives any thing at the door, I assure you, says one of the
grooms; so you lose your labour. I am not a beggar yet, said the poor
old man; I want nothing of him, but my Pamela:—O my child! my child!

I’ll be hanged, says one of them, if this is not Mrs. Pamela’s
father.—Indeed, indeed, said he, wringing his hands, I am; and weeping,
Where is my child? Where is my Pamela?—Why, father, said one of them,
we beg your pardon; but she is gone home to you: How long have you been
come from home?—O! but last night, said he; I have travelled all night:
Is the ’squire at home, or is he not?—Yes, but he is not stirring
though, said the groom, as yet. Thank God for that! said he; thank God
for that! Then I hope I may be permitted to speak to him anon. They
asked him to go in, and he stepped into the stable, and sat down on the
stairs there, wiping his eyes, and sighing so sadly, that it grieved
the servants to hear him.

The family was soon raised with a report of Pamela’s father coming to
inquire after his daughter; and the maids would fain have had him go
into the kitchen. But Mrs. Jervis, having been told of his coming,
arose, and hastened down to her parlour, and took him in with her, and
there heard all his sad story, and read the letter. She wept bitterly,
but yet endeavoured, before him, to hide her concern; and said, Well,
Goodman Andrews, I cannot help weeping at your grief; but I hope there
is no occasion. Let nobody see this letter, whatever you do. I dare say
your daughter is safe.

Well, but, said he, I see you, madam, know nothing about her:—If all
was right, so good a gentlewoman as you are, would not have been a
stranger to this. To be sure you thought she was with me!

Said she, My master does not always inform his servants of his
proceedings; but you need not doubt his honour. You have his hand for
it: And you may see he can have no design upon her, because he is not
from hence, and does not talk of going hence. O that is all I have to
hope for! said he; that is all, indeed!—But, said he—and was going on,
when the report of his coming had reached the ’squire, who came down,
in his morning-gown and slippers, into the parlour, where he and Mrs.
Jervis were talking.

What’s the matter, Goodman Andrews? said he, what’s the matter? Oh my
child! said the good old man, give me my child! I beseech you.—Why, I
thought, says the ’squire, that I had satisfied you about her: Sure you
have not the letter I sent you, written with my own hand. Yes, yes, but
I have, sir, said he; and that brought me hither; and I have walked all
night. Poor man, returned he, with great seeming compassion, I am sorry
for it truly! Why, your daughter has made a strange racket in my
family; and if I thought it would have disturbed you so much, I would
have e’en let her go home; but what I did was to serve her, and you
too. She is very safe, I do assure you, Goodman Andrews; and you may
take my honour for it, I would not injure her for the world. Do you
think I would, Mrs. Jervis? No, I hope not, sir, said she.—Hope not!
said the poor man; so do I; but pray, sir, give me my child, that is
all I desire; and I’ll take care no clergyman shall come near her.

Why, London is a great way off, said the ’squire, and I can’t send for
her back presently. What, then, said he, have you sent my poor Pamela
to London? I would not have said it so, replied the ’squire; but I
assure you, upon my honour, she is quite safe and satisfied, and will
quickly inform you of it by letter. She is in a reputable family, no
less than a bishop’s, and is to wait on his lady, till I get the matter
over that I mentioned to you.

O how shall I know this? replied he.—What, said the ’squire, pretending
anger, am I to be doubted?—Do you believe I can have any view upon your
daughter? And if I had, do you think I would take such methods as these
to effect it? Why, surely, man, thou forgettest whom thou talkest to.
O, sir, said he, I beg your pardon! but consider my dear child is in
the case; let me but know what bishop, and where; and I will travel to
London on foot, to see my daughter, and then be satisfied.

Why, Goodman Andrews, I think thou hast read romances as well as thy
daughter, and thy head’s turned with them. May I have not my word
taken? Do you think, once more, I would offer any thing dishonourable
to your daughter? Is there any thing looks like it?—Pr’ythee, man,
recollect a little who I am; and if I am not to be believed, what
signifies talking? Why, sir, said he, pray forgive me; but there is no
harm to say, What bishop’s, or whereabouts? What, and so you’d go
troubling his lordship with your impertinent fears and stories! Will
you be satisfied, if you have a letter from her within a week, it may
be less, if she be not negligent, to assure you all is well with her!
Why that, said the poor man, will be some comfort. Well then, said the
gentleman, I can’t answer for her negligence, if she don’t write: And
if she should send a letter to you, Mrs. Jervis, (for I desire not to
see it; I have had trouble enough about her already,) be sure you send
it by a man and horse the moment you receive it. To be sure I will,
answered she. Thank your honour, said the good man: And then I must
wait with as much patience as I can for a week, which will be a year to
me.

I tell you, said the gentleman, it must be her own fault if she don’t
write; for ’tis what I insisted upon, for my own reputation; and I
shan’t stir from this house, I assure you, till she is heard from, and
that to your satisfaction. God bless your honour, said the poor man, as
you say and mean truth! Amen, Amen, Goodman Andrews, said he: you see I
am not afraid to say Amen. So, Mrs. Jervis, make the good man as
welcome as you can; and let me have no uproar about the matter.

He then, whispering her, bid her give him a couple of guineas to bear
his charges home; telling him, he should be welcome to stay there till
the letter came, if he would, and be a witness, that he intended
honourably, and not to stir from his house for one while.

The poor old man staid and dined with Mrs. Jervis, with some tolerable
ease of mind, in hopes to hear from his beloved daughter in a few days;
and then accepting the present, returned for his own house, and
resolved to be as patient as possible.

Meantime Mrs. Jervis, and all the family, were in the utmost grief for
the trick put upon the poor Pamela; and she and the steward represented
it to their master in as moving terms as they durst; but were forced to
rest satisfied with his general assurances of intending her no harm;
which, however, Mrs. Jervis little believed, from the pretence he had
made in his letter, of the correspondence between Pamela and the young
parson; which she knew to be all mere invention, though she durst not
say so.

But the week after, they were made a little more easy by the following
letter brought by an unknown hand, and left for Mrs. Jervis, which, how
procured, will be shewn in the sequel.

‘DEAR MRS. JERVIS,

‘I have been vilely tricked, and, instead of being driven by Robin to
my dear father’s, I am carried off, to where, I have no liberty to
tell. However, I am at present not used hardly, in the main; and write
to beg of you to let my dear father and mother (whose hearts must be
well nigh broken) know that I am well, and that I am, and, by the grace
of God, ever will be, their honest, as well as dutiful daughter, and

‘Your obliged friend,

‘PAMELA ANDREWS.’

‘I must neither send date nor place; but have most solemn assurances of
honourable usage. This is the only time my low estate has been
troublesome to me, since it has subjected me to the frights I have
undergone. Love to your good self, and all my dear fellow-servants.
Adieu! adieu! but pray for poor PAMELA.’

This, though it quieted not entirely their apprehensions, was shewn to
the whole family, and to the gentleman himself, who pretended not to
know how it came; and Mrs. Jervis sent it away to the good old folks;
who at first suspected it was forged, and not their daughter’s hand;
but, finding the contrary, they were a little easier to hear she was
alive and honest: and having inquired of all their acquaintance what
could be done, and no one being able to put them in a way how to
proceed, with effect, on so extraordinary an occasion, against so rich
and so resolute a gentleman; and being afraid to make matters worse,
(though they saw plainly enough, that she was in no bishop’s family,
and so mistrusted all the rest of his story,) they applied themselves
to prayers for their poor daughter, and for an happy issue to an affair
that almost distracted them.

We shall now leave the honest old pair praying for their dear Pamela,
and return to the account she herself gives of all this; having written
it journal-wise, to amuse and employ her time, in hopes some
opportunity might offer to send it to her friends; and, as was her
constant view, that she might afterwards thankfully look back upon the
dangers she had escaped, when they should be happily overblown, as in
time she hoped they would be; and that then she might examine, and
either approve or repent of her own conduct in them.

LETTER XXXII


O MY DEAREST FATHER AND MOTHER!

Let me write, and bewail my miserable hard fate, though I have no hope
how what I write can be conveyed to your hands!—I have now nothing to
do, but write and weep, and fear and pray! But yet what can I hope for,
when I seem to be devoted, as a victim to the will of a wicked violator
of all the laws of God and man!—But, gracious Heaven, forgive me my
rashness and despondency! O let me not sin against thee; for thou best
knowest what is fittest for thy poor handmaid!—And as thou sufferest
not thy poor creatures to be tempted above what they can bear, I will
resign myself to thy good pleasure: And still, I hope, desperate as my
condition seems, that as these trials are not of my own seeking, nor
the effects of my presumption and vanity, I shall be enabled to
overcome them, and, in God’s own good time, be delivered from them.

Thus do I pray imperfectly, as I am forced by my distracting fears and
apprehensions; and O join with me, my dear parents!—But, alas! how can
you know, how can I reveal to you, the dreadful situation of your poor
daughter! The unhappy Pamela may be undone (which God forbid, and
sooner deprive me of life!) before you can know her hard lot!

O the unparalleled wickedness, stratagems, and devices, of those who
call themselves gentlemen, yet pervert the design of Providence, in
giving them ample means to do good, to their own everlasting perdition,
and the ruin of poor oppressed innocence!

But now I will tell you what has befallen me; and yet, how shall you
receive it? Here is no honest John to carry my letters to you! And,
besides, I am watched in all my steps; and no doubt shall be, till my
hard fate may ripen his wicked projects for my ruin. I will every day,
however, write my sad state; and some way, perhaps, may be opened to
send the melancholy scribble to you. But, alas! when you know it, what
will it do but aggravate your troubles? For, O! what can the abject
poor do against the mighty rich, when they are determined to oppress?

Well, but I must proceed to write what I had hoped to tell you in a few
hours, when I believed I should receive your grateful blessings, on my
return to you from so many hardships.

I will begin with my account from the last letter I wrote you, in which
I enclosed my poor stuff of verses; and continue it at times, as I have
opportunity; though, as I said, I know not how it can reach you.

The long-hoped for Thursday morning came, when I was to set out. I had
taken my leave of my fellow-servants overnight; and a mournful leave it
was to us all: for men, as well as women servants, wept much to part
with me; and, for my part, I was overwhelmed with tears, and the
affecting instances of their esteem. They all would have made me little
presents, as tokens of their love; but I would not take any thing from
the lower servants, to be sure. But Mr. Longman would have me accept of
several yards of Holland, and a silver snuff-box, and a gold ring,
which he desired me to keep for his sake; and he wept over me; but
said, I am sure so good a maiden God will bless; and though you return
to your poor father again, and his low estate, yet Providence will find
you out: Remember I tell you so; and one day, though I mayn’t live to
see it, you will be rewarded.

I said, O, dear Mr. Longman! you make me too rich, and too mody; and
yet I must be a beggar before my time for I shall want often to be
scribbling, (little thinking it would be my only employment so soon,)
and I will beg you, sir, to favour me with some paper; and, as soon as
I get home, I will write you a letter, to thank you for all your
kindness to me; and a letter to good Mrs. Jervis too.

This was lucky; for I should have had none else, but at the pleasure of
my rough-natured governess, as I may call her; but now I can write to
ease my mind, though I can’t send it to you; and write what I please,
for she knows not how well I am provided: for good Mr. Longman gave me
above forty sheets of paper, and a dozen pens, and a little phial of
ink; which last I wrapped in paper, and put in my pocket; and some wax
and wafers.

O dear sir, said I, you have set me up. How shall I requite you? He
said, By a kiss, my fair mistress: And I gave it very willingly; for he
is a good old man.

Rachel and Hannah cried sadly, when I took my leave; and Jane, who
sometimes used to be a little crossish, and Cicely too, wept sadly, and
said, they would pray for me; but poor Jane, I doubt, will forget that;
for she seldom says her prayers for herself: More’s the pity!

Then Arthur the gardener, our Robin the coachman, and Lincolnshire
Robin too, who was to carry me, were very civil; and both had tears in
their eyes; which I thought then very good-natured in Lincolnshire
Robin, because he knew but little of me.—But since, I find he might
well be concerned; for he had then his instructions, it seems, and knew
how he was to be a means to entrap me.

Then our other three footmen, Harry, Isaac, and Benjamin, and grooms,
and helpers, were very much affected likewise; and the poor little
scullion-boy, Tommy, was ready to run over for grief.

They had got all together over-night, expecting to be differently
employed in the morning; and they all begged to shake hands with me,
and I kissed the maidens, and prayed to God to bless them all; and
thanked them for all their love and kindness to me: and, indeed, I was
forced to leave them sooner than I would, because I could not stand it:
Indeed I could not. Harry (I could not have thought it; for he is a
little wildish, they say) cried till he sobbed again. John, poor honest
John, was not then come back from you. But as for the butler, Mr.
Jonathan, he could not stay in company.

I thought to have told you a deal about this; but I have worse things
to employ my thoughts.

Mrs. Jervis, good Mrs. Jervis, cried all night long; and I comforted
her all I could: And she made me promise, that if my master went to
London to attend parliament, or to Lincolnshire, I would come and stay
a week with her: and she would have given me money; but I would not
take it.

Well, next morning came, and I wondered I saw nothing of poor honest
John; for I waited to take leave of him, and thank him for all his
civilities to me and to you. But I suppose he was sent farther by my
master, and so could not return; and I desired to be remembered to him.

And when Mrs. Jervis told me, with a sad heart, the chariot was ready
with four horses to it, I was just upon sinking into the ground, though
I wanted to be with you.

My master was above stairs, and never asked to see me. I was glad of it
in the main; but he knew, false heart as he is, that I was not to be
out of his reach.—O preserve me, Heaven, from his power, and from his
wickedness!

Well, they were not suffered to go with me one step, as I writ to you
before; for he stood at the window to see me go. And in the passage to
the gate, out of his sight, there they stood all of them, in two rows;
and we could say nothing on both sides, but God bless you! and God
bless you! But Harry carried my own bundle, my third bundle, as I was
used to call it, to the coach, with some plumb-cake, and diet-bread,
made for me over-night, and some sweet-meats, and six bottles of Canary
wine, which Mrs. Jervis would make me take in a basket, to cheer our
hearts now and then, when we got together, as she said. And I kissed
all the maids again, and shook hands with the men again: but Mr.
Jonathan and Mr. Longman were not there; and then I tripped down the
steps to the chariot, Mrs. Jervis crying most sadly.

I looked up when I got to the chariot, and I saw my master at the
window, in his gown; and I courtesied three times to him very low, and
prayed for him with my hands lifted up; for I could not speak; indeed I
was not able: And he bowed his head to me, which made me then very glad
he would take such notice of me; and in I stepped, and was ready to
burst with grief; and could only, till Robin began to drive, wave my
white handkerchief to them, wet with my tears: and, at last, away he
drove, Jehu-like, as they say, out of the court-yard. And I too soon
found I had cause for greater and deeper grief.

Well, said I to myself, at this rate I shall soon be with my dear
father and mother; and till I had got, as I supposed, half-way, I
thought of the good friends I had left: And when, on stopping for a
little bait to the horses, Robin told me I was near half-way, I thought
it was high time to wipe my eyes, and think to whom I was going; as
then, alack for me! I thought. So I began to ponder what a meeting I
should have with you; how glad you’d both be to see me come safe and
innocent to you, after all my dangers: and so I began to comfort
myself, and to banish the other gloomy side from my mind; though, too,
it returned now and then; for I should be ungrateful not to love them
for their love.

Well, I believe I set out about eight o’clock in the morning; and I
wondered and wondered, when it was about two, as I saw by a church
dial, in a little village as we passed through, that I was still more
and more out of my knowledge. Hey-day, thought I, to drive this strange
pace, and to be so long a going a little more than twenty miles, is
very odd! But to be sure, thought I, Robin knows the way.

At last he stopped, and looked about him, as if he was at a loss for
the road; and I said, Mr. Robert, sure you are out of the way!—I’m
afraid I am, said he. But it can’t be much; I’ll ask the first person I
see. Pray do, said I; and he gave his horses a mouthful of bay: and I
gave him some cake, and two glasses of Canary wine; and stopt about
half an hour in all. Then he drove on very fast again.

I had so much to think of, of the dangers I now doubted not I had
escaped, of the loving friends I had left, and my best friends I was
going to; and the many things I had to relate to you; that I the less
thought of the way, till I was startled out of my meditations by the
sun beginning to set, and still the man driving on, and his horses
sweating and foaming; and then I began to be alarmed all at once, and
called to him; and he said he had horrid ill luck, for he had come
several miles out of the way, but was now right, and should get in
still before it was quite dark. My heart began then to misgive me a
little, and I was very much fatigued; for I had no sleep for several
nights before, to signify; and at last I said, Pray Mr. Robert, there
is a town before us, what do you call it?—If we are so much out of the
way, we had better put up there, for the night comes on apace: And,
Lord protect me! thought I, I shall have new dangers, mayhap, to
encounter with the man, who have escaped the master—little thinking of
the base contrivance of the latter.—Says he, I am just there: ’Tis but
a mile on one side of the town before us.—Nay, said I, I may be
mistaken; for it is a good while since I was this way; but I am sure
the face of the country here is nothing like what I remember it.

He pretended to be much out of humour with himself for mistaking the
way, and at last stopped at a farmhouse, about two miles beyond the
village I had seen; and it was then almost dark, and he alighted, and
said, We must make shift here; for I am quite out.

Lord, thought I, be good to the poor Pamela! More trials still!—What
will befall me next?

The farmer’s wife, and maid, and daughter, came out; and the wife said,
What brings you this way at this time of night, Mr. Robert? And with a
lady too?—Then I began to be frightened out of my wits; and laying
middle and both ends together, I fell a crying, and said, God give me
patience! I am undone for certain!—Pray, mistress, said I, do you know
’Squire B——, of Bedfordshire?

The wicked coachman would have prevented the answering me; but the
simple daughter said, Know his worship! yes, surely! why he is my
father’s landlord.—Well, said I, then I am undone; undone for ever!—O,
wicked wretch! what have I done to you, said I to the coachman, to
serve me thus?—Vile tool of a wicked master!—Faith, said the fellow, I
am sorry this task was put upon me; but I could not help it. But make
the best of it now; here are very civil reputable folks; and you’ll be
safe here, I’ll assure you.—Let me get out, said I, and I’ll walk back
to the town we came through, late as it is:—For I will not enter here.

Said the farmer’s wife, You’ll be very well used here, I’ll assure you,
young gentlewoman, and have better conveniences than any where in the
village. I matter not conveniences, said I: I am betrayed and undone!
As you have a daughter of your own, pity me, and let me know if your
landlord, as you call him, be here!—No, I’ll assure you he is not, said
she.

And then came the farmer, a good-like sort of man, grave, and
well-behaved; and spoke to me in such sort, as made me a little
pacified; and seeing no help for it, I went in; and the wife
immediately conducted me up stairs to the best apartment, and told me,
that was mine as long as I staid: and nobody should come near me but
when I called. I threw myself on the bed in the room, tired and
frightened to death almost; and gave way to the most excessive fit of
grief that I ever had.

The daughter came up, and said, Mr. Robert had given her a letter to
give me; and there it was. I raised myself, and saw it was the hand and
seal of the wicked wretch, my master, directed to Mrs. Pamela
Andrews.—This was a little better than to have him here; though, if he
had, he must have been brought through the air; for I thought I was.

The good woman (for I began to see things about a little reputable, and
no guile appearing in them, but rather a face of grief for my grief)
offered me a glass of some cordial water, which I accepted, for I was
ready to sink; and then I sat up in a chair a little, though very
faintish: and they brought me two candles, and lighted a brushwood
fire; and said, if I called, I should be waited on instantly; and so
left me to ruminate on my sad condition, and to read my letter, which I
was not able to do presently. After I had a little come to myself, I
found it to contain these words:

‘DEAR PAMELA,

‘The passion I have for you, and your obstinacy, have constrained me to
act by you in a manner that I know will occasion you great trouble and
fatigue, both of mind and body. Yet, forgive me, my dear girl; for,
although I have taken this step, I will, by all that’s good and holy!
use you honourably. Suffer not your fears to transport you to a
behaviour that will be disreputable to us both: for the place where
you’ll receive this, is a farm that belongs to me; and the people
civil, honest, and obliging.

‘You will, by this time, be far on your way to the place I have
allotted for your abode for a few weeks, till I have managed some
affairs, that will make me shew myself to you in a much different
light, than you may possibly apprehend from this rash action: And to
convince you, that I mean no harm, I do assure you, that the house you
are going to, shall be so much at your command, that even I myself will
not approach it without leave from you. So make yourself easy; be
discreet and prudent; and a happier turn shall reward these your
troubles, than you may at present apprehend.

‘Meantime I pity the fatigue you will have, if this come to your hand
in the place I have directed: and will write to your father to satisfy
him, that nothing but what is honourable shall be offered to you, by

Your passionate admirer, (so I must style myself,)

‘———————-’

Don’t think hardly of poor Robin: You have so possessed all my servants
in your favour, that I find they had rather serve you than me; and ’tis
reluctantly the poor fellow undertook this task; and I was forced to
submit to assure him of my honourable intentions to you, which I am
fully resolved to make good, if you compel me not to a contrary
conduct.’

I but too well apprehended that the letter was only to pacify me for
the present; but as my danger was not so immediate as I had reason to
dread, and he had promised to forbear coming to me, and to write to
you, my dear parents, to quiet your concern, I was a little more easy
than before and I made shift to eat a little bit of boiled chicken they
had got for me, and drank a glass of my sack, and made each of them do
so too.

But after I had so done, I was again a little flustered; for in came
the coachman with the look of a hangman, I thought, and madamed me up
strangely; telling me, he would beg me to get ready to pursue my
journey by five in the morning, or else he should be late in. I was
quite grieved at this; for I began not to dislike my company,
considering how things stood; and was in hopes to get a party among
them, and so to put myself into any worthy protection in the
neighbourhood, rather than go forward.

When he withdrew, I began to tamper with the farmer and his wife. But,
alas! they had had a letter delivered them at the same time I had; so
securely had Lucifer put it into his head to do his work; and they only
shook their heads, and seemed to pity me; and so I was forced to give
over that hope.

However, the good farmer shewed me his letter; which I copied as
follows: for it discovers the deep arts of this wicked master; and how
resolved he seems to be on my ruin, by the pains he took to deprive me
of all hopes of freeing myself from his power.

‘FARMER NORTON,

‘I send to your house, for one night only, a young gentlewoman, much
against her will, who has deeply embarked in a love affair, which will
be her ruin, as well as the person’s to whom she wants to betroth
herself. I have, to oblige her father, ordered her to be carried to one
of my houses, where she will be well used, to try, if by absence, and
expostulation with both, they can be brought to know their own interest
and I am sure you will use her kindly for my sake: for, excepting this
matter, which she will not own, she does not want prudence and
discretion. I will acknowledge any trouble you shall be at in this
matter the first opportunity; and am

‘Your Friend and Servant.’

He had said, too cunningly for me, that I would not own this pretended
love affair; so that he had provided them not to believe me, say what I
would; and as they were his tenants, who all love him, (for he has some
amiable qualities, and so he had need!) I saw all my plot cut out, and
so was forced to say the less.

I wept bitterly, however; for I found he was too hard for me, as well
in his contrivances as riches; and so had recourse again to my only
refuge, comforting myself, that God never fails to take the innocent
heart into his protection, and is alone able to baffle and confound the
devices of the mighty. Nay, the farmer was so prepossessed with the
contents of his letter, that he began to praise his care and concern
for me, and to advise me against entertaining addresses without my
friends’ advice and consent; and made me the subject of a lesson for
his daughter’s improvement. So I was glad to shut up this discourse;
for I saw I was not likely to be believed.

I sent, however, to tell my driver, that I was so fatigued, I could not
get out so soon the next morning. But he insisted upon it, and said, It
would make my day’s journey the lighter; and I found he was a more
faithful servant to his master, notwithstanding what he wrote of his
reluctance, than I could have wished: I saw still more and more, that
all was deep dissimulation, and contrivance worse and worse.

Indeed I might have shewn them his letter to me, as a full confutation
of his to them; but I saw no probability of engaging them in my behalf:
and so thought it signified little, as I was to go away so soon, to
enter more particularly into the matter with them; and besides, I saw
they were not inclinable to let me stay longer, for fear of disobliging
him so I went to bed, but had very little rest: and they would make
their servant-maid bear me company in the chariot five miles, early in
the morning, and she was to walk back.

I had contrived in my thoughts, when I was on my way in the chariot, on
Friday morning, that when we came into some town to bait, as he must do
for the horses’ sake, I would, at the inn, apply myself, if I saw I any
way could, to the mistress of the inn, and tell her the case, and to
refuse to go farther, having nobody but this wicked coachman to contend
with.

Well, I was very full of this project, and in great hopes, some how or
other, to extricate myself in this way. But, oh! the artful wretch had
provided for even this last refuge of mine; for when we came to put up
at a large town on the way, to eat a morsel for dinner, and I was fully
resolved to execute my project, who should be at the inn that he put up
at, but the wicked Mrs. Jewkes, expecting me! And her sister-in-law was
the mistress of it; and she had provided a little entertainment for me.

And this I found, when I desired, as soon as I came in, to speak with
the mistress of the house. She came to me: and I said, I am a poor
unhappy young body, that want your advice and assistance; and you seem
to be a good sort of a gentlewoman, that would assist an oppressed
innocent person. Yes, madam, said she, I hope you guess right; and I
have the happiness to know something of the matter before you speak.
Pray call my sister Jewkes.—Jewkes! Jewkes! thought I; I have heard of
that name; I don’t like it.

Then the wicked creature appeared, whom I had never seen but once
before, and I was terrified out of my wits. No stratagem, thought I,
not one! for a poor innocent girl; but every thing to turn out against
me; that is hard indeed!

So I began to pull in my horns, as they say, for I saw I was now worse
off than at the farmer’s.

The naughty woman came up to me with an air of confidence, and kissed
me: See, sister, said she, here’s a charming creature! Would she not
tempt the best lord in the land to run away with her? O frightful!
thought I; here’s an avowal of the matter at once: I am now gone,
that’s certain. And so was quite silent and confounded; and seeing no
help for it, (for she would not part with me out of her sight) I was
forced to set out with her in the chariot for she came thither on
horseback, with a man-servant, who rode by us the rest of the way,
leading her horse: and now I gave over all thoughts of redemption, and
was in a desponding condition indeed.

Well, thought I, here are strange pains taken to ruin a poor innocent,
helpless, and even worthless young body. This plot is laid too deep,
and has been too long hatching, to be baffled, I fear. But then I put
my trust in God, who I knew was able to do every thing for me, when all
other possible means should fail: and in him I was resolved to confide.

You may see—(Yet, oh! that kills me; for I know not whether ever you
can see what I now write or no—Else you will see)—what sort of woman
that Mrs. Jewkes is, compared to good Mrs. Jervis, by this:——

Every now and then she would be staring in my face, in the chariot, and
squeezing my hand, and saying, Why, you are very pretty, my silent
dear! And once she offered to kiss me. But I said, I don’t like this
sort of carriage, Mrs. Jewkes; it is not like two persons of one sex.
She fell a laughing very confidently, and said, That’s prettily said, I
vow! Then thou hadst rather be kissed by the other sex? ‘I fackins, I
commend thee for that!

I was sadly teased with her impertinence, and bold way; but no wonder;
she was innkeeper’s housekeeper, before she came to my master; and
those sort of creatures don’t want confidence, you know: and indeed she
made nothing to talk boldly on twenty occasions; and said two or three
times, when she saw the tears every now and then, as we rid, trickle
down my cheeks, I was sorely hurt, truly, to have the handsomest and
finest young gentleman in five counties in love with me!

So I find I am got into the hands of a wicked procuress; and if I was
not safe with good Mrs. Jervis, and where every body loved me, what a
dreadful prospect have I now before me, in the hands of a woman that
seems to delight in filthiness!

O dear sirs! what shall I do! What shall I do!—Surely, I shall never be
equal to all these things!

About eight at night, we entered the court-yard of this handsome,
large, old, and lonely mansion, that looks made for solitude and
mischief, as I thought, by its appearance, with all its brown nodding
horrors of lofty elms and pines about it: and here, said I to myself, I
fear, is to be the scene of my ruin, unless God protect me, who is
all-sufficient!

I was very sick at entering it, partly from fatigue, and partly from
dejection of spirits: and Mrs. Jewkes got me some mulled wine, and
seemed mighty officious to welcome me thither; and while she was
absent, ordering the wine, the wicked Robin came in to me, and said, I
beg a thousand pardons for my part in this affair, since I see your
grief and your distress; and I do assure you, that I am sorry it fell
to my task.

Mighty well, Mr. Robert! said I; I never saw an execution but once, and
then the hangman asked the poor creature’s pardon, and wiped his mouth,
as you do, and pleaded his duty, and then calmly tucked up the
criminal. But I am no criminal, as you all know: And if I could have
thought it my duty to obey a wicked master in his unlawful command, I
had saved you all the merit of this vile service.

I am sorry, said he, you take it so: but every body don’t think alike.
Well, said I, you have done your part, Mr. Robert, towards my ruin,
very faithfully; and will have cause to be sorry, may be, at the long
run, when you shall see the mischief that comes of it.—Your eyes were
open, and you knew I was to be carried to my father’s, and that I was
barbarously tricked and betrayed; and I can only, once more, thank you
for your part of it. God forgive you!

So he went away a little sad. What have you said to Robin, madam? said
Mrs. Jewkes (who came in as he went out:) the poor fellow’s ready to
cry. I need not be afraid of your following his example, Mrs. Jewkes,
said I: I have been telling him, that he has done his part to my ruin:
and he now can’t help it! So his repentance does me no good; I wish it
may him. I’ll assure you, madam, said she, I should be as ready to cry
as he, if I should do you any harm. It is not in his power to help it
now, said I; but your part is to come, and you may choose whether
you’ll contribute to my ruin or not.—Why, look ye, madam, said she, I
have a great notion of doing my duty to my master; and therefore you
may depend upon it, if I can do that, and serve you, I will: but you
must think, if your desire, and his will, come to clash once, I shall
do as he bids me, let it be what it will.

Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, don’t madam me so: I am but a silly poor
girl, set up by the gambol of fortune, for a May-game; and now am to be
something, and now nothing, just as that thinks fit to sport with me:
And let you and me talk upon a foot together; for I am a servant
inferior to you, and so much the more, as I am turned out of place.

Ay, ay, says she, I understand something of the matter; you have so
great power over my master, that you may soon be mistress of us all;
and so I would oblige you, if I could. And I must and will call you
madam; for I am instructed to shew you all respect, I’ll assure you.

Who instructed you so to do? said I. Who! my master, to be sure, said
she. Why, said I, how can that be? You have not seen him lately. No,
that’s true, said she; but I have been expecting you here some time; (O
the deep-laid wickedness! thought I:) and, besides, I have a letter of
instructions by Robin; but, may be, I should not have said so much. If
you would shew them to me, said I, I should be able to judge how far I
could, or could not, expect favour from you, consistent with your duty
to our master. I beg your pardon, fair mistress, for that, said she, I
am sufficiently instructed; and you may depend upon it, I will observe
my orders; and, so far as they will let me, so far will I oblige you;
and there’s an end of it.

Well, said I, you will not, I hope, do an unlawful or wicked thing, for
any master in the world. Look ye, said she, he is my master; and if he
bids me do any thing that I can do, I think I ought to do it; and let
him, who has his power to command me, look to the lawfulness of it.
Why, said I, suppose he should bid you cut my throat, Would you do it?
There’s no danger of that, said she; but to be sure I would not; for
then I should be hanged! for that would be murder. Well, said I, and
suppose he should resolve to ensnare a poor young creature, and ruin
her, would you assist him in that? For to rob a person of her virtue is
worse than cutting her throat.

Why now, says she, how strangely you talk! Are not the two sexes made
for one another? And is it not natural for a gentleman to love a pretty
woman? And suppose he can obtain his desires, is that so bad as cutting
her throat? And then the wretch fell a laughing, and talked most
impertinently, and shewed me, that I had nothing to expect from her
virtue or conscience: and this gave me great mortification; for I was
in hopes of working upon her by degrees.

So we ended our discourse here, and I bid her shew me where I must
lie.—Why, said she, lie where you list, madam; I can tell you, I must
lie with you for the present. For the present! said I, and torture then
wrung my heart!—But is it in your instructions, that you must lie with
me? Yes, indeed, said she.—I am sorry for it, said I. Why, said she, I
am wholesome, and cleanly too, I’ll assure you. Yes, said I, I don’t
doubt that; but I love to lie by myself. How so? said she; Was not Mrs.
Jervis your bed-fellow at t’other house?

Well, said I, quite sick of her, and my condition; you must do as you
are instructed, I think. I can’t help myself, and am a most miserable
creature. She repeated her insufferable nonsense. Mighty miserable,
indeed, to be so well beloved by one of the finest gentlemen in
England!

I am now come down in my writing to this present SATURDAY, and a deal I
have written.

My wicked bed-fellow has very punctual orders, it seems; for she locks
me and herself in, and ties the two keys (for there is a double door to
the room) about her wrist, when she goes to bed. She talks of the house
having been attempted to be broken open two or three times; whether to
fright me, I can’t tell; but it makes me fearful; though not so much as
I should be, if I had not other and greater fears.

I slept but little last night, and got up, and pretended to sit by the
window, which looks into the spacious gardens; but I was writing all
the time, from break of day, to her getting up, and after, when she was
absent.

At breakfast she presented the two maids to me, the cook and
house-maid, poor awkward souls, that I can see no hopes of, they seem
so devoted to her and ignorance. Yet I am resolved, if possible, to
find some way to escape, before this wicked master comes.

There are, besides, of servants, the coachman, Robert, a groom, a
helper, a footman; all but Robert, (and he is accessary to my ruin,)
strange creatures, that promise nothing; and all likewise devoted to
this woman. The gardener looks like a good honest man; but he is kept
at a distance, and seems reserved.

I wondered I saw not Mr. Williams the clergyman, but would not ask
after him, apprehending it might give some jealousy; but when I had
beheld the rest, he was the only one I had hopes of; for I thought his
cloth would set him above assisting in my ruin.—But in the afternoon he
came; for it seems he has a little Latin school in the neighbouring
village, which he attends; and this brings him in a little matter,
additional to my master’s favour, till something better falls, of which
he has hopes.

He is a sensible sober young gentleman; and when I saw him I confirmed
myself in my hopes of him; for he seemed to take great notice of my
distress and grief; (for I could not hide it;) though he appeared
fearful of Mrs. Jewkes, who watched all our motions and words.

He has an apartment in the house; but is mostly at a lodging in the
town, for a conveniency of his little school; only on Saturday
afternoon and Sundays: and he preaches sometimes for the minister of
the village, which is about three miles off.

I hope to go to church with him to-morrow: Sure it is not in her
instructions to deny me! He can’t have thought of every thing! And
something may strike out for me there.

I have asked her, for a feint, (because she shan’t think I am so well
provided,) to indulge me with pen and ink, though I have been using my
own so freely when her absence would let me; for I begged to be left to
myself as much as possible. She says she will let me have it; but then
I must promise not to send any writing out of the house, without her
seeing it. I said, it was only to divert my grief when I was by myself,
as I desired to be; for I loved writing as well as reading; but I had
nobody to send to, she knew well enough.

No, not at present, may be, said she; but I am told you are a great
writer; and it is in my instructions to see all you write: So, look you
here, said she, I will let you have a pen and ink, and two sheets of
paper: for this employment will keep you out of worse thoughts: but I
must see them always when I ask, written or not written. That’s very
hard, said I; but may I not have to myself the closet in the room where
we lie, with the key to lock up my things? I believe I may consent to
that, said she; and I will set it in order for you, and leave the key
in the door. And there is a spinnet too, said she; if it be in tune,
you may play to divert you now and then; for I know my old lady learnt
you: And below is my master’s library: you may take out what books you
will.

And, indeed, these and my writing will be all my amusement: for I have
no work given me to do; and the spinnet, if in tune, will not find my
mind, I am sure, in tune to play upon it. But I went directly and
picked out some books from the library, with which I filled a shelf in
the closet she gave me possession of; and from these I hope to receive
improvement, as well as amusement. But no sooner was her back turned,
than I set about hiding a pen of my own here, and another there, for
fear I should come to be denied, and a little of my ink in a broken
China cup, and a little in another cup; and a sheet of paper here and
there among my linen, with a little of the wax, and a few wafers, in
several places, lest I should be searched; and something, I thought,
might happen to open a way for my deliverance, by these or some other
means. O the pride, thought I, I shall have, if I can secure my
innocence, and escape the artful wiles of this wicked master! For, if
he comes hither, I am undone, to be sure! For this naughty woman will
assist him, rather than fail, in the worst of his attempts; and he’ll
have no occasion to send her out of the way, as he would have done Mrs.
Jervis once. So I must set all my little wits at work.

It is a grief to me to write, and not to be able to send to you what I
write: but now it is all the diversion I have, and if God will favour
my escape with my innocence, as I trust he graciously will, for all
these black prospects, with what pleasure shall I read them afterwards!

I was going to say, Pray for your dutiful daughter, as I used; but,
alas! you cannot know my distress, though I am sure I have your
prayers: And I will write on as things happen, that if a way should
open, my scribble may be ready to be sent: For what I do, must be at a
jerk, to be sure.

O how I want such an obliging honest-hearted man as John!

I am now come to SUNDAY.

Well, here is a sad thing! I am denied by this barbarous woman to go to
church, as I had built upon I might: and she has huffed poor Mr.
Williams all to pieces, for pleading for me. I find he is to be forbid
the house, if she pleases. Poor gentleman! all his dependance is upon
my master, who has a very good living for him, if the incumbent die;
and he has kept his bed these four months, of old age and dropsy.

He pays me great respect, and I see pities me; and would, perhaps,
assist my escape from these dangers: But I have nobody to plead for me;
and why should I wish to ruin a poor gentleman, by engaging him against
his interest? Yet one would do any thing to preserve one’s innocence;
and Providence would, perhaps, make it up to him!

O judge (but how shall you see what I write!) of my distracted
condition, to be reduced to such a pass as to a desire to lay traps for
mankind! But he wants sadly to say something to me, as he whisperingly
hinted.

The wretch (I think I will always call her the wretch henceforth)
abuses me more and more. I was but talking to one of the maids just
now, indeed a little to tamper with her by degrees: and she popt upon
us, and said—Nay, madam, don’t offer to tempt poor innocent country
maidens from doing their duty. You wanted, I hear, she should take a
walk with you. But I charge you, Nan, never stir with her, nor obey
her, without letting me know it, in the smallest trifles.—I say, walk
with you! and where would you go, I tro’? Why, barbarous Mrs. Jewkes,
said I, only to look a little up the elm-walk, since you would not let
me go to church.

Nan, said she, to shew me how much they were all in her power, pull off
madam’s shoes, and bring them to me. I have taken care of her
others.—Indeed she shan’t, said I.—Nay, said Nan, but I must if my
mistress bids me: so pray, madam, don’t hinder me. And so indeed (would
you believe it?) she took my shoes off, and left me barefoot: and, for
my share, I have been so frighted at this, that I have not power even
to relieve my mind by my tears. I am quite stupefied to be sure!—Here I
was forced to leave off.

Now I will give you a picture of this wretch: She is a broad, squat,
pursy, fat thing, quite ugly, if any thing human can be so called;
about forty years old. She has a huge hand, and an arm as thick as my
waist, I believe. Her nose is flat and crooked, and her brows grow down
over her eyes; a dead spiteful, grey, goggling eye, to be sure she has.
And her face is flat and broad; and as to colour, looks like as if it
had been pickled a month in saltpetre: I dare say she drinks:—She has a
hoarse, man-like voice, and is as thick as she is long; and yet looks
so deadly strong, that I am afraid she would dash me at her foot in an
instant, if I was to vex her.—So that with a heart more ugly than her
face, she frightens me sadly: and I am undone to be sure, if God does
not protect me; for she is very, very wicked—indeed she is.

This is poor helpless spite in me:—But the picture is too near the
truth notwithstanding. She sends me a message just now, that I shall
have my shoes again, if I will accept of her company to walk with me in
the garden.—To waddle with me, rather, thought I.

Well, ’tis not my business to quarrel with her downright. I shall be
watched the narrower, if I do; and so I will go with the hated
wretch.—O for my dear Mrs. Jervis! or, rather, to be safe with my dear
father and mother.

Oh! I am out of my wits for joy! Just as I have got my shoes on, I am
told John, honest John, is come on horseback!—A blessing on his
faithful heart! What joy is this! But I’ll tell you more by and by. I
must not let her know I am so glad to see this dear blessed John, to be
sure!—Alas! but he looks sad, as I see him out of the window! What can
be the matter!—I hope my dear parents are well, and Mrs. Jervis, and
Mr. Longman, and every body, my naughty master not excepted;—for I wish
him to live and repent of all his wickedness to poor me.

O dear heart! what a world do we live in!—I am now come to take up my
pen again: But I am in a sad taking truly! Another puzzling trial, to
be sure.

Here was John, as I said, and the poor man came to me, with Mrs.
Jewkes, who whispered, that I would say nothing about the shoes, for my
own sake, as she said. The poor man saw my distress, by my red eyes,
and my hagged looks, I suppose; for I have had a sad time of it, you
must needs think; and though he would have hid it, if he could, yet his
own eyes ran over. Oh, Mrs. Pamela; said he; Oh, Mrs. Pamela! Well,
honest fellow-servant, said I, I cannot help it at present: I am
obliged to your honesty and kindness, to be sure; and then he wept
more. Said I, (for my heart was ready to break to see his grief; for it
is a touching thing to see a man cry), Tell me the worst! Is my master
coming? No, no, said he, and sobbed.—Well, said I, is there any news of
my poor father and mother? How do they do?—I hope well, said he, I know
nothing to the contrary. There is no mishap, I hope, to Mrs. Jervis or
to Mr. Longman, or my fellow-servants!—No—said he, poor man! with a
long N—o, as if his heart would burst. Well, thank God then! said I.

The man’s a fool, said Mrs. Jewkes, I think: What ado is here! Why,
sure thou’rt in love, John. Dost thou not see young madam is well? What
ails thee, man? Nothing at all, said he; but I am such a fool as to cry
for joy to see good Mrs. Pamela: But I have a letter for you.

I took it, and saw it was from my master; so I put it in my pocket.
Mrs. Jewkes, said I, you need not, I hope, see this. No, no, said she,
I see whose it is, well enough; or else, may be, I must have insisted
on reading it.

And here is one for you, Mrs. Jewkes, said he; but yours, said he to
me, requires an answer, which I must carry back early in the morning,
or to-night, if I can.

You have no more, John, said Mrs. Jewkes, for Mrs. Pamela, have you?
No, said he, I have not, but every body’s kind love and service. Ay, to
us both, to be sure, said she. John, said I, I will read the letter,
and pray take care of yourself; for you are a good man, God bless you!
and I rejoice to see you, and hear from you all. But I longed to say
more; only that nasty Mrs. Jewkes.

So I went up, and locked myself in my closet, and opened the letter;
and this is a copy of it:

‘My DEAREST PAMELA,

‘I send purposely to you on an affair that concerns you very much, and
me somewhat, but chiefly for your sake. I am conscious that I have
proceeded by you in such a manner as may justly alarm your fears, and
give concern to your honest friends: and all my pleasure is, that I can
and will make you amends for the disturbance I have given you. As I
promised, I sent to your father the day after your departure, that he
might not be too much concerned for you, and assured him of my honour
to you; and made an excuse, such an one as ought to have satisfied him,
for your not coming to him. But this was not sufficient, it seems; for
he, poor man! came to me next morning, and set my family almost in an
uproar about you.

‘O my dear girl! what trouble has not your obstinacy given me, and
yourself too! I had no way to pacify him, but to promise that he should
see a letter written from you to Mrs. Jervis, to satisfy him you are
well.

‘Now all my care in this case is for your aged parents, lest they
should be touched with too fatal a grief; and for you, whose duty and
affection for them I know to be so strong and laudable; for this reason
I beg you will write a few lines to them, and let me prescribe the
form; which I have done, putting myself as near as I can in your place,
and expressing your sense, with a warmth that I doubt will have too
much possessed you.

‘After what is done, and which cannot now be helped, but which, I
assure you, shall turn out honourably for you, I expect not to be
refused; because I cannot possibly have any view in it, but to satisfy
your parents; which is more your concern than mine; and so I must beg
you will not alter one tittle of the underneath. If you do, it will be
impossible for me to send it, or that it should answer the good end I
propose by it.

‘I have promised, that I will not approach you without your leave. If I
find you easy, and not attempting to dispute or avoid your present lot,
I will keep to my word, although it is a difficulty upon me. Nor shall
your restraint last long: for I will assure you, that I am resolved
very soon to convince you of my good intentions, and with what ardour I
am

‘Yours, etc.’

The letter he prescribed for me was as this:

‘DEAR Mrs. JERVIS,

‘I have, instead of being driven by Robin to my dear father’s, been
carried off, where I have no liberty to tell. However, at present, I am
not used hardly; and I write to beg you to let my dear father and
mother, whose hearts must be well nigh broken, know that I am well; and
that I am, and, by the grace of God, ever will be, their honest, as
well as dutiful daughter, and ‘Your obliged friend.’

‘I must neither send date nor place; but have most solemn assurances of
honourable usage.’

I knew not what to do on this most strange request and occasion. But my
heart bled so much for you, my dear father, who had taken the pains to
go yourself, and inquire after your poor daughter, as well as for my
dear mother, that I resolved to write, and pretty much in the above
form, that it might be sent to pacify you, till I could let you,
somehow or other, know the true state of the matter. And I wrote thus
to my strange wicked master himself:

‘SIR,

‘If you knew but the anguish of my mind, and how much I suffer by your
dreadful usage of me, you would surely pity me, and consent to my
deliverance. What have I done, that I should be the only mark of your
cruelty? I can have no hope, no desire of living left me, because I
cannot have the least dependence, after what has passed, upon your
solemn assurances.—It is impossible they should be consistent with the
dishonourable methods you take.

‘Nothing but your promise of not seeing me here in my deplorable
bondage, can give me the least ray of hope.

‘Don’t, I beseech you, drive the poor distressed Pamela upon a rock,
that may be the destruction both of her soul and body! You don’t know,
sir, how dreadfully I dare, weak as I am of mind and intellect, when my
virtue is in danger. And, O! hasten my deliverance, that a poor
unworthy creature, below the notice of such a gentleman as you, may not
be made the sport of a high condition, for no reason in the world, but
because she is not able to defend herself, nor has a friend that can
right her.

‘I have, sir, in part to shew my obedience to you, but indeed, I own,
more to give ease to the minds of my poor distressed parents, whose
poverty, one would think, should screen them from violences of this
sort, as well as their poor daughter, followed pretty much the form you
have prescribed for me, in the letter to Mrs. Jervis; and the
alterations I have made (for I could not help a few) are of such a
nature, as, though they shew my concern a little, yet must answer the
end you are pleased to say you propose by this letter.

‘For God’s sake, good sir, pity my lowly condition, and my present
great misery; and let me join with all the rest of your servants to
bless that goodness, which you have extended to every one but the poor
afflicted, heart-broken ‘PAMELA.’

I thought, when I had written this letter, and that which he had
prescribed, it would look like placing a confidence in Mrs. Jewkes, to
shew them to her; and I shewed her, at the same time, my master’s
letter to me; for I believed the value he expressed for me, would give
me credit with one who professed in every thing to serve him, right or
wrong; though I had so little reason, I fear, to pride myself in it:
and I was not mistaken; for it has seemed to influence her not a
little, and she is at present mighty obliging, and runs over in my
praises; but is the less to be minded, because she praises as much the
author of my miseries, and his honourable intentions, as she calls
them; for I see, that she is capable of thinking, as I fear he does,
that every thing that makes for his wicked will is honourable, though
to the ruin of the innocent. Pray God I may find it otherwise! Though,
I hope, whatever the wicked gentleman may intend, that I shall be at
last rid of her impertinent bold way of talk, when she seems to think,
from his letter, that he means honourably.

I am now come to MONDAY, the 5th Day of my Bondage and Misery.

I was in hope to have an opportunity to see John, and have a little
private talk with him, before he went away; but it could not be. The
poor man’s excessive sorrow made Mrs. Jewkes take it into her head, to
think he loved me; and so she brought up a message to me from him this
morning that he was going. I desired he might come up to my closet, as
I called it, and she came with him. The honest man, as I thought him,
was as full of concern as before, at taking leave and I gave him two
letters, the one for Mrs. Jervis, enclosed in another for my master:
but Mrs. Jewkes would see me seal them up, lest I should enclose any
thing else.—I was surprised, at the man’s going away, to see him drop a
bit of paper, just at the head of the stairs, which I took up without
being observed by Mrs. Jewkes: but I was a thousand times more
surprised, when I returned to my closet, and opening it read as
follows:

‘GOOD MRS. PAMELA,

‘I am grieved to tell you how much you have been deceived and betrayed,
and that by such a vile dog as I. Little did I think it would come to
this. But I must say, if ever there was a rogue in the world, it is me.
I have all along shewed your letters to my master: He employed me for
that purpose; and he saw every one, before I carried them to your
father and mother; and then scaled them up, and sent me with them. I
had some business that way, but not half so often as I pretended: and
as soon as I heard how it was, I was ready to hang myself. You may well
think I could not stand in your presence. O vile, vile wretch, to bring
you to this! If you are ruined, I am the rogue that caused it. All the
justice I can do you, is to tell you, you are in vile hands; and I am
afraid will be undone in spite of all your sweet innocence; and I
believe I shall never live, after I know it. If you can forgive me, you
are exceeding good; but I shall never forgive myself, that’s certain.
Howsomever, it will do you no good to make this known; and may-hap I
may live to do you service. If I can, I will: I am sure I ought.—Master
kept your last two or three letters, and did not send them at all. I am
the most abandoned wretch of wretches. ‘J. ARNOLD.’

‘You see your undoing has been long hatching. Pray take care of your
sweet self. Mrs. Jewkes is a devil: but in my master’s t’other house
you have not one false heart, but myself. Out upon me for a villain!’

My dear father and mother, when you come to this place, I make no doubt
your hair will stand on end as mine does!—O the deceitfulness of the
heart of man!—This John, that I took to be the honestest of men; that
you took for the same; that was always praising you to me, and me to
you, and for nothing so much as for our honest hearts; this very fellow
was all the while a vile hypocrite, and a perfidious wretch, and
helping to carry on my ruin.

But he says so much of himself, that I will only sit down with this sad
reflection, That power and riches never want tools to promote their
vilest ends, and there is nothing so hard to be known as the heart of
man:—I can but pity the poor wretch, since he seems to have great
remorse, and I believe it best to keep his wickedness secret. If it
lies in my way, I will encourage his penitence; for I may possibly make
some discoveries by it.

One thing I should mention in this place; he brought down, in a
portmanteau, all the clothes and things my lady and master had given
me, and moreover two velvet hoods, and a velvet scarf, that used to be
worn by my lady; but I have no comfort in them, or any thing else.

Mrs. Jewkes had the portmanteau brought into my closet, and she shewed
me what was in it; but then locked it up, and said, she would let me
have what I would out of it, when I asked; but if I had the key, it
might make me want to go abroad, may be; and so the confident woman put
it in her pocket.

I gave myself over to sad reflections upon this strange and surprising
discovery of John’s, and wept much for him, and for myself too; for now
I see, as he says, my ruin has been long hatching, that I can make no
doubt what my master’s honourable professions will end in. What a heap
of hard names does the poor fellow call himself! But what must they
deserve, then, who set him to work? O what has this wicked master to
answer for, to be so corrupt himself, and to corrupt others, who would
have been all innocent; and to carry on a poor plot, I am sure for a
gentleman, to ruin a poor creature, who never did him harm, nor wished
him any; and who can still pray for his happiness, and his repentance?

I can’t but wonder what these gentlemen, as they are called, can think
of themselves for these vile doings! John had some inducement; for he
hoped to please his master, who rewarded him and was bountiful to him;
and the same may be said, bad as she is, for this same odious Mrs.
Jewkes. But what inducement has my master for taking so much pains to
do the devil’s work for him?—If he loves me, as ’tis falsely called,
must he therefore lay traps for me, to ruin me and make me as bad as
himself? I cannot imagine what good the undoing of such a poor creature
as I can procure him.—To be sure, I am a very worthless body. People,
indeed, say I am handsome; but if I was so, should not a gentleman
prefer an honest servant to a guilty harlot? And must he be more
earnest to seduce me, because I dread of all things to be seduced, and
would rather lose my life than my honesty?

Well, these are strange things to me! I cannot account for them, for my
share; but sure nobody will say, that these fine gentlemen have any
tempter but their own wicked wills!—his naughty master could run away
from me, when he apprehended his servants might discover his vile
attempts upon me in that sad closet affair; but is it not strange that
he should not be afraid of the all-seeing eye, from which even that
base plotting heart of his, in its most secret motions, could not be
hid?—But what avail me these sorrowful reflections? He is and will be
wicked, and designs me a victim to his lawless attempts, if the God in
whom I trust, and to whom I hourly pray, prevent it not.

Tuesday and Wednesday.

I have been hindered by this wicked woman’s watching me so close, from
writing on Tuesday; and so I will put both these days together. I have
been a little turn with her for an airing, in the chariot, and walked
several times in the garden; but have always her at my heels.

Mr. Williams came to see us, and took a walk with us once; and while
her back was just turned, (encouraged by the hint he had before given
me,) I said, Sir, I see two tiles upon that parsley-bed; might not one
cover them with mould, with a note between them, on occasion?—A good
hint, said he; let that sunflower by the back-door of the garden be the
place; I have a key to the door; for it is my nearest way to the town.

So I was forced to begin. O what inventions will necessity push us
upon! I hugged myself at the thought; and she coming to us, he said, as
if he was continuing a discourse we were in: No, not extraordinary
pleasant. What’s that? what’s that? said Mrs. Jewkes.—Only, said he,
the town, I’m saying, is not very pleasant. No, indeed, said she, it is
not; it is a poor town, to my thinking. Are there any gentry in it?
said I. And so we chatted on about the town, to deceive her. But my
deceit intended no hurt to any body.

We then talked of the garden, how large and pleasant, and the like; and
sat down on the tufted slope of the fine fish-pond, to see the fishes
play upon the surface of the water; and she said, I should angle if I
would.

I wish, said I, you’d be so kind to fetch me a rod and baits. Pretty
mistress! said she—I know better than that, I’ll assure you, at this
time.—I mean no harm, said I, indeed. Let me tell you, said she. I know
none who have their thoughts more about them than you. A body ought to
look to it where you are. But we’ll angle a little to-morrow. Mr.
Williams, who is much afraid of her, turned the discourse to a general
subject. I sauntered in, and left them to talk by themselves; but he
went away to town, and she was soon after me.

I had got to my pen and ink; and I said, I want some paper, Mrs.
Jewkes, (putting what I was about in my bosom:) You know I have written
two letters, and sent them by John. (O how his name, poor guilty
fellow, grieves me!) Well, said she, you have some left; one sheet did
for those two letters. Yes, said I; but I used half another for a
cover, you know; and see how I have scribbled the other half; and so I
shewed her a parcel of broken scraps of verses, which I had tried to
recollect, and had written purposely that she might see, and think me
usually employed to such idle purposes. Ay, said she, so you have;
well, I’ll give you two sheets more; but let me see how you dispose of
them, either written or blank. Well, thought I, I hope still, Argus, to
be too hard for thee. Now Argus, the poets say, had a hundred eyes, and
was set to watch with them all, as she does.

She brought me the paper, and said, Now, madam, let me see you write
something. I will, said I; and took the pen and wrote, ‘I wish Mrs.
Jewkes would be so good to me, as I would be to her, if I had it in my
power.’—That’s pretty now, said she; well, I hope I am; but what then?
‘Why then (wrote I) she would do me the favour to let me know, what I
have done to be made her prisoner; and what she thinks is to become of
me.’ Well, and what then? said she. ‘Why then, of consequence,
(scribbled I,) she would let me see her instructions, that I may know
how far to blame, or to acquit her.’

Thus I fooled on, to shew her my fondness for scribbling; for I had no
expectation of any good from her; that so she might suppose I employed
myself, as I said, to no better purpose at other times: for she will
have it, that I am upon some plot, I am so silent, and love so much to
be by myself.—She would have made me write on a little further. No,
said I; you have not answered me. Why, said she, what can you doubt,
when my master himself assures you of his honour? Ay, said I; but lay
your hand to your heart, Mrs. Jewkes, and tell me, if you yourself
believe him. Yes, said she, to be sure I do. But, said I, what do you
call honour? Why, said she, what does he call honour, think you?—Ruin!
shame! disgrace! said I, I fear.—Pho! pho! said she; if you have any
doubt about it, he can best explain his own meaning:—I’ll send him word
to come and satisfy you, if you will.—Horrid creature! said I, all in a
fright—Can’st thou not stab me to the heart? I’d rather thou would’st,
than say such another word!—But I hope there is no such thought of his
coming.

She had the wickedness to say, No, no; he don’t intend to come, as I
know of—But if I was he, I would not be long away. What means the
woman? said I.—Mean! said she, (turning it off;) why I mean, I would
come, if I was he, and put an end to all your fears—by making you as
happy as you wish. It is out of his power, said I, to make me happy,
great and rich as he is! but by leaving me innocent, and giving me
liberty to go to my dear father and mother.

She went away soon after, and I ended my letter, in hopes to have an
opportunity to lay it in the appointed place. So I went to her, and
said; I suppose, as it is not dark, I may take another turn in the
garden. It is too late, said she; but if you will go, don’t stay; and,
Nan, see and attend madam, as she called me.

So I went towards the pond, the maid following me, and dropt purposely
my hussy: and when I came near the tiles, I said, Mrs. Anne, I have
dropt my hussy; be so kind as to look for it; I had it by the pond
side. She went back to look, and I slipt the note between the tiles,
and covered them as quick as I could with the light mould, quite
unperceived; and the maid finding the hussy, I took it, and sauntered
in again, and met Mrs. Jewkes coming to see after me. What I wrote was
this:

‘REVEREND SIR,

‘The want of an opportunity to speak my mind to you, I am sure will
excuse this boldness in a poor creature that is betrayed hither, I have
reason to think, for the worst of purposes. You know something, to be
sure, of my story, my native poverty, which I am not ashamed of, my
late lady’s goodness, and my master’s designs upon me. It is true he
promises honour, and all that; but the honour of the wicked is disgrace
and shame to the virtuous: And he may think he keeps his promises,
according to the notions he may allow himself to hold; and yet,
according to mine and every good body’s, basely ruin me.

‘I am so wretched, and ill-treated by this Mrs. Jewkes, and she is so
ill-principled a woman, that, as I may soon want the opportunity which
the happy hint of this day affords to my hopes, I throw myself at once
upon your goodness, without the least reserve; for I cannot be worse
than I am, should that fail me; which, I dare say, to your power, it
will not: For I see it, sir, in your looks, I hope it from your cloth,
and I doubt it not from your inclination, in a case circumstanced as my
unhappy one is. For, sir, in helping me out of my present distress, you
perform all the acts of religion in one; and the highest mercy and
charity, both to the body and soul of a poor wretch, that, believe me,
sir, has, at present, not so much as in thought swerved from her
innocence.

‘Is there not some way to be found out for my escape, without danger to
yourself? Is there no gentleman or lady of virtue in this
neighbourhood, to whom I may fly, only till I can find a way to get to
my poor father and mother? Cannot Lady Davers be made acquainted with
my sad story, by your conveying a letter to her? My poor parents are so
low in the world, they can do nothing but break their hearts for me;
and that, I fear, will be the end of it.

‘My master promises, if I will be easy, as he calls it, in my present
lot, he will not come down without my consent. Alas! sir, this is
nothing: For what’s the promise of a person who thinks himself at
liberty to act as he has done by me? If he comes, it must be to ruin
me; and come to be sure he will, when he thinks he has silenced the
clamours of my friends, and lulled me, as no doubt he hopes, into a
fatal security.

‘Now, therefore, sir, is all the time I have to work and struggle for
the preservation of my honesty. If I stay till he comes, I am undone.
You have a key to the back garden door; I have great hopes from that.
Study, good sir, and contrive for me. I will faithfully keep your
secret.—Yet I should be loath to have you suffer for me! I say no more,
but commit this to the happy tiles, in the bosom of that earth, where,
I hope, my deliverance will take root, and bring forth such fruit, as
may turn to my inexpressible joy, and your eternal reward, both here
and hereafter: As shall ever pray, ‘Your oppressed humble servant.’

Thursday.

This completes a terrible week since my setting out, as I hoped to see
you, my dear father and mother. O how different were my hopes then,
from what they are now! Yet who knows what these happy tiles may
produce!

But I must tell you, first, how I have been beaten by Mrs. Jewkes! It
is very true!—And thus it came about:

My impatience was great to walk in the garden, to see if any thing had
offered, answerable to my hopes. But this wicked Mrs. Jewkes would not
let me go without her; and said, she was not at leisure. We had a great
many words about it; for I told her, it was very hard I could not be
trusted to walk by myself in the garden for a little air, but must be
dogged and watched worse than a thief.

She still pleaded her instructions, and said she was not to trust me
out of her sight: And you had better, said she, be easy and contented,
I assure you; for I have worse orders than you have yet found. I
remember, added she, your asking Mr. Williams, If there were any gentry
in the neighbourhood? This makes me suspect you want to get away to
them, to tell your sad dismal story, as you call it.

My heart was at my mouth; for I feared, by that hint, she had seen my
letter under the tiles: O how uneasy I was! At last she said, Well,
since you take on so, you may take a turn, and I will be with you in a
minute.

When I was out of sight of her window, I speeded towards the hopeful
place; but was soon forced to slacken my pace, by her odious voice:
Hey-day, why so nimble, and whither so fast? said she: What! are you
upon a wager? I stopt for her, till her pursy sides were waddled up to
me; and she held by my arm, half out of breath: So I was forced to pass
by the dear place, without daring to look at it.

The gardener was at work a little farther, and so we looked upon him,
and I began to talk about his art; but she said, softly, My
instructions are, not to let you be so familiar with the servants. Why,
said I, are you afraid I should confederate with them to commit a
robbery upon my master? May be I am, said the odious wretch; for to rob
him of yourself, would be the worst that could happen to him, in his
opinion.

And pray, said I, walking on, how came I to be his property? What right
has he in me, but such as a thief may plead to stolen goods?—Why, was
ever the like heard? says she.—This is downright rebellion, I
protest!—Well, well, lambkin, (which the foolish often calls me,) if I
was in his place, he should not have his property in you long
questionable. Why, what would you do, said I, if you were he?—Not stand
shill-I-shall-I, as he does; but put you and himself both out of your
pain.—Why, Jezebel, said I, (I could not help it,) would you ruin me by
force?—Upon this she gave me a deadly slap upon my shoulder: Take that,
said she; whom do you call Jezebel?

I was so surprised, (for you never beat me, my dear father and mother,
in your lives,) that I was like one thunder-struck; and looked round,
as if I wanted somebody to help me; but, alas! I had nobody; and said,
at last, rubbing my shoulder, Is this also in your instructions?—Alas!
for me! am I to be beaten too? And so fell a crying, and threw myself
upon the grass-walk we were upon.—Said she, in a great pet, I won’t be
called such names, I’ll assure you. Marry come up! I see you have a
spirit: You must and shall be kept under. I’ll manage such little
provoking things as you, I warrant ye! Come, come, we’ll go in a’doors,
and I’ll lock you up, and you shall have no shoes, nor any thing else,
if this be the case.

I did not know what to do. This was a cruel thing to me, and I blamed
myself for my free speech; for now I have given her some pretence: and
O! thought I, here I have, by my malapertness, ruined the only project
I had left.

The gardener saw this scene: but she called to him, Well, Jacob, what
do you stare at? Pray mind what you’re upon. And away he walked, to
another quarter, out of sight.

Well, thought I, I must put on the dissembler a little, I see. She took
my hand roughly; Come, get up, said she, and come in a’doors!—I’ll
Jezebel you, I will so!—Why, dear Mrs. Jewkes, said I.—None of your
dears, and your coaxing! said she; why not Jezebel again?—She was in a
fearful passion, I saw, and I was out of my wits. Thought I, I have
often heard women blamed for their tongues; I wish mine had been
shorter. But I can’t go in, said I, indeed I can’t!—Why, said she,
can’t you? I’ll warrant I can take such a thin body as you under my
arm, and carry you in, if you won’t walk. You don’t know my
strength.—Yes, but I do, said I, too well; and will you not use me
worse when I come in?—So I arose, and she muttered to herself all the
way, She to be a Jezebel with me, that had used me so well! and such
like.

When I came near the house, I said, sitting down upon a settle-bench,
Well, I will not go in, till you say you forgive me, Mrs. Jewkes.—If
you will forgive my calling you that name, I will forgive your beating
me.—She sat down by me, and seemed in a great pucker, and said, Well,
come, I will forgive you for this time: and so kissed me, as a mark of
reconciliation.—But pray, said I, tell me where I am to walk and go,
and give me what liberty you can; and when I know the most you can
favour me with, you shall see I will be as content as I can, and not
ask you for more.

Ay, said she, this is something like: I wish I could give you all the
liberty you desire; for you must think it is no pleasure to me to tie
you to my petticoat, as it were, and not let you stir without me.—But
people that will do their duties, must have some trouble: and what I
do, is to serve as good a master, to be sure, as lives.—Yes, said I, to
every body but me! He loves you too well, to be sure, returned she; and
that’s the reason: so you ought to bear it. I say, love! replied I.
Come, said she, don’t let the wench see you have been crying, nor tell
her any tales: for you won’t tell them fairly, I am sure: and I’ll send
her, and you shall take another walk in the garden, if you will: May be
it will get you a stomach to your dinner: for you don’t eat enough to
keep life and soul together. You are beauty to the bone, added the
strange wretch, or you could not look so well as you do, with so little
stomach, so little rest, and so much pining and whining for nothing at
all. Well, thought I, say what thou wilt, so I can be rid of thy bad
tongue and company: and I hope to find some opportunity now to come at
my sunflower. But I walked the other way, to take that in my return, to
avoid suspicion.

I forced my discourse to the maid; but it was all upon general things;
for I find she is asked after every thing I say and do. When I came
near the place, as I had been devising, I said, Pray step to the
gardener, and ask him to gather a sallad for me to dinner. She called
out, Jacob! said I, He can’t hear you so far off; and pray tell him, I
should like a cucumber too, if he has one. When she had stept about a
bow-shot from me, I popt down, and whipt my fingers under the upper
tile, and pulled out a letter without direction, and thrust it in my
bosom, trembling for joy. She was with me, before I could well secure
it; and I was in such a taking that I feared I should discover myself.
You seem frightened, madam, said she; Why, said I, with a lucky
thought, (alas! your poor daughter will make an intriguer by and by;
but I hope an innocent one!) I stooped to smell at the sunflower, and a
great nasty worm ran into the ground, that startled me; for I can’t
abide worms. Said she, Sunflowers don’t smell. So I find, replied I.
And then we walked in; and Mrs. Jewkes said; Well, you have made haste
now.—You shall go another time.

I went up to my closet, locked myself in, and opening my letter, found
in it these words:

‘I am infinitely concerned for your distress. I most heartily wish it
may be in my power to serve and save so much innocence, beauty, and
merit. My whole dependance is upon Mr. B——, and I have a near view of
being provided for by his favour to me. But yet I would sooner forfeit
all my hopes in him, (trusting in God for the rest,) than not assist
you, if possible. I never looked upon Mr. B—— in the light he now
appears in to me, in your case. To be sure, he is no professed
debauchee. But I am entirely of opinion, you should, if possible, get
out of his hands; and especially as you are in very bad ones in Mrs.
Jewkes’s.

‘We have here the widow Lady Jones, mistress of a good fortune; and a
woman of virtue, I believe. We have also old Sir Simon Darnford, and
his lady, who is a good woman; and they have two daughters, virtuous
young ladies. All the rest are but middling people, and traders, at
best. I will try, if you please, either Lady Jones, or Lady Darnford,
if they’ll permit you to take refuge with them. I see no probability of
keeping myself concealed in this matter; but will, as I said, risk all
things to serve you; for I never saw a sweetness and innocence like
yours; and your hard case has attached me entirely to you; for I know,
as you so happily express, if I can serve you in this case, I shall
thereby perform all the acts of religion in one.

‘As to Lady Davers, I will convey a letter, if you please, to her; but
it must not be from our post-house, I give you caution; for the man
owes all his bread to Mr. B——, and his place too; and I believe, by
something that dropt from him, over a can of ale, has his instructions.
You don’t know how you are surrounded; all which confirms me in your
opinion, that no honour is meant you, let what will be professed; and I
am glad you want no caution on that head.

‘Give me leave to say, that I had heard much in your praise; but, I
think, greatly short of what you deserve, both as to person and mind:
My eyes convince me of the one, your letter of the other. For fear of
losing the present lucky opportunity, I am longer than otherwise I
should be. But I will not enlarge, any further than to assure you that
I am, to the best of my power,

‘Your faithful friend and servant,

‘ARTHUR WILLIAMS.’

‘I will come once every morning, and once every evening, after
school-time, to look for your letters. I’ll come in, and return without
going into the house, if I see the coast clear: Otherwise, to avoid
suspicion, I’ll come in.’

I instantly, in answer to this pleasing letter, wrote as follows:

‘REVEREND SIR,

‘O how suited to your function, and your character, is your kind
letter! God bless you for it! I now think I am beginning to be happy. I
should be sorry to have you suffer on my account: but I hope it will be
made up to you an hundred-fold, by that God whom you so faithfully
serve. I should be too happy, could I ever have it in my power to
contribute in the least to it. But, alas! to serve me, must be for
God’s sake only; for I am poor and lowly in fortune; though in mind, I
hope, too high to do a mean or unworthy deed to gain a kingdom. But I
lose time.——

‘Any way you think best, I should be pleased with; for I know not the
persons, nor in what manner it is best to apply to them. I am glad of
the hint you so kindly give me of the man at the post-house. I was
thinking of opening a way for myself by letter, when I could have
opportunity; but I see more and more that I am, indeed, strangely
surrounded with dangers; and that there is no dependance to be made on
my master’s honour.

‘I should think, sir, if either of those ladies would give leave, I
might some way get out by favour of your key: and as it is impossible,
watched as I am, to know when it can be, suppose, sir, you get one made
by it, and put it, the next opportunity, under the sunflower?—I am sure
no time is to be lost, because it is rather my wonder, that she is not
thoughtful about this key, than otherwise; for she forgets not the
minutest thing. But, sir, if I had this key, I could, if these ladies
would not shelter me, run away any where: and if I was once out of the
house, they could have no pretence to force me again; for I have done
no harm, and hope to make my story good to any compassionate body; and
by this way you need not to be known. Torture should not wring it from
me, I assure you.

‘One thing more, good sir. Have you no correspondence with my master’s
Bedfordshire family? By that means, may be, I could be informed of his
intention of coming hither, and when I enclose you a letter of a
deceitful wretch; for I can trust you with any thing; poor John Arnold.
Its contents will tell why I enclose it. Perhaps by his means,
something may be discovered; for he seems willing to atone for his
treachery to me, by the intimation of future service. I leave the hint
to you to improve upon, and am,

‘Reverend Sir,

‘Your for ever obliged, and thankful servant.’

‘I hope, sir, by your favour, I could send a little packet, now and
then, some how, to my poor father and mother. I have a little stock of
money, about five or six guineas: Shall I put half in your hands, to
defray the charge of a man and horse, or any other incidents?’

I had but just time to transcribe this, before I was called to dinner;
and I put that for Mr. Williams, with a wafer in it, in my bosom, to
get an opportunity to lay it in the dear place.

O good sirs, of all the flowers in the garden, the sunflower, sure, is
the loveliest!—It is a propitious one to me! How nobly my plot
succeeds! But I begin to be afraid my writings may be discovered; for
they grow large: I stitch them hitherto in my under-coat, next my
linen. But if this brute should search me—I must try to please her, and
then she won’t.

Well, I am but just come off from a walk in the garden, and have
deposited my letter by a simple wile. I got some horse-beans; and we
took a turn in the garden, to angle, as Mrs. Jewkes had promised me.
She baited the hook, and I held it, and soon hooked a lovely carp. Play
it, play it, said she: I did, and brought it to the bank. A sad thought
just then came into my head; and I took it, and threw it in again; and
O the pleasure it seemed to have, to flounce in, when at liberty!—Why
this? says she. O Mrs. Jewkes! said I, I was thinking this poor carp
was the unhappy Pamela. I was likening you and myself to my naughty
master. As we hooked and deceived the poor carp, so was I betrayed by
false baits; and when you said, Play it, play it, it went to my heart,
to think I should sport with the destruction of the poor fish I had
betrayed; and I could not but fling it in again: and did you not see
the joy with which the happy carp flounced from us? O! said I, may some
good merciful body procure me my liberty in the same manner; for to be
sure, I think my danger equal!

Lord bless thee! said she, what a thought is there!—Well, I can angle
no more, added I. I’ll try my fortune, said she, and took the rod. Do,
answered I; and I will plant life, if I can, while you are destroying
it. I have some horse-beans here, and will go and stick them in one of
the borders, to see how long they will be coming up; and I will call
them my garden.

So you see, dear father and mother, (I hope now you will soon see; for,
may be, if I can’t get away so soon myself, I may send my papers some
how; I say you will see,) that this furnishes me with a good excuse to
look after my garden another time; and if the mould should look a
little freshish, it won’t be so much suspected. She mistrusted nothing
of this; and I went and stuck in here and there my beans, for about the
length of five ells, of each side of the sunflower; and easily
deposited my letter. And not a little proud am I of this contrivance.
Sure something will do at last!

Friday, Saturday.

I have just now told you a trick of mine; now I’ll tell you a trick of
this wicked woman’s. She comes up to me: Says she, I have a bill I
cannot change till to-morrow; and a tradesman wants his money most
sadly: and I don’t love to turn poor trades-folks away without their
money: Have you any about you? I have a little, replied I: How much
will do? Oh! said she, I want eight pounds. Alack! said I, I have but
between five and six. Lend me that, said she, till to-morrow. I did so;
and she went down stairs: and when she came up, she laughed, and said,
Well, I have paid the tradesman. Said I, I hope you’ll give it me again
to-morrow. At that, the assurance, laughing loud, said, Why, what
occasion have you for money? To tell you the truth, lambkin, I didn’t
want it. I only feared you might make a bad use of it; and now I can
trust Nan with you a little oftener, especially as I have got the key
of your portmanteau; so that you can neither corrupt her with money,
nor fine things. Never did any body look more silly than I.—O how I
fretted, to be so foolishly outwitted!—And the more, as I had hinted to
Mr. Williams, that I would put some in his hands to defray the charges
of my sending to you. I cried for vexation.—And now I have not five
shillings left to support me, if I can get away.—Was ever such a fool
as I! I must be priding myself in my contrivances, indeed! said I. Was
this your instructions, wolfkin? (for she called me lambkin). Jezebel,
you mean, child! said she.—Well, I now forgive you heartily; let’s buss
and be friends.—Out upon you said I; I cannot bear you!—But I durst not
call her names again; for I dread her huge paw most sadly. The more I
think of this thing, the more do I regret it, and blame myself.

This night the man from the post-house brought a letter for Mrs.
Jewkes, in which was one enclosed for me: She brought it me up. Said
she, Well, my good master don’t forget us. He has sent you a letter:
and see what he writes to me. So she read, That he hoped her fair
charge was well, happy, and contented. Ay, to be sure, said I, I can’t
choose—That he did not doubt her care and kindness to me: that I was
very dear to him, and she could not use me too well; and the like.
There’s a master for you! said she: sure you will love and pray for
him. I desired her to read the rest. No, no, said she, but I won’t.
Said I, Are there any orders for taking my shoes away, and for beating
me? No, said she, nor about Jezebel neither. Well, returned I, I cry
truce; for I have no mind to be beat again. I thought, said she, we had
forgiven one another.

My letter is as follows:

‘MY DEAR PAMELA,

‘I begin to repent already, that I have bound myself, by promise, not
to see you till you give me leave; for I think the time very tedious.
Can you place so much confidence in me, as to invite me down? Assure
yourself, that your generosity shall not be thrown away upon me. I the
rather would press this, as I am uneasy for your uneasiness; for Mrs.
Jewkes acquaints me, that you take your restraint very heavily; and
neither eat, drink, nor rest well; and I have too great interest in
your health, not to wish to shorten the time of this trial; which will
be the consequence of my coming down to you. John, too, has intimated
to me your concern, with a grief that hardly gave him leave for
utterance; a grief that a little alarmed my tenderness for you. Not
that I fear any thing, but that your disregard to me, which yet my
proud heart will hardly permit me to own, may throw you upon some
rashness, that might encourage a daring hope: But how poorly do I
descend, to be anxious about such a menial as he!—I will only say one
thing, that if you will give me leave to attend you at the Hall,
(consider who it is that requests this from you as a favour,) I
solemnly declare, that you shall have cause to be pleased with this
obliging mark of your confidence in me, and consideration for me; and
if I find Mrs. Jewkes has not behaved to you with the respect due to
one I so dearly love, I will put it entirely into your power to
discharge her the house, if you think proper; and Mrs. Jervis, or who
else you please, shall attend you in her place. This I say on a hint
John gave me, as if you resented something from that quarter. Dearest
Pamela, answer favourably this earnest request of one that cannot live
without you, and on whose honour to you, you may absolutely depend; and
so much the more, as you place a confidence in it. I am, and assuredly
ever will be,

‘Your faithful and affectionate, etc.’

‘You will be glad, I know, to hear your father and mother are well, and
easy upon your last letter. That gave me a pleasure that I am resolved
you shall not repent. Mrs. Jewkes will convey to me your answer.’

I but slightly read this letter for the present, to give way to one I
had hopes of finding by this time from Mr. Williams. I took an evening
turn, as I called it, in Mrs. Jewkes’s company: and walking by the
place, I said, Do you think, Mrs. Jewkes, any of my beans can have
struck since yesterday? She laughed, and said, You are a poor gardener:
but I love to see you divert yourself. She passing on, I found my good
friend had provided for me; and, slipping it in my bosom, (for her back
was towards me,) Here, said I, (having a bean in my hand,) is one of
them; but it has not stirred. No, to be sure, said she, and turned upon
me a most wicked jest, unbecoming the mouth of a woman, about planting,
etc. When I came in, I hied to my closet, and read as follows:

‘I am sorry to tell you that I have had a repulse from Lady Jones. She
is concerned at your case, she says, but don’t care to make herself
enemies. I applied to Lady Darnford, and told her in the most pathetic
manner I could, your sad story, and shewed her your more pathetic
letter. I found her well disposed, but she would advise with Sir Simon,
who by the by is not a man of an extraordinary character for virtue;
but he said to his lady in my presence, ‘Why, what is all this, my
dear, but that our neighbour has a mind to his mother’s waiting-maid!
And if he takes care she wants for nothing, I don’t see any great
injury will be done her. He hurts no family by this:’ (So, my dear
father and mother, it seems that poor people’s honesty is to go for
nothing) ‘And I think, Mr. Williams, you, of all men, should not engage
in this affair, against your friend and patron.’ He spoke this in so
determined a manner, that the lady had done; and I had only to beg no
notice should be taken of the matter as from me.

‘I have hinted your case to Mr. Peters, the minister of this parish;
but I am concerned to say, that he imputed selfish views to me, as if I
would make an interest in your affections by my zeal. And when I
represented the duties of our function, and the like, and protested my
disinterestedness, he coldly said, I was very good; but was a young
man, and knew little of the world. And though it was a thing to be
lamented, yet when he and I should set about to reform mankind in this
respect, we should have enough upon our hands; for, he said, it was too
common and fashionable a case to be withstood by a private clergyman or
two: and then he uttered some reflections upon the conduct of the
present fathers of the church, in regard to the first personages of the
realm, as a justification of his coldness on this score.

‘I represented the different circumstances of your affair; that other
women lived evilly by their own consent, but to serve you, was to save
an innocence that had but few examples; and then I shewed him your
letter.

‘He said it was prettily written: and he was sorry for you; and that
your good intentions ought to be encouraged: But what, said he, would
you have me do, Mr. Williams? Why suppose, sir, said I, you give her
shelter in your house, with your spouse and niece, till she can get to
her friends.—What! and embroil myself with a man of Mr. B——’s power and
fortune! No, not I, I’ll assure you!—And I would have you consider what
you are about. Besides, she owns, continued he, that he promises to do
honourably by her; and her shyness will procure her good terns enough;
for he is no covetous nor wicked gentleman, except in this case; and
’tis what all young gentlemen will do.

‘I am greatly concerned for him, I assure you: but I am not discouraged
by this ill success, let what will come of it, if I can serve you.

‘I don’t hear, as yet, that Mr. B—— is coming. I am glad of your hint
as to that unhappy fellow John Arnold. Something, perhaps, will strike
out from that, which may be useful. As to your packets, if you seal
them up, and lay them in the usual place, if you find it not suspected,
I will watch an opportunity to convey them; but if they are large, you
had best be very cautious. This evil woman, I find, mistrusts me much.

‘I just hear, that the gentleman is dying, whose living Mr. B—— has
promised me. I have almost a scruple to take it, as I am acting so
contrary to his desires: but I hope he will one day thank me for it. As
to money, don’t think of it at present. Be assured you may command all
in my power to do for you without reserve.

‘I believe, when we hear he is coming, it will be best to make use of
the key, which I shall soon procure you; and I can borrow a horse for
you, I believe, to wait within half a mile of the back-door, over the
pasture; and will contrive, by myself, or somebody, to have you
conducted some miles distant, to one of the villages thereabouts; so
don’t be discomforted, I beseech you. I am, excellent Mrs. Pamela,

‘Your faithful friend, etc.’

I made a thousand sad reflections upon the former part of this honest
gentleman’s kind letter; and but for the hope he gave me at last,
should have given up my case as quite desperate. I then wrote to thank
him most gratefully for his kind endeavours; to lament the little
concern the gentry had for my deplorable case; the wickedness of the
world, first to give way to such iniquitous fashions, and then plead
the frequency of them, against the attempt to amend them; and how
unaffected people were with the distresses of others. I recalled my
former hint as to writing to Lady Davers, which I feared, I said, would
only serve to apprise her brother, that she knew his wicked scheme, and
more harden him in it, and make him come down the sooner, and to be the
more determined on my ruin; besides that it might make Mr. Williams
guessed at, as a means of conveying my letter: And being very fearful,
that if that good lady would interest herself in my behalf, (which was
a doubt, because she both loved and feared her brother,) it would have
no effect upon him; and that therefore I would wait the happy event I
might hope for from his kind assistance in the key, and the horse. I
intimated my master’s letter, begging to be permitted to come down: was
fearful it might be sudden; and that I was of opinion no time was to be
lost; for we might let slip all our opportunities; telling him the
money trick of this vile woman, etc.

I had not time to take a copy of this letter, I was so watched. And
when I had it ready in my bosom, I was easy. And so I went to seek out
Mrs. Jewkes, and told her, I would have her advice upon the letter I
had received from my master; which point of confidence in her pleased
her not a little. Ay, said she, now this is something like: and we’ll
take a turn in the garden, or where you please. I pretended it was
indifferent to me; and so we walked into the garden. I began to talk to
her of the letter; but was far from acquainting her with all the
contents; only that he wanted my consent to come down, and hoped she
used me kindly, and the like. And I said, Now, Mrs. Jewkes, let me have
your advice as to this. Why then, said she, I will give it you freely;
E’en send to him to come down. It will highly oblige him, and I dare
say you’ll fare the better for it. How the better? said I.—I dare say,
you think yourself, that he intends my ruin. I hate, said she, that
foolish word, your ruin!—Why, ne’er a lady in the land may live happier
than you if you will, or be more honourably used.

Well, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, I shall not, at this time, dispute with you
about the words ruin and honourable: for I find we have quite different
notions of both: But now I will speak plainer than ever I did. Do you
think he intends to make proposals to me as to a kept mistress, or kept
slave rather, or do you not?—Why, lambkin, said she, what dost thou
think thyself?—I fear, said I, he does. Well, said she, but if he does,
(for I know nothing of the matter, I assure you,) you may have your own
terms—I see that; for you may do any thing with him.

I could not bear this to be spoken, though it was all I feared of a
long time; and began to exclaim most sadly. Nay, said she, he may marry
you, as far as I know.—No, no, said I, that cannot be.—I neither desire
nor expect it. His condition don’t permit me to have such a thought;
and that, and the whole series of his conduct, convinces me of the
contrary; and you would have me invite him to come down, would you? Is
not this to invite my ruin?

’Tis what I would do, said she, in your place; and if it was to be as
you think, I should rather be out of my pain, than live in continual
frights and apprehensions, as you do. No, replied I, an hour of
innocence is worth an age of guilt; and were my life to be made ever so
miserable by it, I should never forgive myself, if I were not to
lengthen out to the longest minute my happy time of honesty. Who knows
what Providence may do for me!

Why, may be, said she, as he loves you so well, you may prevail upon
him by your prayers and tears; and for that reason, I should think,
you’d better let him come down. Well, said I, I will write him a
letter, because he expects an answer, or may be he will make a pretence
to come down. How can it go?

I’ll take care of that, said she; it is in my instructions.—Ay, thought
I, so I doubt, by the hint Mr. Williams gave me about the post-house.

The gardener coming by, I said, Mr. Jacob, I have planted a few beans,
and I call the place my garden. It is just by the door out yonder: I’ll
shew it you; pray don’t dig them up. So I went on with him; and when we
had turned the alley, out of her sight and were near the place said I,
Pray step to Mrs. Jewkes, and ask her if she has any more beans for me
to plant? He smiled, I suppose at my foolishness; and I popped the
letter under the mould, and stepped back, as if waiting for his return;
which, being near, was immediate; and she followed him. What should I
do with beans? said she,—and sadly scared me; for she whispered me, I
am afraid of some fetch! You don’t use to send on such simple
errands.—What fetch? said I: It is hard I can neither stir, nor speak,
but I must be suspected.—Why, said she, my master writes, that I must
have all my eyes about me; for though you are as innocent as a dove,
yet you are as cunning as a serpent. But I’ll forgive you, if you cheat
me.

Then I thought of my money, and could have called her names, had I
dared: And I said, Pray Mrs. Jewkes, now you talk of forgiving me, if I
cheat you, be so kind as to pay me my money; for though I have no
occasion for it, yet I know you was but in jest, and intended to give
it me again. You shall have it in a proper time, said she; but, indeed,
I was in earnest to get it out of your hands, for fear you should make
an ill use of it. And so we cavilled upon this subject as we walked in,
and I went up to write my letter to my master; and, as I intended to
shew it her, I resolved to write accordingly as to her part of it; for
I made little account of his offer of Mrs. Jervis to me, instead of
this wicked woman, (though the most agreeable thing that could have
befallen me, except my escape from hence,) nor indeed any thing he
said. For to be honourable, in the just sense of the word, he need not
have caused me to be run away with, and confined as I am. I wrote as
follows:

‘HONOURED SIR,

‘When I consider how easily you might make me happy, since all I desire
is to be permitted to go to my poor father and mother; when I reflect
upon your former proposal to me in relation to a certain person, not
one word of which is now mentioned; and upon my being in that strange
manner run away with, and still kept here a miserable prisoner; do you
think, sir, (pardon your poor servant’s freedom; my fears make me bold;
do you think, I say,) that your general assurances of honour to me, can
have the effect upon me, that, were it not for these things, all your
words ought to have?—O, good sir! I too much apprehend that your
notions of honour and mine are very different from one another: and I
have no other hopes but in your continued absence. If you have any
proposals to make me, that are consistent with your honourable
professions, in my humble sense of the word, a few lines will
communicate them to me, and I will return such an answer as befits me.
But, oh! What proposals can one in your high station have to make to
one in my low one! I know what belongs to your degree too well, to
imagine, that any thing can be expected but sad temptations, and utter
distress, if you come down; and you know not, sir, when I am made
desperate, what the wretched Pamela dares to do!

‘Whatever rashness you may impute to me, I cannot help it; but I wish I
may not be forced upon any, that otherwise would never enter into my
thoughts. Forgive me, sir, my plainness; I should be loath to behave to
my master unbecomingly; but I must needs say, sir, my innocence is so
dear to me, that all other considerations are, and, I hope, shall ever
be, treated by me as niceties, that ought, for that, to be dispensed
with. If you mean honourably, why, sir, should you not let me know it
plainly? Why is it necessary to imprison me, to convince me of it? And
why must I be close watched, and attended, hindered from stirring out,
from speaking to any body, from going so much as to church to pray for
you, who have been, till of late, so generous a benefactor to me? Why,
sir, I humbly ask, why all this, if you mean honourably?—It is not for
me to expostulate so freely, but in a case so near to me, with you,
sir, so greatly my superior. Pardon me, I hope you will; but as to
seeing you, I cannot bear the dreadful apprehension. Whatever you have
to propose, whatever you intend by me, let my assent be that of a free
person, mean as I am, and not of a sordid slave, who is to be
threatened and frightened into a compliance with measures, which your
conduct to her seems to imply would be otherwise abhorred by her.—My
restraint is indeed hard upon me: I am very uneasy under it. Shorten
it, I beseech you, or—but I will not dare to say more, than that I am

‘Your greatly oppressed unhappy servant.’

After I had taken a copy of this, I folded it up; and Mrs. Jewkes,
coming just as I had done, sat down by me; and said, when she saw me
direct it, I wish you would tell me if you have taken my advice, and
consented to my master’s coming down. If it will oblige you, said I, I
will read it to you. That’s good, said she; then I’ll love you
dearly.—Said I, Then you must not offer to alter one word. I won’t,
replied she. So I read it to her, and she praised me much for my
wording it; but said she thought I pushed the matter very close; and it
would better bear talking of, than writing about. She wanted an
explanation or two, as about the proposal to a certain person; but I
said, she must take it as she heard it. Well, well, said she, I make no
doubt you understand one another, and will do so more and more. I
sealed up the letter, and she undertook to convey it.

Sunday.

For my part, I knew it in vain to expect to have leave to go to church
now, and so I did not ask; and I was the more indifferent, because, if
I might have had permission, the sight of the neighbouring gentry, who
had despised my sufferings, would have given me great regret and
sorrow; and it was impossible I should have edified under any doctrine
preached by Mr. Peters: So I applied myself to my private devotions.

Mr. Williams came yesterday, and this day, as usual, and took my
letter; but, having no good opportunity, we avoided one another’s
conversation, and kept at a distance: But I was concerned I had not the
key; for I would not have lost a moment in that case, had I been he,
and he I. When I was at my devotion, Mrs. Jewkes came up, and wanted me
sadly to sing her a psalm, as she had often on common days importuned
me for a song upon the spinnet: but I declined it, because my spirits
were so low I could hardly speak, nor cared to be spoken to; but when
she was gone, I remembering the cxxxviith psalm to be a little
touching, turned to it, and took the liberty to alter it, somewhat
nearer to my case. I hope I did not sin in it; but thus I turned it:


I.


When sad I sat in B——n Hall,

All guarded round about,
And thought of ev’ry absent friend,

The tears for grief burst out.




II.


My joys and hopes all overthrown,

My heart-strings almost broke,
Unfit my mind for melody,

Much more to bear a joke.




III.


Then she to whom I pris’ner was,

Said to me, tauntingly,
Now cheer your heart, and sing a song

And tune your mind to joy.




IV.


Alas! said I, how can I frame

My heavy heart to sing,
Or tune my mind, while thus enthrall’d

By such a wicked thing!




V.


But yet, if from my innocence

I, ev’n in thought, should slide,
Then let my fingers quite forget

The sweet spinnet to guide.




VI.


And let my tongue within my mouth

Be lock’d for ever fast,
If I rejoice, before I see

My full deliv’rance past.




VII.


And thou, Almighty, recompense

The evils I endure,
From those who seek my sad disgrace,

So causeless, to procure.




VIII.


Remember, Lord, this Mrs. Jewkes,

When, with a mighty sound,
She cries, Down with her chastity,

Down to the very ground!




IX.


Ev’n so shalt thou, O wicked one!

At length to shame be brought,
And happy shall all those be call’d

That my deliv’rance wrought.




X.


Yea, blessed shall the man be called

That shames thee of thy evil,
And saves me from thy vile attempts,

And thee, too, from the d—l.




Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.

I write now with a little more liking, though less opportunity, because
Mr. Williams has got a large parcel of my papers, safe in his hands, to
send them to you, as he has opportunity; so I am not quite uselessly
employed: and I am delivered besides, from the fear of their being
found, if I should be searched, or discovered. I have been permitted to
take an airing, five or six miles, with Mrs. Jewkes: But, though I know
not the reason, she watches me more closely than ever; so that we have
discontinued, by consent, for these three days, the sunflower
correspondence.

The poor cook-maid has had a bad mischance; for she has been hurt much
by a bull in the pasture, by the side of the garden, not far from the
back-door. Now this pasture I am to cross, which is about half a mile,
and then is a common, and near that a private horse-road, where I hope
to find an opportunity for escaping, as soon as Mr. Williams can get me
a horse, and has made all ready for me: for he has got me the key,
which he put under the mould, just by the door, as he found an
opportunity to hint to me.

He just now has signified, that the gentleman is dead, whose living he
has had hope of; and he came pretendedly to tell Mrs. Jewkes of it; and
so could speak this to her before me. She wished him joy. See what the
world is! One man’s death is another man’s joy. Thus we thrust out one
another!—My hard case makes me serious. He found means to slide a
letter into my hands, and is gone away: He looked at me with such
respect and solemness at parting, that Mrs. Jewkes said, Why, madam, I
believe our young parson is half in love with you.—Ah! Mrs. Jewkes,
said I, he knows better. Said she, (I believe to sound me,) Why, I
can’t see you can either of you do better; and I have lately been so
touched for you, seeing how heavily you apprehend dishonour from my
master, that I think it is pity you should not have Mr. Williams.

I knew this must be a fetch of hers; because, instead of being troubled
for me, as she pretended, she watched me closer, and him too: and so I
said, There is not the man living that I desire to marry. If I can but
keep myself honest, it is all my desire: And to be a comfort and
assistance to my poor parents, if it should be my happy lot to be so,
is the very top of my ambition. Well, but, said she, I have been
thinking very seriously, that Mr. Williams would make you a good
husband; and as he will owe all his fortune to my master, he will be
very glad, to be sure, to be obliged to him for a wife of his choosing:
especially, said she, such a pretty one, and one so ingenious, and
genteelly educated.

This gave me a doubt, whether she knew of my master’s intimation of
that sort formerly; and I asked her, if she had reason to surmise that
that was in view? No, she said; it was only her own thought; but it was
very likely that my master had either that in view, or something better
for me. But, if I approved of it, she would propose such a thing to her
master directly; and gave a detestable hint, that I might take
resolutions upon it, of bringing such an affair to effect. I told her I
abhorred her vile insinuation; and as to Mr. Williams, I thought him a
civil good sort of man; but, as on one side, he was above me; so, on
the other, I said of all things I did not love a parson. So, finding
she could make nothing of me, she quitted the subject. I will open his
letter by and by, and give you the contents of it; for she is up and
down so much, that I am afraid of her surprising me.

Well, I see Providence has not abandoned me: I shall be under no
necessity to make advances to Mr. Williams, if I was (as I am sure I am
not) disposed to it. This is his letter:

‘I know not how to express myself, lest I should appear to you to have
a selfish view in the service I would do you. But I really know but one
effectual and honourable way to disengage yourself from the dangerous
situation you are in. It is that of marriage with some person that you
could make happy in your approbation. As for my own part, it would be,
as things stand, my apparent ruin; and, worse still, I should involve
you in misery too. But, yet, so great is my veneration for you, and so
entire my reliance on Providence, upon so just an occasion, that I
should think myself but too happy, if I might be accepted. I would, in
this case, forego all my expectations, and be your conductor to some
safe distance. But why do I say, in this case? That I will do, whether
you think fit to reward me so eminently or not: And I will, the moment
I hear of Mr. B——’s setting out, (and I think now I have settled a very
good method of intelligence of all his motions,) get a horse ready, and
myself to conduct you. I refer myself wholly to your goodness and
direction; and am, with the highest respect,

‘Your most faithful humble servant.’

‘Don’t think this a sudden resolution. I always admired your hear-say
character; and the moment I saw you, wished to serve so much
excellence.’

What shall I say, my dear father and mother, to this unexpected
declaration? I want, now, more than ever, your blessing and direction.
But, after all, I have no mind to marry; I had rather live with you.
But yet, I would marry a man who begs from door to door, and has no
home nor being, rather than endanger my honesty. Yet I cannot,
methinks, hear of being a wife.—After a thousand different thoughts, I
wrote as follows:

‘REVEREND SIR,

‘I am greatly confused at the contents of your last. You are much too
generous, and I can’t bear you should risk all your future prospects
for so unworthy a creature. I cannot think of your offer without equal
concern and gratitude: for nothing, but to avoid my utter ruin, can
make me think of a change of condition; and so, sir, you ought not to
accept of such an involuntary compliance, as mine would be, were I,
upon the last necessity, to yield to your very generous proposal. I
will rely wholly upon your goodness to me, in assisting my escape; but
shall not, on your account principally, think of the honour you propose
for me at present; and never, but at the pleasure of my parents; who,
poor as they are, in such a weighty point, are as much entitled to my
obedience and duty, as if they were ever so rich. I beg you, therefore,
sir, not to think of any thing from me, but everlasting gratitude,
which shall always bind me to be ‘Your most obliged servant.’

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, the 14th, 15th, and 16th, of my bondage.

Mrs. Jewkes has received a letter, and is much civiller to me, and Mr.
Williams too, than she used to be. I wonder I have not one in answer to
mine to my master. I suppose I put the matter too home to him: and he
is angry. I am not the more pleased with her civility; for she is
horrid cunning, and is not a whit less watchful. I laid a trap to get
at her instructions, which she carries in the bosom of her stays; but
it has not succeeded.

My last letter is come safe to Mr. Williams by the old conveyance, so
that he is not suspected. He has intimated, that though I have not come
so readily as he hoped into his scheme, yet his diligence shall not be
slackened, and he will leave it to Providence and himself to dispose of
him as he shall be found to deserve. He has signified to me, that he
shall soon send a special messenger with the packet to you, and I have
added to it what has occurred since.

Sunday.

I am just now quite astonished!—I hope all is right!—but I have a
strange turn to acquaint you with. Mr. Williams and Mrs. Jewkes came to
me both together; he in ecstacies, she with a strange fluttering sort
of air. Well, said she, Mrs. Pamela, I give you joy! I give you
joy!—Let nobody speak but me! Then she sat down, as out of breath,
puffing and blowing. Why, every thing turns as I said it would! said
she: Why, there is to be a match between you and Mr. Williams! Well, I
always thought it. Never was so good a master!—Go to, go to, naughty,
mistrustful Mrs. Pamela; nay, Mrs. Williams, said the forward creature,
I may as good call you: you ought on your knees to beg his pardon a
thousand times for mistrusting him.

She was going on; but I said, Don’t torture me thus, I beseech you,
Mrs. Jewkes. Let me know all!—Ah! Mr. Williams, said I, take care, take
care!—Mistrustful again! said she: Why, Mr. Williams, shew her your
letter, and I will shew her mine: they were brought by the same hand.

I trembled at the thoughts of what this might mean; and said, You have
so surprised me, that I cannot stand, nor hear, nor read! Why did you
come up in such a manner to attack such weak spirits? said he, to Mrs.
Jewkes, Shall we leave our letters with Mrs. Pamela, and let her
recover from her surprise? Ay, said she, with all my heart; here is
nothing but flaming honour and good will! And so saying, they left me
their letters and withdrew.

My heart was quite sick with the surprise, so that I could not
presently read them, notwithstanding my impatience; but, after a while,
recovering, I found the contents thus strange and unexpected:

‘MR. WILLIAMS,

‘The death of Mr. Fownes has now given me the opportunity I have long
wanted, to make you happy, and that in a double respect: For I shall
soon put you in possession of his living; and, if you have the art of
making yourself well received, of one of the loveliest wives in
England. She has not been used (as she has reason to think) according
to her merit; but when she finds herself under the protection of a man
of virtue and probity, and a happy competency to support life in the
manner to which she has been of late years accustomed, I am persuaded
she will forgive those seeming hardships which have paved the way to so
happy a lot, as I hope it will be to you both. I have only to account
for and excuse the odd conduct I have been guilty of, which I shall do
when I see you: but as I shall soon set out for London, I believe it
will not be yet this month. Mean time, if you can prevail with Pamela,
you need not suspend for that your mutual happiness; only let me have
notice of it first, and that she approves of it; which ought to be, in
so material a point, entirely at her option; as I assure you, on the
other hand, I would have it at yours, that nothing may be wanting to
complete your happiness. ‘I am your humble servant.’

Was ever the like heard?—Lie still, my throbbing heart, divided as thou
art, between thy hopes and thy fears!—But this is the letter Mrs.
Jewkes left with me:

‘MRS. JEWKES,

‘You have been very careful and diligent in the task, which, for
reasons I shall hereafter explain, I had imposed upon you. Your trouble
is now almost at an end; for I have written my intentions to Mr.
Williams so particularly, that I need say the less here, because he
will not scruple, I believe, to let you know the contents of my letter.
I have only one thing to mention, that if you find what I have hinted
to him in the least measure disagreeable to either, you assure them
both, that they are at entire liberty to pursue their own inclinations.
I hope you continue your civilities to the mistrustful, uneasy Pamela,
who now will begin to think better of hers and ‘Your friend, etc.’

I had hardly time to transcribe these letters, though, writing so much,
I write pretty fast, before they both came up again in high spirits;
and Mr. Williams said, I am glad at my heart, madam, that I was
beforehand in my declarations to you: this generous letter has made me
the happiest man on earth; and, Mrs. Jewkes, you may be sure, that if I
can procure this fair one’s consent, I shall think myself—I interrupted
the good man, and said, Ah! Mr. Williams, take care, take care; don’t
let—There I stopt; and Mrs. Jewkes said, Still mistrustful!—I never saw
the like in my life!—But I see, said she, I was not wrong, while my old
orders lasted, to be wary of you both—I should have had a hard task to
prevent you, I find; for, as the saying is, Nought can restrain consent
of twain.

I doubted not her taking hold of his joyful indiscretion.—I took her
letter, and said, Here, Mrs. Jewkes, is yours; I thank you for it; but
I have been so long in a maze, that I can say nothing of this for the
present. Time will bring all to light.—Sir, said I, here is yours: May
every thing turn to your happiness! I give you joy of my master’s
goodness in the living.—It will be dying, said he, not a living,
without you.—Forbear, sir, said I; while I have a father and mother, I
am not my own mistress, poor as they are; and I’ll see myself quite at
liberty, before I shall think myself fit to make a choice.

Mrs. Jewkes held up her eyes and hands, and said, Such art, such
caution, such cunning, for thy years!—Well!—Why, said I, (that he might
be more on his guard, though I hope there cannot be deceit in this;
’twould be strange villany, and that is a hard word, if there should!)
I have been so used to be made a fool of by fortune, that I hardly can
tell how to govern myself; and am almost an infidel as to mankind. But
I hope I may be wrong; henceforth, Mrs. Jewkes, you shall regulate my
opinions as you please, and I will consult you in every thing—(that I
think proper, said I to myself)—for, to be sure, though I may forgive
her, I can never love her.

She left Mr. Williams and me, a few minutes, together; and I said,
Consider, sir, consider what you have done. ’Tis impossible, said he,
there can be deceit. I hope so, said I; but what necessity was there
for you to talk of your former declaration? Let this be as it will,
that could do no good, especially before this woman. Forgive me, sir;
they talk of women’s promptness of speech; but, indeed, I see an honest
heart is not always to be trusted with itself in bad company.

He was going to reply, but though her task is said to be ALMOST (I took
notice of that word) at an end, she came up to us again, and said;
Well, I had a good mind to show you the way to church to-morrow. I was
glad of this, because, though in my present doubtful situation I should
not have chosen it, yet I would have encouraged her proposal, to be
able to judge by her being in earnest or otherwise, whether one might
depend upon the rest. But Mr. Williams again indiscreetly helped her to
an excuse, by saying, that it was now best to defer it one Sunday, and
till matters were riper for my appearance: and she readily took hold of
it, and confirmed his opinion.

After all, I hope the best: but if this should turn out to be a plot, I
fear nothing but a miracle can save me. But, sure the heart of man is
not capable of such black deceit. Besides, Mr. Williams has it under
his own hand, and he dare not but be in earnest: and then again, though
to be sure he has been very wrong to me, yet his education, and
parents’ example, have neither of them taught him such very black
contrivances. So I will hope for the best.

Mr. Williams, Mrs. Jewkes, and I, have been all three walking together
in the garden; and she pulled out her key, and we walked a little in
the pasture to look at the bull, an ugly, grim, surly creature, that
hurt the poor cook-maid; who is got pretty well again. Mr. Williams
pointed at the sunflower, but I was forced to be very reserved to him;
for the poor gentleman has no guard, no caution at all.

We have just supped together, all three: and I cannot yet think that
all must be right.—Only I am resolved not to marry, if I can help it;
and I will give no encouragement, I am resolved, at least, till I am
with you.

Mr. Williams said, before Mrs. Jewkes, he would send a messenger with a
letter to my father and mother.—I think the man has no discretion in
the world: but I desire you will send no answer, till I have the
pleasure and happiness which now I hope for soon, of seeing you. He
will, in sending my packet, send a most tedious parcel of stuff, of my
oppressions, my distresses, my fears; and so I will send this with it;
(for Mrs. Jewkes gives me leave to send a letter to my father, which
looks well;) and I am glad I can conclude, after all my sufferings,
with my hopes, to be soon with you, which I know will give you comfort;
and so I rest, begging the continuance of your prayers and blessings,

Your ever dutiful DAUGHTER.

MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,

I have so much time upon my hands that I must write on, to employ
myself. The Sunday evening, where I left off, Mrs. Jewkes asked me, If
I chose to be by myself; I said, Yes, with all my heart, if she
pleased. Well, said she, after to-night you shall. I asked her for more
paper; and she gave me a bottle of ink, eight sheets of paper, which
she said was all her store, (for now she would get me to write for her
to our master, if she had occasion,) and six pens, with a piece of
sealing wax. This looks mighty well.

She pressed me, when she came to bed, very much, to give encouragement
to Mr. Williams, and said many things in his behalf; and blamed my
shyness to him. I told her, I was resolved to give no encouragement,
till I had talked to my father and mother. She said, he fancied I
thought of somebody else, or I could never be so insensible. I assured
her, as I could do very safely, that there was not a man on earth I
wished to have: and as to Mr. Williams, he might do better by far: and
I had proposed so much happiness in living with my poor father and
mother, that I could not think of any scheme of life with pleasure,
till I had tried that. I asked her for my money; and she said, it was
above in her strong box, but that I should have it to-morrow. All these
things look well, as I said.

Mr. Williams would go home this night, though late, because he would
despatch a messenger to you with a letter he had proposed from himself,
and my packet. But pray don’t encourage him, as I said; for he is much
too heady and precipitate as to this matter, in my way of thinking;
though, to be sure, he is a very good man, and I am much obliged to
him.

Monday morning.

Alas-a-day! we have bad news from poor Mr. Williams. He has had a sad
mischance; fallen among rogues in his way home last night: but by good
chance has saved my papers. This is the account he gives of it to Mrs.
Jewkes:

‘GOOD MRS. JEWKES,

‘I have had a sore misfortune in going from you. When I had got as near
the town as the dam, and was going to cross the wooden bridge, two
fellows got hold of me, and swore bitterly they would kill me, if I did
not give them what I had. They rummaged my pockets, and took from me my
snuff-box, my seal-ring, and half a guinea, and some silver, and
halfpence; also my handkerchief, and two or three letters I had in my
pockets. By good fortune, the letter Mrs. Pamela gave me was in my
bosom, and so that escaped but they bruised my head and face, and
cursing me for having no more money, tipped me into the dam, crying, be
there, parson, till to-morrow! My shins and knees were bruised much in
the fall against one of the stumps; and I had like to have been
suffocated in water and mud. To be sure, I shan’t be able to stir out
this day or two: for I am a frightful spectacle! My hat and wig I was
forced to leave behind me, and go home, a mile and a half, without; but
they were found next morning, and brought me, with my snuff-box, which
the rogues must have dropped. My cassock is sadly torn, as is my band.
To be sure, I was much frightened, for a robbery in these parts has not
been known many years. Diligent search is making after the rogues. My
humble respects to good Mrs. Pamela: if she pities my misfortunes, I
shall be the sooner well, and fit to wait on her and you. This did not
hinder me in writing a letter, though with great pain, as I do this,
(To be sure this good man can keep no secret!) and sending it away by a
man and horse, this morning. I am, good Mrs. Jewkes,

‘Your most obliged humble servant.’

‘God be praised it is no worse! And I find I have got no cold, though
miserably wet from top to toe. My fright, I believe, prevented me from
catching cold: for I was not rightly myself for some hours, and know
not how I got home. I will write a letter of thanks this night, if I am
able, to my kind patron, for his inestimable goodness to me. I wish I
was enabled to say all I hope, with regard to the better part of his
bounty to me, incomparable Mrs. Pamela.’

The wicked brute fell a laughing, when she had read this letter, till
her fat sides shook. Said she, I can but think how the poor parson
looked, after parting with his pretty mistress in such high spirits,
when he found himself at the bottom of the dam! And what a figure he
must cut in his tattered band and cassock, and without a hat and wig,
when he got home. I warrant, added she, he was in a sweet pickle!—I
said, I thought it was very barbarous to laugh at such a misfortune;
but she replied, As he was safe, she laughed; otherwise she would have
been sorry: and she was glad to see me so concerned for him—It looked
promising, she said.

I heeded not her reflections; but as I have been used to causes for
mistrusts, I cannot help saying, that I don’t like this thing: And
their taking his letters most alarms me.—How happy it was they missed
my packet! I knew not what to think of it!—But why should I let every
accident break my peace? Yet it will do so, while I stay here.

Mrs. Jewkes is mightily at me, to go with her in the chariot, to visit
Mr. Williams. She is so officious to bring on the affair between us,
that, being a cunning, artful woman, I know not what to make of it: I
have refused her absolutely; urging, that except I intended to
encourage his suit, I ought not to do it. And she is gone without me.

I have strange temptations to get away in her absence, for all these
fine appearances. ’Tis sad to have nobody to advise with!—I know not
what to do. But, alas for me! I have no money, if I should, to buy any
body’s civilities, or to pay for necessaries or lodgings. But I’ll go
into the garden, and resolve afterwards——

I have been in the garden, and to the back-door: and there I stood, my
heart up at my mouth. I could not see I was watched; so this looks
well. But if any thing should go bad afterwards, I should never forgive
myself, for not taking this opportunity. Well, I will go down again,
and see if all is clear, and how it looks out at the back-door in the
pasture.

To be sure, there is witchcraft in this house; and I believe Lucifer is
bribed, as well as all about me, and is got into the shape of that
nasty grim bull to watch me!—For I have been again, and ventured to
open the door, and went out about a bow-shot into the pasture; but
there stood that horrid bull, staring me full in the face, with fiery
saucer eyes, as I thought. So I got in again, for fear he should come
at me. Nobody saw me, however.—Do you think there are such things as
witches and spirits? If there be, I believe, in my heart, Mrs. Jewkes
has got this bull of her side. But yet, what could I do without money,
or a friend’—O this wicked woman! to trick me so! Every thing, man,
woman, and beast, is in a plot against your poor Pamela, I think!—Then
I know not one step of the way, nor how far to any house or cottage;
and whether I could gain protection, if I got to a house: And now the
robbers are abroad too, I may run into as great danger as I want to
escape; nay, greater much, if these promising appearances hold: And
sure my master cannot be so black as that they should not!—What can I
do?—I have a good mind to try for it once more; but then I may be
pursued and taken: and it will be worse for me; and this wicked woman
will beat me, and take my shoes away, and lock me up.

But, after all, if my master should mean well, he can’t be angry at my
fears, if I should escape; and nobody can blame me; and I can more
easily be induced, with you, when all my apprehensions are over, to
consider his proposal of Mr. Williams, than I could here; and he
pretends, as you have read in his letter, he will leave me to my
choice: Why then should I be afraid? I will go down again, I think! But
yet my heart misgives me, because of the difficulties before me, in
escaping; and being so poor and so friendless!—O good God! the
preserver of the innocent! direct me what to do!

Well, I have just now a sort of strange persuasion upon me, that I
ought to try to get way, and leave the issue to Providence. So, once
more—I’ll see, at least, if this bull be still there.

Alack-a-day! what a fate is this! I have not the courage to go, neither
can I think to stay. But I must resolve. The gardener was in sight last
time; so made me come up again. But I’ll contrive to send him out of
the way, if I can:—For if I never should have such another opportunity,
I could not forgive myself. Once more I’ll venture. God direct my
footsteps, and make smooth my path and my way to safety!

Well, here I am, come back again! frightened, like a fool, out of all
my purposes! O how terrible every thing appears to me! I had got twice
as far again, as I was before, out of the back-door: and I looked and
saw the bull, as I thought, between me and the door; and another bull
coming towards me the other way: Well, thought I, here is double
witchcraft, to be sure! Here is the spirit of my master in one bull,
and Mrs. Jewkes’s in the other. And now I am gone, to be sure! O help!
cried I, like a fool, and ran back to the door, as swift as if I flew.
When I had got the door in my hand, I ventured to look back, to see if
these supposed bulls were coming; and I saw they were only two poor
cows, a grazing in distant places, that my fears had made all this rout
about. But as every thing is so frightful to me, I find I am not fit to
think of my escape: for I shall be as much frightened at the first
strange man that I meet with: and I am persuaded that fear brings one
into more dangers, than the caution, that goes along with it, delivers
one from.

I then locked the door, and put the key in my pocket, and was in a sad
quandary; but I was soon determined; for the maid Nan came in sight,
and asked, if any thing was the matter, that I was so often up and down
stairs? God forgive me, (but I had a sad lie at my tongue’s end,) said
I; Though Mrs. Jewkes is sometimes a little hard upon me, yet I know
not where I am without her: I go up, and I come down to walk about in
the garden; and, not having her, know scarcely what to do with myself.
Ay, said the ideot, she is main good company, madam, no wonder you miss
her.

So here I am again, and here likely to be; for I have no courage to
help myself any where else. O why are poor foolish maidens tried with
such dangers, when they have such weak minds to grapple with them!—I
will, since it is so, hope the best: but yet I cannot but observe how
grievously every thing makes against me: for here are the robbers;
though I fell not into their hands myself, yet they gave me as much
terror, and had as great an effect upon my fears, as if I had: And here
is the bull; it has as effectually frightened me, as if I had been hurt
by it instead of the cook-maid; and so these joined together, as I may
say, to make a very dastard of me. But my folly was the worst of all,
because that deprived me of my money: for had I had that, I believe I
should have ventured both the bull and the robbers.

Monday afternoon.

So, Mrs. Jewkes is returned from her visit: Well, said she, I would
have you set your heart at rest; for Mr. Williams will do very well
again. He is not half so bad as he fancied. O these scholars, said she,
they have not the hearts of mice! He has only a few scratches on his
face; which, said she, I suppose he got by grappling among the gravel
at the bottom of the dam, to try to find a hole in the ground, to hide
himself from the robbers. His shin and his knee are hardly to be seen
to ail any thing. He says in his letter, he was a frightful spectacle:
He might be so, indeed, when he first came in a doors; but he looks
well enough now: and, only for a few groans now and then, when he
thinks of his danger, I see nothing is the matter with him. So, Mrs.
Pamela, said she, I would have you be very easy about it. I am glad of
it, said I, for all your jokes, to Mrs. Jewkes.

Well, said she, he talks of nothing but you: and when I told him I
would fain have persuaded you to come with me, the man was out of his
wits with his gratitude to me: and so has laid open all his heart to
me, and told me all that has passed, and was contriving between you
two. This alarmed me prodigiously; and the rather, as I saw, by two or
three instances, that his honest heart could keep nothing, believing
every one as undesigning as himself. I said, but yet with a heavy
heart, Ah! Mrs. Jewkes, Mrs. Jewkes, this might have done with me, had
he had any thing that he could have told you of. But you know well
enough, that had we been disposed, we had no opportunity for it, from
your watchful care and circumspection. No, said she, that’s very true,
Mrs. Pamela; not so much as for that declaration that he owned before
me, he had found opportunity, for all my watchfulness, to make you.
Come, come, said she, no more of these shams with me! You have an
excellent head-piece for your years; but may be I am as cunning as
you.—However, said she, all is well now; because my watchments are now
over, by my master’s direction. How have you employed yourself in my
absence?

I was so troubled at what might have passed between Mr. Williams and
her, that I could not hide it; and she said, Well, Mrs. Pamela, since
all matters are likely to be so soon and so happily ended, let me
advise you to be a little less concerned at his discoveries; and make
me your confidant, as he has done, and I shall think you have some
favour for me, and reliance upon me; and perhaps you might not repent
it.

She was so earnest, that I mistrusted she did this to pump me; and I
knew how, now, to account for her kindness to Mr. Williams in her visit
to him; which was only to get out of him what she could. Why, Mrs.
Jewkes, said I, is all this fishing about for something, where there is
nothing, if there be an end of your watchments, as you call them?
Nothing, said she, but womanish curiosity, I’ll assure you; for one is
naturally led to find out matters, where there is such privacy
intended. Well, said I, pray let me know what he has said; and then
I’ll give you an answer to your curiosity. I don’t care, said she,
whether you do or not for I have as much as I wanted from him; and I
despair of getting out of you any thing you ha’n’t a mind I should
know, my little cunning dear.—Well, said I, let him have said what he
would, I care not: for I am sure he can say no harm of me; and so let
us change the talk.

I was the easier, indeed, because, for all her pumps, she gave no hints
of the key and the door, etc. which, had he communicated to her, she
would not have forborne giving me a touch of.—And so we gave up one
another, as despairing to gain our ends of each other. But I am sure he
must have said more than he should.—And I am the more apprehensive all
is not right, because she has now been actually, these two hours, shut
up a writing; though she pretended she had given me up all her stores
of papers, etc. and that I should write for her. I begin to wish I had
ventured every thing and gone off, when I might. O when will this state
of doubt and uneasiness end!

She has just been with me, and says she shall send a messenger to
Bedfordshire; and he shall carry a letter of thanks for me, if I will
write it for my master’s favour to me. Indeed, said I, I have no thanks
to give, till I am with my father and mother: and besides, I sent a
letter, as you know; but have had no answer to it. She said, she
thought that his letter to Mr. Williams was sufficient; and the least I
could do was to thank him, if but in two lines. No need of it, said I;
for I don’t intend to have Mr. Williams: What then is that letter to
me? Well, said she, I see thou art quite unfathomable!

I don’t like all this. O my foolish fears of bulls and robbers!—For now
all my uneasiness begins to double upon me. O what has this incautious
man said! That, no doubt, is the subject of her long letter.

I will close this day’s writing, with just saying, that she is mighty
silent and reserved, to what she was: and says nothing but No, or Yes,
to what I ask. Something must be hatching, I doubt!—I the rather think
so, because I find she does not keep her word with me, about lying by
myself, and my money; to both which points she returned suspicious
answers, saying, as to the one, Why, you are mighty earnest for your
money; I shan’t run away with it. And to the other, Good-lack! you need
not be so willing, as I know of, to part with me for a bed-fellow, till
you are sure of one you like better. This cut me to the heart; and, at
the same time, stopped my mouth.

Tuesday, Wednesday.

Mr. Williams has been here; but we have had no opportunity to talk
together: He seemed confounded at Mrs. Jewkes’s change of temper, and
reservedness, after her kind visit, and their freedom with one another,
and much more at what I am going to tell you. He asked, If I would take
a turn in the garden with Mrs. Jewkes and him. No, said she, I can’t
go. Said he, May not Mrs. Pamela take a walk?—No, said she; I desire
she won’t. Why, Mrs. Jewkes? said he: I am afraid I have somehow
disobliged you. Not at all, replied she; but I suppose you will soon be
at liberty to walk together as much as you please: and I have sent a
messenger for my last instructions, about this and more weighty
matters; and when they come I shall leave you to do as you both will;
but, till then, it is no matter how little you are together. This
alarmed us both; and he seemed quite struck of a heap, and put on, as I
thought, a self-accusing countenance. So I went behind her back, and
held my two hands together, flat, with a bit of paper, I had, between
them, and looked at him: and he seemed to take me as I intended;
intimating the renewing of the correspondence by the tiles.

I left them both together, and retired to my closet to write a letter
for the tiles; but having no time for a copy, I will give you the
substance only.

I expostulated with him on his too great openness and easiness to fall
into Mrs. Jewkes’s snares: told him my apprehensions of foul play; and
gave briefly the reasons which moved me: begged to know what he had
said; and intimated, that I thought there was the highest reason to
resume our prospect of the escape by the back-door. I put this in the
usual place in the evening; and now wait with impatience for an answer.

Thursday.

I have the following answer:

‘DEAREST MADAM,

‘I am utterly confounded, and must plead guilty to all your just
reproaches. I wish I were master of all but half your caution and
discretion! I hope, after all, this is only a touch of this ill woman’s
temper, to shew her power and importance: For I think Mr. B—— neither
can nor dare deceive me in so black a manner. I would expose him all
the world over if he did. But it is not, cannot be in him. I have
received a letter from John Arnold, in which he tells me, that his
master is preparing for his London journey; and believes, afterwards,
he will come into these parts: But he says, Lady Davers is at their
house, and is to accompany her brother to London, or meet him there, he
knows not which. He professes great zeal and affection to your service:
and I find he refers to a letter he sent me before, but which is not
come to my hand. I think there can be no treachery; for it is a
particular friend at Gainsborough, that I have ordered him to direct
to; and this is come safe to my hands by this means; for well I know, I
durst trust nothing to Brett, at the post-house here. This gives me a
little pain; but I hope all will end well, and we shall soon hear, if
it be necessary to pursue our former intentions. If it be, I will lose
no time to provide a horse for you, and another for myself; for I can
never do either God or myself better service, though I were to forego
all my expectations for it here, I am ‘Your most faithful humble
servant.’

‘I was too free indeed with Mrs. Jewkes, led to it by her
dissimulation, and by her pretended concern to make me happy with you.
I hinted, that I would not have scrupled to have procured your
deliverance by any means; and that I had proposed to you, as the only
honourable one, marriage with me. But I assured her, though she would
hardly believe me, that you discouraged my application: which is too
true! But not a word of the back-door key, etc.’

Mrs. Jewkes continues still sullen and ill-natured, and I am almost
afraid to speak to her. She watches me as close as ever, and pretends
to wonder why I shun her company as I do.

I have just put under the tiles these lines inspired by my fears, which
are indeed very strong; and, I doubt, not without reason.

‘SIR,

‘Every thing gives me additional disturbance. The missed letter of John
Arnold’s makes me suspect a plot. Yet am I loath to think myself of so
much importance, as to suppose every one in a plot against me. Are you
sure, however, the London journey is not to be a Lincolnshire one? May
not John, who has been once a traitor, be so again?—Why need I be thus
in doubt?—If I could have this horse, I would turn the reins on his
neck, and trust to Providence to guide him for my safeguard! For I
would not endanger you, now just upon the edge of your preferment. Yet,
sir, I fear your fatal openness will make you suspected as accessary,
let us be ever so cautious.

‘Were my life in question, instead of my honesty, I would not wish to
involve you, or any body, in the least difficulty, for so worthless a
poor creature. But, O sir! my soul is of equal importance with the soul
of a princess; though my quality is inferior to that of the meanest
slave.

‘Save then my innocence, good Heaven! and preserve my mind spotless;
and happy shall I be to lay down my worthless life; and see an end to
all my troubles and anxieties.

‘Forgive my impatience: But my presaging mind bodes horrid mischiefs!
Every thing looks dark around me; and this woman’s impenetrable
sullenness and silence, without any apparent reason, from a conduct so
very contrary, bid me fear the worst.—blame me, sir, if you think me
wrong; and let me have your advice what to do; which will oblige

‘Your most afflicted servant.’

Friday.

I have this half-angry answer; but, what is more to me than all the
letters in the world could be, yours, my dear father, enclosed.

‘MADAM,

‘I think you are too apprehensive by much; I am sorry for your
uneasiness. You may depend upon me, and all I can do. But I make no
doubt of the London journey, nor of John’s contrition and fidelity. I
have just received, from my Gainsborough friend, this letter, as I
suppose, from your good father, in a cover, directed for me, as I had
desired. I hope it contains nothing to add to your uneasiness. Pray,
dearest madam, lay aside your fears, and wait a few days for the issue
of Mrs. Jewkes’s letter, and mine of thanks to Mr. B——. Things, I hope,
must be better than you expect. Providence will not desert such piety
and innocence: and be this your comfort and reliance: Which is the best
advice that can at present be given, by

‘Your most faithful humble servant.’

N. B. The father’s letter was as follows:

‘My DEAREST DAUGHTER,

‘Our prayers are at length heard, and we are overwhelmed with joy. O
what sufferings, what trials, hast thou gone through! Blessed be the
Divine goodness, which has enabled thee to withstand so many
temptations! We have not yet had leisure to read through your long
accounts of all your hardships. I say long, because I wonder how you
could find time and opportunity for them: but otherwise they are the
delight of our spare hours; and we shall read them over and over, as
long as we live, with thankfulness to God, who has given us so virtuous
and so discreet a daughter. How happy is our lot in the midst of our
poverty! O let none ever think children a burden to them; when the
poorest circumstances can produce so much riches in a Pamela! Persist,
my dear daughter, in the same excellent course; and we shall not envy
the highest estate, but defy them to produce such a daughter as ours.

‘I said, we had not read through all yours in course. We were too
impatient, and so turned to the end; where we find your virtue within
view of its reward, and your master’s heart turned to see the folly of
his ways, and the injury he had intended to our dear child: For, to be
sure, my dear, he would have ruined you, if he could. But seeing your
virtue, his heart is touched; and he has, no doubt, been awakened by
your good example.

‘We don’t see that you can do any way so well, as to come into the
present proposal, and make Mr. Williams, the worthy Mr. Williams! God
bless him!—happy. And though we are poor, and can add no merit, no
reputation, no fortune, to our dear child, but rather must be a
disgrace to her, as the world will think; yet I hope I do not sin in my
pride, to say, that there is no good man, of a common degree,
(especially as your late lady’s kindness gave you such good
opportunities, which you have had the grace to improve,) but may think
himself happy in you. But, as you say, you had rather not marry at
present, far be it from us to offer violence to your inclination! So
much prudence as you have shewn in all your conduct, would make it very
wrong in us to mistrust it in this, or to offer to direct you in your
choice. But, alas! my child, what can we do for you?—To partake our
hard lot, and involve yourself into as hard a life, would not help us,
but add to your afflictions. But it will be time enough to talk of
these things, when we have the pleasure you now put us in hope of, of
seeing you with us; which God grant. Amen, amen, say ‘Your most
indulgent parents. Amen!’

‘Our humblest service and thanks to the worthy Mr. Williams. Again we
say, God bless him for ever!

‘O what a deal we have to say to you! God give us a happy meeting! We
understand the ’squire is setting out for London. He is a fine
gentleman, and has wit at will. I wish he was as good. But I hope he
will now reform.’

O what inexpressible comfort, my dear father, has your letter given
me!—You ask, What can you do for me?—What is it you cannot do for your
child!—You can give her the advice she has so much wanted, and still
wants, and will always want: You can confirm her in the paths of
virtue, into which you first initiated her; and you can pray for her,
with hearts so sincere and pure, that are not to be met with in
palaces!—Oh! how I long to throw myself at your feet, and receive from
your own lips the blessings of such good parents! But, alas! how are my
prospects again overclouded, to what they were when I closed my last
parcel!—More trials, more dangers, I fear, must your poor Pamela be
engaged in: But through the Divine goodness, and your prayers, I hope,
at last, to get well out of all my difficulties; and the rather, as
they are not the effect of my own vanity or presumption!

But I will proceed with my hopeless story. I saw Mr. Williams was a
little nettled at my impatience; and so I wrote to assure him I would
be as easy as I could, and wholly directed by him; especially as my
father, whose respects I mentioned, had assured me my master was
setting out for London, which he must have somehow from his own family
or he would not have written me word of it.

Saturday, Sunday.

Mr. Williams has been here both these days, as usual; but is very
indifferently received still by Mrs. Jewkes; and, to avoid suspicion, I
left them together, and went up to my closet, most of the time he was
here. He and she, I found by her, had a quarrel: and she seems quite
out of humour with him: but I thought it best not to say any thing: and
he said, he would very little trouble the house till he had an answer
to his letter from Mr. B——. And she returned, The less, the better.
Poor man! he has got but little by his openness, making Mrs. Jewkes his
confidant, as she bragged, and would have had me to do likewise.

I am more and more satisfied there is mischief brewing; and shall begin
to hide my papers, and be circumspect. She seems mighty impatient for
an answer to her letter to my master.

Monday, Tuesday, the 25th and 26th days of my heavy restraint.

Still more and more strange things to write! A messenger is returned,
and now all is out! O wretched, wretched Pamela! What, at last, will
become of me!—Such strange turns and trials sure never poor creature,
of my years, experienced. He brought two letters, one to Mrs. Jewkes,
and one to me: but, as the greatest wits may be sometimes mistaken,
they being folded and sealed alike, that for me was directed to Mrs.
Jewkes; and that for her was directed to me. But both are stark naught,
abominably bad! She brought me up that directed for me, and said,
Here’s a letter for you: Long-looked-for is come at last. I will ask
the messenger a few questions, and then I will read mine. So she went
down, and I broke it open in my closet, and found it directed To MRS.
PAMELA ANDREWS. But when I opened it, it began, Mrs. Jewkes. I was
quite confounded; but, thought I, this may be a lucky mistake; I may
discover something: And so I read on these horrid contents:

‘MRS. JEWKES,

‘What you write me, has given me no small disturbance. This wretched
fool’s play-thing, no doubt, is ready to leap at any thing that offers,
rather than express the least sense of gratitude for all the benefits
she has received from my family, and which I was determined more and
more to heap upon her. I reserve her for my future resentment; and I
charge you double your diligence in watching her, to prevent her
escape. I send this by an honest Swiss, who attended me in my travels;
a man I can trust; and so let him be your assistant: for the artful
creature is enough to corrupt a nation by her seeming innocence and
simplicity; and she may have got a party, perhaps, among my servants
with you, as she has here. Even John Arnold, whom I confided in, and
favoured more than any, has proved an execrable villain; and shall meet
his reward for it.

‘As to that college novice, Williams, I need not bid you take care he
sees not this painted bauble: for I have ordered Mr. Shorter, my
attorney, to throw him instantly into gaol, on an action of debt, for
money he has had of me, which I had intended never to carry to account
against him; for I know all his rascally practices, besides what you
write me of his perfidious intrigue with that girl, and his
acknowledged contrivances for her escape; when he knew not, for
certain, that I designed her any mischief; and when, if he had been
guided by a sense of piety, or compassion for injured innocence, as he
pretends, he would have expostulated with me, as his function, and my
friendship for him, might have allowed him. But to enter into a vile
intrigue with the amiable gewgaw, to favour her escape in so base a
manner, (to say nothing of his disgraceful practices against me, in Sir
Simon Darnford’s family, of which Sir Simon himself has informed me),
is a conduct that, instead of preferring the ungrateful wretch, as I
had intended, shall pull down upon him utter ruin.

‘Monsieur Colbrand, my trusty Swiss, will obey you without reserve, if
my other servants refuse.

‘As for her denying that she encouraged his declaration, I believe it
not. It is certain the speaking picture, with all that pretended
innocence and bashfulness, would have run away with him. Yes, she would
run away with a fellow that she had been acquainted with (and that not
intimately, if you were as careful as you ought to be) but a few days;
at a time when she had the strongest assurances of my honour to her.

‘Well, I think, I now hate her perfectly: and though I will do nothing
to her myself, yet I can bear, for the sake of my revenge, and my
injured honour and slighted love, to see any thing, even what she most
fears, be done to her; and then she may be turned loose to her evil
destiny, and echo to the woods and groves her piteous lamentations for
the loss of her fantastical innocence, which the romantic ideot makes
such a work about. I shall go to London, with my sister Davers; and the
moment I can disengage myself, which, perhaps, may be in three weeks
from this time, I will be with you, and decide her fate, and put an end
to your trouble. Mean time be doubly careful; for this innocent, as I
have warned you, is full of contrivances. I am ‘Your friend.’

I had but just read this dreadful letter through, when Mrs. Jewkes came
up in a great fright, guessing at the mistake, and that I had her
letter, and she found me with it open in my hand, just sinking away.
What business, said she, had you to read my letter? and snatched it
from me. You see, said she, looking upon it, it says Mrs. Jewkes, at
top: You ought, in manners, to have read no further. O add not, said I,
to my afflictions! I shall be soon out of all your ways! This is too
much! too much! I never can support this—and threw myself upon the
couch, in my closet, and wept most bitterly. She read it in the next
room, and came in again afterwards. Why, this, said she, is a sad
letter indeed: I am sorry for it: But I feared you would carry your
niceties too far!—Leave me, leave me, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, for a while:
I cannot speak nor talk.—Poor heart! said she; Well, I’ll come up again
presently, and hope to find you better. But here, take your own letter;
I wish you well; but this is a sad mistake! And so she put down by me
that which was intended for me: But I have no spirit to read it at
present. O man! man! hard-hearted, cruel man! what mischiefs art thou
not capable of, unrelenting persecutor as thou art!

I sat ruminating, when I had a little come to myself, upon the terms of
this wicked letter; and had no inclination to look into my own. The bad
names, fool’s play-thing, artful creature, painted bauble, gewgaw,
speaking picture, are hard words for your poor Pamela! and I began to
think whether I was not indeed a very naughty body, and had not done
vile things: But when I thought of his having discovered poor John, and
of Sir Simon’s base officiousness, in telling him of Mr. Williams, with
what he had resolved against him in revenge for his goodness to me, I
was quite dispirited; and yet still more about that fearful Colbrand,
and what he could see done to me: for then I was ready to gasp for
breath, and my heart quite failed me. Then how dreadful are the words,
that he will decide my fate in three weeks! Gracious Heaven, said I,
strike me dead, before that time, with a thunderbolt, or provide some
way for my escaping these threatened mischiefs! God forgive me, if I
sinned!

At last, I took up the letter directed for Mrs. Jewkes, but designed
for me; and I find that little better than the other. These are the
hard terms it contains:

‘Well have you done, perverse, forward, artful, yet foolish Pamela, to
convince me, before it was too late, how ill I had done to place my
affections on so unworthy an object: I had vowed honour and love to
your unworthiness, believing you a mirror of bashful modesty and
unspotted innocence; and that no perfidious designs lurked in so fair a
bosom. But now I have found you out, you specious hypocrite! and I see,
that though you could not repose the least confidence in one you had
known for years, and who, under my good mother’s misplaced favour for
you, had grown up in a manner with you; when my passion, in spite of my
pride, and the difference of our condition, made me stoop to a meanness
that now I despise myself for; yet you could enter into an intrigue
with a man you never knew till within these few days past, and resolve
to run away with a stranger, whom your fair face, and insinuating arts,
had bewitched to break through all the ties of honour and gratitude to
me, even at a time when the happiness of his future life depended upon
my favour.

‘Henceforth, for Pamela’s sake, whenever I see a lovely face, will I
mistrust a deceitful heart; and whenever I hear of the greatest
pretences to innocence, will I suspect some deep-laid mischief. You
were determined to place no confidence in me, though I have solemnly,
over and over, engaged my honour to you. What, though I had alarmed
your fears in sending you one way, when you hoped to go another; yet,
had I not, to convince you of my resolution to do justly by you,
(although with great reluctance, such then was my love for you,)
engaged not to come near you without your own consent? Was not this a
voluntary demonstration of the generosity of my intention to you? Yet
how have you requited me? The very first fellow that your charming
face, and insinuating address, could influence, you have practised
upon, corrupted too, I may say, (and even ruined, as the ungrateful
wretch shall find,) and thrown your forward self upon him. As,
therefore, you would place no confidence in me, my honour owes you
nothing; and, in a little time, you shall find how much you have erred,
in treating, as you have done, a man who was once

‘Your affectionate and kind friend.’

‘Mrs. Jewkes has directions concerning you: and if your lot is now
harder than you might wish, you will bear it the easier, because your
own rash folly has brought it upon you.’

Alas! for me, what a fate is mine, to be thus thought artful, and
forward, and ungrateful; when all I intended was to preserve my
innocence; and when all the poor little shifts, which his superior
wicked wit and cunning have rendered ineffectual, were forced upon me
in my own necessary defence!

When Mrs. Jewkes came up to me again, she found me bathed in tears. She
seemed, as I thought, to be moved to some compassion; and finding
myself now entirely in her power, and that it is not for me to provoke
her, I said, It is now, I see, in vain for me to contend against my
evil destiny, and the superior arts of my barbarous master. I will
resign myself to the Divine will, and prepare to expect the worst. But
you see how this poor Mr. Williams is drawn in and undone: I am sorry I
am made the cause of his ruin. Poor, poor man!—to be thus involved, and
for my sake too!—But if you’ll believe me, said I, I gave no
encouragement to what he proposed, as to marriage; nor would he have
proposed it, I believe, but as the only honourable way he thought was
left to save me: And his principal motive to it at all, was virtue and
compassion to one in distress. What other view could he have? You know
I am poor and friendless. All I beg of you is, to let the poor
gentleman have notice of my master’s resentment; and let him fly the
country, and not be thrown into gaol. This will answer my master’s end
as well; for it will as effectually hinder him from assisting me, as if
he was in a prison.

Ask me, said she, to do any thing that is in my power, consistent with
my duty and trust, and I will do it: for I am sorry for you both. But,
to be sure, I shall keep no correspondence with him, nor let you. I
offered to talk of a duty superior to that she mentioned, which would
oblige her to help distressed innocence, and not permit her to go the
lengths enjoined by lawless tyranny; but she plainly bid me be silent
on that head: for it was in vain to attempt to persuade her to betray
her trust:—All I have to advise you, said she, is to be easy; lay aside
all your contrivances and arts to get away, and make me your friend, by
giving me no reason to suspect you; for I glory in my fidelity to my
master: And you have both practised some strange sly arts, to make such
a progress as he has owned there was between you, so seldom as I
thought you saw one another; and I must be more circumspect than I have
been.

This doubled my concern; for I now apprehended I should be much closer
watched than before.

Well, said I, since I have, by this strange accident, discovered my
hard destiny; let me read over again that fearful letter of yours, that
I may get it by heart, and with it feed my distress, and make calamity
familiar to me. Then, said she, let me read yours again. I gave her
mine, and she lent me hers: and so I took a copy of it, with her leave;
because, as I said I would, by it, prepare myself for the worst. And
when I had done, I pinned it on the head of the couch: This, said I, is
the use I shall make of this wretched copy of your letter; and here you
shall always find it wet with my tears.

She said she would go down to order supper; and insisted upon my
company to it. I would have excused myself; but she began to put on a
commanding air, that I durst not oppose. And when I went down, she took
me by the hand, and presented me to the most hideous monster I ever saw
in my life. Here, Monsieur Colbrand, said she, here is your pretty ward
and mine; let us try to make her time with us easy. He bowed, and put
on his foreign grimaces, and seemed to bless himself; and, in broken
English, told me, I was happy in de affections of de finest gentleman
in de varld!—I was quite frightened, and ready to drop down; and I will
describe him to you, my dear father and mother, if now you will ever
see this: and you shall judge if I had not reason, especially not
knowing he was to be there, and being apprised, as I was, of his hated
employment, to watch me closer.

He is a giant of a man for stature; taller by a good deal than Harry
Mowlidge, in your neighbourhood, and large boned, and scraggy; and has
a hand!—I never saw such an one in my life. He has great staring eyes,
like the bull’s that frightened me so; vast jaw-bones sticking out:
eyebrows hanging over his eyes; two great scars upon his forehead, and
one on his left cheek; and two large whiskers, and a monstrous wide
mouth; blubber lips; long yellow teeth, and a hideous grin. He wears
his own frightful long hair, tied up in a great black bag; a black
crape neckcloth about a long ugly neck: and his throat sticking out
like a wen. As to the rest, he was dressed well enough, and had a sword
on, with a nasty red knot to it; leather garters, buckled below his
knees; and a foot—near as long as my arm, I verily think.

He said, he fright de lady; and offered to withdraw; but she bid him
not; and I told Mrs. Jewkes, That as she knew I had been crying, she
should not have called me to the gentleman without letting me know he
was there. I soon went up to my closet; for my heart ached all the time
I was at table, not being able to look upon him without horror; and
this brute of a woman, though she saw my distress, before this addition
to it, no doubt did it on purpose to strike more terror into me. And
indeed it had its effect: for when I went to bed, I could think of
nothing but his hideous person, and my master’s more hideous actions:
and thought them too well paired; and when I dropt asleep, I dreamed
they were both coming to my bed-side, with the worst designs; and I
jumped out of my bed in my sleep, and frightened Mrs. Jewkes; till,
waking with the terror, I told her my dream; and the wicked creature
only laughed, and said, All I feared was but a dream, as well as that;
and when it was over, and I was well awake, I should laugh at it as
such!

And now I am come to the close of Wednesday, the 27th day of my
distress.

Poor Mr. Williams is actually arrested, and carried away to Stamford.
So there is an end of all my hopes from him, poor gentleman! His
over-security and openness have ruined us both! I was but too well
convinced, that we ought not to have lost a moment’s time; but he was
half angry, and thought me too impatient; and then his fatal
confessions, and the detestable artifice of my master!—But one might
well think, that he who had so cunningly, and so wickedly, contrived
all his stratagems hitherto, that it was impossible to avoid them,
would stick at nothing to complete them. I fear I shall soon find it
so!

But one stratagem I have just invented, though a very discouraging one
to think of; because I have neither friends nor money, nor know one
step of the way, if I was out of the house. But let bulls, and bears,
and lions, and tigers, and, what is worse, false, treacherous,
deceitful men, stand in my way, I cannot be in more danger than I am;
and I depend nothing upon his three weeks: for how do I know, now he is
in such a passion, and has already begun his vengeance on poor Mr.
Williams, that he will not change his mind, and come down to
Lincolnshire before he goes to London?

My stratagem is this: I will endeavour to get Mrs. Jewkes to go to bed
without me, as she often does, while I sit locked up in my closet: and
as she sleeps very sound in her first sleep, of which she never fails
to give notice by snoring, if I can but then get out between the two
bars of the window, (for you know I am very slender, and I find I can
get my head through,) then I can drop upon the leads underneath, which
are little more than my height, and which leads are over a little
summer-parlour, that juts out towards the garden; and as I am light, I
can easily drop from them; for they are not high from the ground: then
I shall be in the garden; and then, as I have the key of the back-door,
I will get out. But I have another piece of cunning still: Good Heaven,
succeed to me my dangerous, but innocent devices!—I have read of a
great captain, who, being in danger, leaped overboard into the sea, and
his enemies, as he swam, shooting at him with bows and arrows, he
unloosed his upper garment, and took another course, while they stuck
that full of their darts and arrows; and so he escaped, and lived to
triumph over them all. So what will I do, but strip off my upper
petticoat, and throw it into the pond, with my neckhandkerchief! For to
be sure, when they miss me, they will go to the pond first, thinking I
have drowned myself: and so, when they see some of my clothes floating
there, they will be all employed in dragging the pond, which is a very
large one; and as I shall not, perhaps, be missed till the morning,
this will give me opportunity to get a great way off; and I am sure I
will run for it when I am out. And so I trust, that Providence will
direct my steps to some good place of safety, and make some worthy body
my friend; for sure, if I suffer ever so, I cannot be in more danger,
nor in worse hands, than where I am; and with such avowed bad designs.

O my dear parents! don’t be frightened when you come to read this!—But
all will be over before you can see it; and so God direct me for the
best! My writings, for fear I should not escape, I will bury in the
garden; for, to be sure, I shall be searched and used dreadfully if I
can’t get off. And so I will close here, for the present, to prepare
for my plot. Prosper thou, O gracious Protector of oppressed innocence!
this last effort of thy poor handmaid! that I may escape the crafty
devices and snares that have begun to entangle my virtue; and from
which, but by this one trial, I see no way of escaping. And oh!
whatever becomes of me, bless my dear parents, and protect poor Mr.
Williams from ruin! for he was happy before he knew me.

Just now, just now! I heard Mrs. Jewkes, who is in her cups, own to the
horrid Colbrand, that the robbing of poor Mr. Williams was a
contrivance of hers, and executed by the groom and a helper, in order
to seize my letters upon him, which they missed. They are now both
laughing at the dismal story, which they little think I overheard—O how
my heart aches! for what are not such wretches capable of! Can you
blame me for endeavouring, through any danger, to get out of such
clutches?

Past eleven o’clock.

Mrs. Jewkes is come up, and gone to bed; and bids me not stay long in
my closet, but come to bed. O for a dead sleep for the treacherous
brute! I never saw her so tipsy, and that gives me hopes. I have tried
again, and find I can get my head through the iron bars. I am now all
prepared, as soon as I hear her fast; and now I’ll seal up these, and
my other papers, my last work: and to thy providence, O my gracious
God! commit the rest.—Once more, God bless you both! and send us a
happy meeting; if not here, in his heavenly kingdom. Amen.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, the 28th, 29th, 30th, and 31st days
of my distress.

And distress indeed! For here I am still; and every thing has been
worse and worse! Oh! the poor unhappy Pamela!—Without any hope left,
and ruined in all my contrivances. But, oh! my dear parents, rejoice
with me, even in this low plunge of my distress; for your poor Pamela
has escaped from an enemy worse than any she ever met with; an enemy
she never thought of before, and was hardly able to stand against: I
mean, the weakness and presumption, both in one, of her own mind; which
had well nigh, had not the divine grace interposed, sunk her into the
lowest, last abyss of misery and perdition!

I will proceed, as I have opportunity, with my sad relation: for my pen
and ink (in my now doubly-secured closet) are all I have to employ
myself with: and indeed I have been so weak, that, till yesterday
evening, I have not been able to hold a pen.

I took with me but one shift, besides what I had on, and two
handkerchiefs, and two caps, which my pocket held, (for it was not for
me to encumber myself,) and all my stock of money, which was but five
or six shillings, to set out for I knew not where; and got out of the
window, not without some difficulty, sticking a little at my shoulders
and hips; but I was resolved to get out, if possible. And it was
farther from the leads than I thought, and I was afraid I had sprained
my ancle; and when I had dropt from the leads to the ground, it was
still farther off; but I did pretty well there, at least. I got no hurt
to hinder me from pursuing my intentions. So being now on the ground, I
hid my papers under a rose-bush, and covered them with mould, and there
they still lie, as I hope. Then I hied away to the pond: The clock
struck twelve, just as I got out; and it was a dark misty night, and
very cold; but I felt it not then.

When I came to the pond-side, I flung in my upper-coat, as I had
designed, and my neckhandkerchief, and a round-eared cap, with a knot;
and then with great speed ran to the door, and took the key out of my
pocket, my poor heart beating all the time against my bosom, as if it
would have forced its way through it: and beat it well might! for I
then, too late, found, that I was most miserably disappointed; for the
wicked woman had taken off that lock, and put another on; so that my
key would not open it. I tried, and tried, and feeling about, I found a
padlock besides, on another part of the door. O then how my heart
sunk!—I dropt down with grief and confusion, unable to stir or support
myself, for a while. But my fears awakening my resolution, and knowing
that my attempt would be as terrible for me as any other danger I could
then encounter, I clambered up upon the ledges of the door, and upon
the lock, which was a great wooden one; and reached the top of the door
with my hands; then, little thinking I could climb so well, I made
shift to lay hold on the top of the wall with my hands; but, alas for
me! nothing but ill luck!—no escape for poor Pamela! The wall being
old, the bricks I held by gave way, just as I was taking a spring to
get up; and down came I, and received such a blow upon my head, with
one of the bricks, that it quite stunned me; and I broke my shins and
my ancle besides, and beat off the heel of one of my shoes.

In this dreadful way, flat upon the ground, lay poor I, for I believe
five or six minutes; and then trying to get up, I sunk down again two
or three times; and my left hip and shoulder were very stiff, and full
of pain, with bruises; and, besides, my head bled, and ached grievously
with the blow I had with the brick. Yet these hurts I valued not; but
crept a good way upon my feet and hands, in search of a ladder, I just
recollected to have seen against the wall two days before, on which the
gardener was nailing a nectarine branch that was loosened from the
wall: but no ladder could I find, and the wall was very high. What now,
thought I, must become of the miserable Pamela!—Then I began to wish
myself most heartily again in my closet, and to repent of my attempt,
which I now censured as rash, because it did not succeed.

God forgive me! but a sad thought came just then into my head!—I
tremble to think of it! Indeed my apprehensions of the usage I should
meet with, had like to have made me miserable for ever! O my dear, dear
parents, forgive your poor child; but being then quite desperate, I
crept along, till I could raise myself on my staggering feet; and away
limped I!—What to do, but to throw myself into the pond, and so put a
period to all my griefs in this world!—But, O! to find them infinitely
aggravated (had I not, by the divine grace, been withheld) in a
miserable eternity! As I have escaped this temptation, (blessed be God
for it!) I will tell you my conflicts on this dreadful occasion, that
the divine mercies may be magnified in my deliverance, that I am yet on
this side the dreadful gulf, from which there could have been no
return.

It was well for me, as I have since thought, that I was so maimed, as
made me the longer before I got to the water; for this gave me time to
consider, and abated the impetuousness of my passions, which possibly
might otherwise have hurried me, in my first transport of grief, (on my
seeing no way to escape, and the hard usage I had reason to expect from
my dreadful keepers,) to throw myself in. But my weakness of body made
me move so slowly, that it gave time, as I said, for a little
reflection, a ray of grace, to dart in upon my benighted mind; and so,
when I came to the pond-side, I sat myself down on the sloping bank,
and began to ponder my wretched condition; and thus I reasoned with
myself.

Pause here a little, Pamela, on what thou art about, before thou takest
the dreadful leap; and consider whether there be no way yet left, no
hope, if not to escape from this wicked house, yet from the mischiefs
threatened thee in it.

I then considered; and, after I had cast about in my mind every thing
that could make me hope, and saw no probability; a wicked woman, devoid
of all compassion! a horrid helper, just arrived, in this dreadful
Colbrand! an angry and resenting master, who now hated me, and
threatened the most afflicting evils! and that I should, in all
probability, be deprived even of the opportunity, I now had before me,
to free myself from all their persecutions!—What hast thou to do,
distressed creature, said I to myself, but throw thyself upon a
merciful God, (who knows how innocently I suffer,) to avoid the
merciless wickedness of those who are determined on my ruin?

And then, thought I, (and oh! that thought was surely of the devil’s
instigation; for it was very soothing, and powerful with me,) these
wicked wretches, who now have no remorse, no pity on me, will then be
moved to lament their misdoings; and when they see the dead corpse of
the unhappy Pamela dragged out to these dewy banks, and lying
breathless at their feet, they will find that remorse to soften their
obdurate heart, which, now, has no place there!—And my master, my angry
master, will then forget his resentments, and say, O, this is the
unhappy Pamela! that I have so causelessly persecuted and destroyed!
Now do I see she preferred her honesty to her life, will he say, and is
no hypocrite, nor deceiver; but really was the innocent creature she
pretended to be! Then, thought I, will he, perhaps, shed a few tears
over the poor corpse of his persecuted servant; and though he may give
out, it was love and disappointment; and that, perhaps, (in order to
hide his own guilt,) for the unfortunate Mr. Williams, yet will he be
inwardly grieved, and order me a decent funeral, and save me, or rather
this part of me, from the dreadful stake, and the highway interment;
and the young men and maidens all around my dear father’s will pity
poor Pamela! But, O! I hope I shall not be the subject of their ballads
and elegies; but that my memory, for the sake of my dear father and
mother, may quickly slide into oblivion.

I was once rising, so indulgent was I to this sad way of thinking, to
throw myself in: But, again, my bruises made me slow; and I thought,
What art thou about to do, wretched Pamela? How knowest thou, though
the prospect be all dark to thy short-sighted eye, what God may do for
thee, even when all human means fail? God Almighty would not lay me
under these sore afflictions, if he had not given me strength to
grapple with them, if I will exert it as I ought: And who knows, but
that the very presence I so much dread of my angry and designing
master, (for he has had me in his power before, and yet I have
escaped;) may be better for me, than these persecuting emissaries of
his, who, for his money, are true to their wicked trust, and are
hardened by that, and a long habit of wickedness, against compunction
of heart? God can touch his heart in an instant; and if this should not
be done, I can then but put an end to my life by some other means, if I
am so resolved.

But how do I know, thought I, that even these bruises and maims that I
have gotten, while I pursued only the laudable escape I had meditated,
may not kindly have furnished me with the opportunity I am now tempted
with to precipitate myself, and of surrendering up my life, spotless
and unguilty, to that merciful Being who gave it!

Then, thought I, who gave thee, presumptuous as thou art, a power over
thy life? Who authorised thee to put an end to it, when the weakness of
thy mind suggests not to thee a way to preserve it with honour? How
knowest thou what purposes God may have to serve, by the trials with
which thou art now exercised? Art thou to put a bound to the divine
will, and to say, Thus much will I bear, and no more? And wilt thou
dare to say, That if the trial be augmented and continued, thou wilt
sooner die than bear it?

This act of despondency, thought I, is a sin, that, if I pursue it,
admits of no repentance, and can therefore hope no forgiveness.—And
wilt thou, to shorten thy transitory griefs, heavy as they are, and
weak as thou fanciest thyself, plunge both body and soul into
everlasting misery! Hitherto, Pamela, thought I, thou art the innocent,
the suffering Pamela; and wilt thou, to avoid thy sufferings, be the
guilty aggressor? And, because wicked men persecute thee, wilt thou fly
in the face of the Almighty, and distrust his grace and goodness, who
can still turn all these sufferings to benefits? And how do I know, but
that God, who sees all the lurking vileness of my heart, may have
permitted these sufferings on that very score, and to make me rely
solely on his grace and assistance, who, perhaps, have too much prided
myself in a vain dependence on my own foolish contrivances?

Then, again, thought I, wilt thou suffer in one moment all the good
lessons of thy poor honest parents, and the benefit of their example,
(who have persisted in doing their duty with resignation to the divine
will, amidst the extreme degrees of disappointment, poverty, and
distress, and the persecutions of an ungrateful world, and merciless
creditors,) to be thrown away upon thee: and bring down, as in all
probability this thy rashness will, their grey hairs with sorrow to the
grave, when they shall understand, that their beloved daughter,
slighting the tenders of divine grace, despairing of the mercies of a
protecting God, has blemished, in this last act, a whole life, which
they had hitherto approved and delighted in?

What then, presumptuous Pamela, dost thou here? thought I: Quit with
speed these perilous banks, and fly from these curling waters, that
seem, in their meaning murmurs, this still night, to reproach thy
rashness! Tempt not God’s goodness on the mossy banks, that have been
witnesses of thy guilty purpose: and while thou hast power left thee,
avoid the tempting evil, lest thy grand enemy, now repulsed by divine
grace, and due reflection, return to the assault with a force that thy
weakness may not be able to resist! and let one rash moment destroy all
the convictions, which now have awed thy rebellious mind into duty and
resignation to the divine will!

And so saying, I arose; but was so stiff with my hurts, so cold with
the moist dew of the night, and the wet grass on which I had sat, as
also with the damps arising from so large a piece of water, that with
great pain I got from this pond, which now I think of with terror; and
bending my limping steps towards the house, took refuge in the corner
of an outhouse, where wood and coals are laid up for family use, till I
should be found by my cruel keepers, and consigned to a more wretched
confinement, and worse usage than I had hitherto experienced; and there
behind a pile of firewood I crept, and lay down, as you may imagine,
with a mind just broken, and a heart sensible to nothing but the
extremest woe and dejection.

This, my dear father and mother, is the issue of your poor Pamela’s
fruitless enterprise; and who knows, if I had got out at the back-door,
whether I had been at all in a better case, moneyless, friendless, as I
am, and in a strange place!—But blame not your poor daughter too much:
Nay, if ever you see this miserable scribble, all bathed and blotted
with my tears, let your pity get the better of your reprehension! But I
know it will—And I must leave off for the present.—For, oh! my strength
and my will are at this time very far unequal to one another.—But yet I
will add, that though I should have praised God for my deliverance, had
I been freed from my wicked keepers, and my designing master; yet I
have more abundant reason to praise him, that I have been delivered
from a worse enemy,—myself!

I will conclude my sad relation.

It seems Mrs. Jewkes awaked not till day-break; and not finding me in
bed, she called me; and, no answer being returned, she relates, that
she got out of bed, and ran to my closet; and, missing me, searched
under the bed, and in another closet, finding the chamber-door as she
had left it, quite fast, and the key, as usual, about her wrist. For if
I could have got out of the chamber-door, there were two or three
passages, and doors to them all, double-locked and barred, to go
through into the great garden; so that, to escape, there was no way,
but out of the window; and of that window, because of the
summer-parlour under it: for the other windows are a great way from the
ground.

She says she was excessively frightened; and instantly raised the
Swiss, and the two maids, who lay not far off; and finding every door
fast, she said, I must be carried away, as St. Peter was out of prison,
by some angel. It is a wonder she had not a worse thought!

She says, she wept, and wrung her hands, and took on sadly, running
about like a mad woman, little thinking I could have got out of the
closet window, between the iron bars; and, indeed, I don’t know whether
I could do so again. But at last finding that casement open, they
concluded it must be so; and ran out into the garden, and found my
footsteps in the mould of the bed which I dropt down upon from the
leads: And so speeded away all of them; that is to say, Mrs. Jewkes,
Colbrand, and Nan, towards the back-door, to see if that was fast;
while the cook was sent to the out-offices to raise the men, and make
them get horses ready, to take each a several way to pursue me.

But, it seems, finding that door double-locked and padlocked, and the
heel of my shoe, and the broken bricks, they verily concluded I was got
away by some means over the wall; and then, they say, Mrs. Jewkes
seemed like a distracted woman: Till, at last, Nan had the thought to
go towards the pond: and there seeing my coat, and cap, and
handkerchief, in the water, cast almost to the banks by the agitation
of the waves, she thought it was me; and, screaming out, ran to Mrs.
Jewkes, and said, O, madam, madam! here’s a piteous thing!—Mrs. Pamela
lies drowned in the pond. Thither they all ran; and finding my clothes,
doubted not I was at the bottom; and they all, Swiss among the rest,
beat their breasts, and made most dismal lamentations; and Mrs. Jewkes
sent Nan to the men, to bid them get the drag-net ready, and leave the
horses, and come to try to find the poor innocent! as she, it seems,
then called me, beating her breast, and lamenting my hard hap; but most
what would become of them, and what account they should give to my
master.

While every one was thus differently employed, some weeping and
wailing, some running here and there, Nan came into the wood-house; and
there lay poor I; so weak, so low, and dejected, and withal so stiff
with my bruises, that I could not stir, nor help myself to get upon my
feet. And I said, with a low voice, (for I could hardly speak,) Mrs.
Ann! Mrs. Ann!—The creature was sadly frightened, but was taking up a
billet to knock me on the head, believing I was some thief, as she
said; but I cried out, O Mrs. Ann, Mrs. Ann, help me, for pity’s sake,
to Mrs. Jewkes! for I cannot get up!—Bless me, said she, what! you,
madam!—Why, our hearts are almost broken, and we were going to drag the
pond for you, believing you had drowned yourself. Now, said she, you’ll
make us all alive again!

And, without helping me, she ran away to the pond, and brought all the
crew to the wood-house.—The wicked woman, as she entered, said, Where
is she?—Plague of her spells, and her witchcrafts! She shall dearly
repent of this trick, if my name be Jewkes; and, coming to me, took
hold of my arm so roughly, and gave me such a pull, as made me squeal
out, (my shoulder being bruised on that side,) and drew me on my face.
O cruel creature! said I, if you knew what I have suffered, it would
move you to pity me!

Even Colbrand seemed to be concerned, and said, Fie, madam, fie! you
see she is almost dead! You must not be so rough with her. The coachman
Robin seemed to be sorry for me too, and said, with sobs, What a scene
is here! Don’t you see she is all bloody in her head, and cannot
stir?—Curse of her contrivance! said the horrid creature; she has
frightened me out of my wits, I’m sure. How the d—l came you here?—Oh!
said I, ask me now no questions, but let the maids carry me up to my
prison; and there let me die decently, and in peace! For, indeed, I
thought I could not live two hours.

The still more inhuman tigress said, I suppose you want Mr. Williams to
pray by you, don’t you? Well, I’ll send for my master this minute: let
him come and watch you himself, for me; for there’s no such thing as
holding you, I’m sure.

So the maids took me up between them, and carried me to my chamber; and
when the wretch saw how bad I was, she began a little to relent—while
every one wondered (at which I had neither strength nor inclination to
tell them) how all this came to pass, which they imputed to sorcery and
witchcraft.

I was so weak, when I had got up stairs, that I fainted away, with
dejection, pain, and fatigue; and they undressed me, and got me to bed;
and Mrs. Jewkes ordered Nan to bathe my shoulder, and arm, and ancle,
with some old rum warmed; and they cut the hair a little from the back
part of my head, and washed that; for it was clotted with blood, from a
pretty long, but not a deep gash; and put a family plaister upon it;
for, if this woman has any good quality, it is, it seems, in a
readiness and skill to manage in cases, where sudden misfortunes happen
in a family.

After this, I fell into a pretty sound and refreshing sleep, and lay
till twelve o’clock, tolerably easy, considering I was very feverish,
and aguishly inclined; and she took a deal of care to fit me to undergo
more trials, which I had hoped would have been happily ended: but
Providence did not see fit.

She would make me rise about twelve: but I was so weak, I could only
sit up till the bed was made, and went into it again; and was, as they
said, delirious some part of the afternoon. But having a tolerable
night on Thursday, I was a good deal better on Friday, and on Saturday
got up, and ate a little spoon-meat, and my feverishness seemed to be
gone; and I was so mended by evening, that I begged her indulgence in
my closet, to be left to myself; which she consented to, it being
double-barred the day before, and I assuring her, that all my
contrivances, as she called them, were at an end. But first she made me
tell the whole story of my enterprise; which I did very faithfully,
knowing now that nothing could stand me in any stead, or contribute to
my safety and escape: And she seemed full of wonder at my resolution;
but told me frankly, that I should have found it a hard matter to get
quite off; for that she was provided with a warrant from my master (who
is a justice of peace in this county as well as in the other) to get me
apprehended, if I had got away, on suspicion of wronging him, let me
have been where I would.

O how deep-laid are the mischiefs designed to fall on my devoted
head!—Surely, surely, I cannot be worthy of all this contrivance! This
too well shews me the truth of what was hinted to me formerly at the
other house, that my master swore he would have me! O preserve me,
Heaven! from being his, in his own wicked sense of the adjuration!

I must add, that now the woman sees me pick up so fast, she uses me
worse, and has abridged me of paper, all but one sheet, which I am to
shew her, written or unwritten, on demand: and has reduced me to one
pen: yet my hidden stores stand me in stead. But she is more and more
snappish and cross; and tauntingly calls me Mrs. Williams, and any
thing she thinks will vex me.

Sunday afternoon.

Mrs. Jewkes has thought fit to give me an airing, for three or four
hours, this afternoon; and I am a good deal better and should be much
more so, if I knew for what I am reserved. But health is a blessing
hardly to be coveted in my circumstances, since that but exposes me to
the calamity I am in continual apprehensions of; whereas a weak and
sickly state might possibly move compassion for me. O how I dread the
coming of this angry and incensed master; though I am sure I have done
him no harm!

Just now we heard, that he had like to have been drowned in crossing
the stream, a few days ago, in pursuing his game. What is the matter,
that with all his ill usage of me, I cannot hate him? To be sure, I am
not like other people! He has certainly done enough to make me hate
him; but yet, when I heard his danger, which was very great, I could
not in my heart forbear rejoicing for his safety; though his death
would have ended my afflictions. Ungenerous master! if you knew this,
you surely would not be so much my persecutor! But, for my late good
lady’s sake, I must wish him well; and O what an angel would he be in
my eyes yet, if he would cease his attempts, and reform!

Well, I hear by Mrs. Jewkes, that John Arnold is turned away, being
detected in writing to Mr. Williams; and that Mr. Longman, and Mr.
Jonathan the butler, have incurred his displeasure, for offering to
speak in my behalf. Mrs. Jervis too is in danger; for all these three,
probably, went together to beg in my favour; for now it is known where
I am.

Mrs. Jewkes has, with the news about my master, received a letter: but
she says the contents are too bad for me to know. They must be bad
indeed, if they be worse than what I have already known.

Just now the horrid creature tells me, as a secret, that she has reason
to think he has found out a way to satisfy my scruples: It is, by
marrying me to this dreadful Colbrand, and buying me of him on the
wedding day, for a sum of money!—Was ever the like heard?—She says it
will be my duty to obey my husband; and that Mr. Williams will be
forced, as a punishment, to marry us; and that, when my master has paid
for me, and I am surrendered up, the Swiss is to go home again, with
the money, to his former wife and children; for, she says, it is the
custom of those people to have a wife in every nation.

But this, to be sure, is horrid romancing! Yet, abominable as it is, it
may possibly serve to introduce some plot now hatching!—With what
strange perplexities is my poor mind agitated! Perchance, some
sham-marriage may be designed, on purpose to ruin me; But can a husband
sell his wife against her own consent?—And will such a bargain stand
good in law?

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, the 32d, 33d, and 34th days of my
imprisonment.

Nothing offers these days but squabblings between Mrs. Jewkes and me.
She grows worse and worse to me. I vexed her yesterday, because she
talked nastily; and told her she talked more like a vile London
prostitute, than a gentleman’s housekeeper; and she thinks she cannot
use me bad enough for it. Bless me! she curses and storms at me like a
trooper, and can hardly keep her hands off me. You may believe she must
talk sadly, to make me say such harsh words: indeed it cannot be
repeated; as she is a disgrace to her sex. And then she ridicules me,
and laughs at my notions of honesty; and tells me, impudent creature as
she is! what a fine bed-fellow I shall make for my master (and
such-like), with such whimsical notions about me!—Do you think this is
to be borne? And yet she talks worse than this, if possible! quite
filthily! O what vile hands am I put into!

Thursday.

I have now all the reason that can be, to apprehend my master will be
here soon; for the servants are busy in setting the house to rights;
and a stable and coach-house are cleaning out, that have not been used
some time. I asked Mrs. Jewkes; but she tells me nothing, nor will
hardly answer me when I ask her a question. Sometimes I think she puts
on these strange wicked airs to me, purposely to make me wish for, what
I dread most of all things, my master’s coming down. He talk of
love!—If he had any the least notion of regard for me, to be sure he
would not give this naughty body such power over me:—And if he does
come, where is his promise of not seeing me without I consent to it?
But, it seems, his honour owes me nothing! So he tells me in his
letter. And why? Because I am willing to keep mine. But, indeed, he
says, he hates me perfectly: But it is plain he does, or I should not
be left to the mercy of this woman: and, what is worse, to my woful
apprehensions.

Friday, the 36th day of my imprisonment.

I took the liberty yesterday afternoon, finding the gates open, to walk
out before the house; and, ere I was aware, had got to the bottom of
the long row of elms; and there I sat myself down upon the steps of a
sort of broad stile, which leads into the road, and goes towards the
town. And as I sat musing upon what always busies my mind, I saw a
whole body of folks running towards me from the house, men and women,
as in a fright. At first I wondered what was the matter, till they came
nearer; and I found they were all alarmed, thinking I had attempted to
get off. There was first the horrible Colbrand, running with his long
legs, well nigh two yards at a stride; then there was one of the
grooms, poor Mr. Williams’s robber; then I spied Nan, half out of
breath, and the cook-maid after her! and lastly, came waddling, as fast
as she could, Mrs. Jewkes, exclaiming most bitterly, as I found,
against me. Colbrand said, O how have you frighted us all!—And went
behind me, lest I should run away, as I suppose.

I sat still, to let them see I had no view to get away; for, besides
the improbability of succeeding, my last sad attempt has cured me of
enterprising again. And when Mrs. Jewkes came within hearing, I found
her terribly incensed, and raving about my contrivances. Why, said I,
should you be so concerned? Here I have sat a few minutes, and had not
the least thought of getting away, or going farther; but to return as
soon as it was duskish. She would not believe me; and the barbarous
creature struck at me with her horrid fist, and, I believe, would have
felled me, had not Colbrand interposed, and said, He saw me sitting
still, looking about me, and not seeming to have the least inclination
to stir. But this would not serve: She ordered the two maids to take me
each by an arm, and lead me back into the house, and up stairs; and
there have I been locked up ever since, without shoes. In vain have I
pleaded, that I had no design, as indeed I had not the least; and last
night I was forced to be between her and Nan; and I find she is
resolved to make a handle of this against me, and in her own
behalf.—Indeed, what with her usage, and my own apprehensions of still
worse, I am quite weary of my life.

Just now she has been with me, and given me my shoes, and has laid her
imperious commands upon me, to dress myself in a suit of clothes out of
the portmanteau, which I have not seen lately, against three or four
o’clock; for she says, she is to have a visit from Lady Darnford’s two
daughters, who come purposely to see me; and so she gave me the key of
the portmanteau. But I will not obey her; and I told her, I would not
be made a show of, nor see the ladies. She left me, saying, it would be
worse for me, if I did not. But how can that be?

Five o’clock is come,

And no young ladies!—So that I fancy—But hold! I hear their coach, I
believe. I’ll step to the window.—I won’t go down to them, I am
resolved—

Good sirs! good sirs! What will become of me! Here is my master come in
his fine chariot!—Indeed he is! What shall I do? Where shall I hide
myself?—O! What shall I do? Pray for me! But oh! you’ll not see
this!—Now, good God of heaven, preserve me; if it be thy blessed will!

Seven o’clock.

Though I dread to see him, yet do I wonder I have not. To be sure
something is resolved against me, and he stays to hear all her stories.
I can hardly write; yet, as I can do nothing else, I know not how to
forbear!—Yet I cannot hold my pen—How crooked and trembling the
lines!—I must leave off, till I can get quieter fingers!—Why should the
guiltless tremble so, when the guilty can possess their minds in peace?

Saturday morning.

Now let me give you an account of what passed last night: for I had no
power to write, nor yet opportunity till now.

This vile woman held my master till half an hour after seven; and he
came hither about five in the afternoon. And then I heard his voice on
the stairs, as he was coming up to me. It was about his supper; for he
said, I shall choose a boiled chicken with butter and parsley.—And up
he came!

He put on a stern and majestic air; and he can look very majestic when
he pleases. Well, perverse Pamela, ungrateful runaway, said he, for my
first salutation!—You do well, don’t you, to give me all this trouble
and vexation! I could not speak; but throwing myself on the floor, hid
my face, and was ready to die with grief and apprehension.—He said,
Well may you hide your face! well may you be ashamed to see me, vile
forward one, as you are!—I sobbed and wept, but could not speak. And he
let me lie, and went to the door, and called Mrs. Jewkes.—There, said
he, take up that fallen angel!—Once I thought her as innocent as an
angel of light but I have now no patience with her. The little
hypocrite prostrates herself thus, in hopes to move my weakness in her
favour, and that I’ll raise her from the floor myself. But I shall not
touch her: No, said he, cruel gentleman as he was! let such fellows as
Williams be taken in by her artful wiles! I know her now, and see she
is for any fool’s turn, that will be caught by her.

I sighed, as if my heart would break!—And Mrs. Jewkes lifted me up upon
my knees; for I trembled so, I could not stand. Come, said she, Mrs.
Pamela, learn to know your best friend; confess your unworthy
behaviour, and beg his honour’s forgiveness of all your faults. I was
ready to faint: And he said, She is mistress of arts, I’ll assure you;
and will mimic a fit, ten to one, in a minute.

I was struck to the heart at this; but could not speak presently; only
lifted up my eyes to heaven!—And at last made shift to say—God forgive
you, sir!—He seemed in a great passion, and walked up and down the
room, casting sometimes an eye upon me, and seeming as if he would have
spoken, but checked himself—And at last he said, When she has acted
this her first part over, perhaps I will see her again, and she shall
soon know what she has to trust to.

And so he went out of the room: And I was quite sick at heart!—Surely,
said I, I am the wickedest creature that ever breathed! Well, said the
impertinent, not so wicked as that neither; but I am glad you begin to
see your faults. Nothing like being humble!—Come, I’ll stand your
friend, and plead for you, if you’ll promise to be more dutiful for the
future: Come, come, added the wretch, this may be all made up by
to-morrow morning, if you are not a fool.—Begone, hideous woman! said
I, and let not my affliction be added to by thy inexorable cruelty, and
unwomanly wickedness.

She gave me a push, and went away in a violent passion: And it seems,
she made a story of this; and said, I had such a spirit, there was no
bearing it.

I laid me down on the floor, and had no power to stir, till the clock
struck nine: and then the wicked woman came up again. You must come
down stairs, said she, to my master; that is, if you please,
spirit!—Said I, I believe I cannot stand. Then, said she, I’ll send
Mons. Colbrand to carry you down.

I got up as well as I could, and trembled all the way down stairs: And
she went before me into the parlour; and a new servant that he had
waiting on him, instead of John, withdrew as soon as I came in: And, by
the way, he had a new coachman too, which looked as if Bedfordshire
Robin was turned away.

I thought, said he, when I came down, you should have sat at table with
me, when I had not company; but when I find you cannot forget your
original, but must prefer my menials to me, I call you down to wait on
me while I sup, that I may have some talk with you, and throw away as
little time as possible upon you.

Sir, said I, you do me honour to wait upon you:—And I never shall, I
hope, forget my original. But I was forced to stand behind his chair,
that I might hold by it. Fill me, said he, a glass of that Burgundy. I
went to do it, but my hand shook so, that I could not hold the plate
with the glass in it, and spilt some of the wine. So Mrs. Jewkes poured
it for me, and I carried it as well as I could; and made a low
courtesy. He took it, and said, Stand behind me, out of my sight!

Why, Mrs. Jewkes, said he, you tell me she remains very sullen still,
and eats nothing. No, said she, not so much as will keep life and soul
together.—And is always crying, you say, too? Yes, sir, answered she, I
think she is, for one thing or another. Ay, said he, your young wenches
will feed upon their tears; and their obstinacy will serve them for
meat and drink. I think I never saw her look better though, in my
life!—But, I suppose, she lives upon love. This sweet Mr. Williams, and
her little villanous plots together, have kept her alive and well, to
be sure: For mischief, love, and contradiction, are the natural
aliments of a woman.

Poor I was forced to hear all this, and be silent; and indeed my heart
was too full to speak.

And so you say, said he, that she had another project, but yesterday,
to get away? She denies it herself, said she; but it had all the
appearance of one. I’m sure she made me in a fearful pucker about it:
And I am glad your honour is come, with all my heart; and I hope,
whatever be your honour’s intention concerning her, you will not be
long about it; for you’ll find her as slippery as an eel, I’ll assure
you.

Sir, said I, and clasped his knees with my arms, not knowing what I
did, and falling on my knees, Have mercy on me, and hear me, concerning
that wicked woman’s usage of me—

He cruelly interrupted me, and said, I am satisfied she has done her
duty: it signifies nothing what you say against Mrs. Jewkes. That you
are here, little hypocrite as you are, pleading your cause before me,
is owing to her care of you; else you had been with the parson.—Wicked
girl! said he, to tempt a man to undo himself, as you have done him, at
a time I was on the point of making him happy for his life!

I arose; but said with a deep sigh, I have done, sir!—I have done!—I
have a strange tribunal to plead before. The poor sheep in the fable
had such an one; when it was tried before the vulture, on the
accusation of the wolf!

So, Mrs. Jewkes, said he, you are the wolf, I the vulture, and this the
poor innocent lamb on her trial before us.—Oh! you don’t know how well
this innocent is read in reflection. She has wit at will, when she has
a mind to display her own romantic innocence, at the price of other
people’s characters.

Well, said the aggravated creature, this is nothing to what she has
called me: I have been a Jezebel, a London prostitute, and what
not?—But I am contented with her ill names, now I see it is her
fashion, and she can call your honour a vulture.

Said I, I had no thought of comparing my master—and was going to say
on: but he said, Don’t prate, girl!—No, said she, it don’t become you,
I am sure.

Well, said I, since I must not speak, I will hold my peace; but there
is a righteous Judge, who knows the secrets of all hearts; and to him I
appeal.

See there! said he: now this meek, good creature is praying for fire
from heaven upon us! O she can curse most heartily, in the spirit of
Christian meekness, I’ll assure you!—Come, saucy-face, give me another
glass of wine.

So I did, as well as I could; but wept so, that he said, I suppose I
shall have some of your tears in my wine!

When he had supped, he stood up, and said, O how happy for you it is,
that you can, at will, thus make your speaking eyes overflow in this
manner, without losing any of their brilliancy! You have been told, I
suppose, that you are most beautiful in your tears!—Did you ever, said
he to her, (who all this while was standing in one corner of the
parlour,) see a more charming creature than this? Is it to be wondered
at, that I demean myself thus to take notice of her?—See, said he, and
took the glass with one hand, and turned me round with the other, what
a shape! what a neck! what a hand! and what a bloom on that lovely
face!—But who can describe the tricks and artifices, that lie lurking
in her little, plotting, guileful heart! ’Tis no wonder the poor parson
was infatuated with her.—I blame him less than I do her; for who could
expect such artifice in so young a sorceress?

I went to the farther part of the room, and held my face against the
wainscot; and in spite of all I could do to refrain crying, sobbed as
if my heart would break. He said, I am surprised, Mrs. Jewkes, at the
mistake of the letters you tell me of! But, you see, I am not afraid
any body should read what I write. I don’t carry on private
correspondences, and reveal every secret that comes to my knowledge,
and then corrupt people to carry my letters against their duty, and all
good conscience.

Come hither, hussy! said he: You and I have a dreadful reckoning to
make. Why don’t you come, when I bid you?—Fie upon it, Mrs. Pamela,
said she. What! not stir, when his honour commands you to come to
him!—Who knows but his goodness will forgive you?

He came to me, (for I had no power to stir,) and put his arms about my
neck, and would kiss me; and said, Well, Mrs. Jewkes, if it were not
for the thought of this cursed parson, I believe in my heart, so great
is my weakness, that I could not forgive this intriguing little slut,
and take her to my bosom.

O, said the sycophant, you are very good, sir, very forgiving,
indeed!—But come, added the profligate wretch, I hope you will be so
good, as to take her to your bosom; and that, by to-morrow morning,
you’ll bring her to a better sense of her duty!

Could any thing in womanhood be so vile? I had no patience: but yet
grief and indignation choaked up the passage of my words; and I could
only stammer out a passionate exclamation to Heaven, to protect my
innocence. But the word was the subject of their ridicule. Was ever
poor creature worse beset!

He said, as if he had been considering whether he could forgive me or
not, No, I cannot yet forgive her neither.—She has given me great
disturbance, has brought great discredit upon me, both abroad and at
home: has corrupted all my servants at the other house; has despised my
honourable views and intentions to her, and sought to run away with
this ungrateful parson.—And surely I ought not to forgive all
this!—Yet, with all this wretched grimace, he kissed me again, and
would have put his hand into my bosom; but I struggled, and said, I
would die before I would be used thus.—Consider, Pamela, said he, in a
threatening tone, consider where you are! and don’t play the fool: If
you do, a more dreadful fate awaits you than you expect. But take her
up stairs, Mrs. Jewkes, and I’ll send a few lines to her to consider
of; and let me have your answer, Pamela, in the morning. ‘Till then you
have to resolve: and after that your doom is fixed.—So I went up
stairs, and gave myself up to grief, and expectation of what he would
send: but yet I was glad of this night’s reprieve!

He sent me, however, nothing at all. And about twelve o’clock, Mrs.
Jewkes and Nan came up, as the night before, to be my bed-fellows: and
I would go to bed with some of my clothes on: which they muttered at
sadly; and Mrs. Jewkes railed at me particularly. Indeed I would have
sat up all night, for fear, if she would have let me. For I had but
very little rest that night, apprehending this woman would let my
master in. She did nothing but praise him, and blame me: but I answered
her as little as I could.

He has Sir Simon Tell-tale, alias Darnford, to dine with him to-day,
whose family sent to welcome him into the country; and it seems the old
knight wants to see me; so I suppose I shall be sent for, as Samson
was, to make sport for him.—Here I am, and must bear it all!

Twelve o’clock, Saturday noon.

Just now he has sent me up, by Mrs. Jewkes, the following proposals. So
here are the honourable intentions all at once laid open. They are, my
dear parents, to make me a vile kept mistress: which, I hope, I shall
always detest the thoughts of. But you’ll see how they are accommodated
to what I should have most desired, could I have honestly promoted it,
your welfare and happiness. I have answered them, as I am sure you’ll
approve; and I am prepared for the worst: For though I fear there will
be nothing omitted to ruin me, and though my poor strength will not be
able to defend me, yet I will be innocent of crime in my intention, and
in the sight of God; and to him leave the avenging of all my wrongs,
time and manner. I shall write to you my answer against his articles;
and hope the best, though I fear the worst. But if I should come home
to you ruined and undone, and may not be able to look you in the face;
yet pity and inspirit the poor Pamela, to make her little remnant of
life easy; for long I shall not survive my disgrace: and you may be
assured it shall not be my fault, if it be my misfortune.

‘To MRS. PAMELA ANDREWS.

‘The following ARTICLES are proposed to your serious consideration; and
let me have an answer, in writing, to them, that I may take my
resolutions accordingly. Only remember, that I will not be trifled
with; and what you give for answer will absolutely decide your fate,
without expostulation, or farther trouble.

This is my ANSWER.
Forgive, sir, the spirit your poor servant is about to show in her
answer to your ARTICLES. Not to be warm, and in earnest, on such an
occasion as the present, would shew a degree of guilt, that, I hope, my
soul abhors. I will not trifle with you, nor act like a person doubtful
of her own mind; for it wants not one moment’s consideration with me;
and I therefore return the ANSWER following, let what will be the
consequence.

‘I. If you can convince me that the hated parson has had no
encouragement from you in his addresses; and that you have no
inclination for him in preference to me; then I will offer the
following proposals to you, which I will punctually make good.

I. As to the first article, sir, it may behove me (that I may not
deserve, in your opinion, the opprobrious terms of forward and artful,
and such like) to declare solemnly, that Mr. Williams never had the
least encouragement from me, as to what you hint; and I believe his
principal motive was the apprehended duty of his function, quite
contrary to his apparent interest, to assist a person he thought in
distress. You may, sir, the rather believe me, when I declare, that I
know not the man breathing I would wish to marry; and that the only one
I could honour more than another, is the gentleman, who, of all others,
seeks my everlasting dishonour.

‘II. I will directly make you a present of 500 guineas, for your own
use, which you may dispose of to any purpose you please: and will give
it absolutely into the hands of any person you shall appoint to receive
it; and expect no favour in return, till you are satisfied in the
possession of it.

II. As to your second proposal, let the consequence be what it will, I
reject it with all my soul. Money, sir, is not my chief good: May God
Almighty desert me, whenever it is! and whenever, for the sake of that,
I can give up my title to that blessed hope which will stand me in
stead, at a time when millions of gold will not purchase one happy
moment of reflection on a past misspent life!

‘III. I will likewise directly make over to you a purchase I lately
made in Kent, which brings in 250l. per annum, clear of all deductions.
This shall be made over to you in full property for your life, and for
the lives of any children to perpetuity, that you may happen to have:
And your father shall be immediately put into possession of it in trust
for these purposes: and the management of it will yield a comfortable
subsistence to him, and your mother, for life; and I will make up any
deficiencies, if such should happen, to that clear sum, and allow him
50l. per annum, besides, for his life, and that of your mother, for his
care and management of this your estate.

III. Your third proposal, sir, I reject for the same reason; and am
sorry you could think my poor honest parents would enter into their
part of it, and be concerned for the management of an estate, which
would be owing to the prostitution of their poor daughter. Forgive,
sir, my warmth on this occasion; but you know not the poor man, and the
poor woman, my ever-dear father and mother, if you think, that they
would not much rather choose to starve in a ditch, or rot in a noisome
dungeon, than accept of the fortune of a monarch, upon such wicked
terms. I dare not say all that my full mind suggests to me on this
grievous occasion—But, indeed, sir, you know them not; nor shall the
terrors of death, in its most frightful form, I hope, through God’s
assisting grace, ever make me act unworthy of such poor honest parents!

‘IV. I will, moreover, extend my favour to any other of your relations,
that you may think worthy of it, or that are valued by you.

IV. Your fourth proposal, I take upon me, sir, to answer as the third.
If I have any friends that want the favour of the great, may they ever
want it, if they are capable of desiring it on unworthy terms!

‘V. I will, besides, order patterns to be sent you for choosing four
complete suits of rich clothes, that you may appear with reputation, as
if you were my wife. And will give you the two diamond rings, and two
pair of ear-rings, and diamond necklace, that were bought by my mother,
to present to Miss Tomlins, if the match that was proposed between her
and me had been brought to effect: and I will confer upon you still
other gratuities, as I shall find myself obliged, by your good
behaviour and affection.

V. Fine clothes, sir, become not me; nor have I any ambition to wear
them. I have greater pride in my poverty and meanness, than I should
have in dress and finery. Believe me, sir, I think such things less
become the humble-born Pamela, than the rags your good mother raised me
from. Your rings, sir, your necklace, and your ear-rings, will better
befit ladies of degree, than me: and to lose the best jewel, my virtue,
would be poorly recompensed by those you propose to give me. What
should I think, when I looked upon my finger, or saw in the glass those
diamonds on my neck, and in my ears, but that they were the price of my
honesty; and that I wore those jewels outwardly, because I had none
inwardly.

‘VI. Now, Pamela, will you see by this, what a value I set upon the
free-will of a person already in my power; and who, if these proposals
are not accepted, shall find, that I have not taken all these pains,
and risked my reputation, as I have done, without resolving to gratify
my passion for you, at all adventures; and if you refuse, without
making any terms at all.

VI. I know, sir, by woful experience, that I am in your power: I know
all the resistance I can make will be poor and weak, and, perhaps,
stand me in little stead: I dread your will to ruin me is as great as
your power: yet, sir, will I dare to tell you, that I will make no
free-will offering of my virtue. All that I can do, poor as it is, I
will do, to convince you, that your offers shall have no part in my
choice; and if I cannot escape the violence of man, I hope, by God’s
grace, I shall have nothing to reproach myself, for not doing all in my
power to avoid my disgrace; and then I can safely appeal to the great
God, my only refuge and protector, with this consolation, That my will
bore no part in my violation.

‘VII. You shall be mistress of my person and fortune, as much as if the
foolish ceremony had passed. All my servants shall be yours; and you
shall choose any two persons to attend yourself, either male or female,
without any control of mine: and if your conduct be such, that I have
reason to be satisfied with it, I know not (but will not engage for
this) that I may, after a twelvemonth’s cohabitation, marry you; for,
if my love increases for you, as it has done for many months past, it
will be impossible for me to deny you any thing.

‘And now, Pamela, consider well, it is in your power to oblige me on
such terms, as will make yourself, and all your friends, happy: but
this will be over this very day, irrevocably over; and you shall find
all you would be thought to fear, without the least benefit arising
from it to yourself.

‘And I beg you’ll well weigh the matter, and comply with my proposals;
and I will instantly set about securing to you the full effect of them:
And let me, if you value yourself, experience a grateful return on this
occasion, and I’ll forgive all that’s past.’

VII. I have not once dared to look so high, as to such a proposal as
your seventh article contains. Hence have proceeded all my little
abortive artifices to escape from the confinement you have put me in;
although you promised to be honourable to me. Your honour, well I know,
would not let you stoop to so mean and so unworthy a slave, as the poor
Pamela: All I desire is, to be permitted to return to my native
meanness unviolated. What have I done, sir, to deserve it should be
otherwise? For the obtaining of this, though I would not have married
your chaplain, yet would I have run away with your meanest servant, if
I had thought I could have got safe to my beloved poverty. I heard you
once say, sir, That a certain great commander, who could live upon
lentils, might well refuse the bribes of the greatest monarch: And I
hope, as I can contentedly live at the meanest rate, and think not
myself above the lowest condition, that I am also above making an
exchange of my honesty for all the riches of the Indies. When I come to
be proud and vain of gaudy apparel, and outside finery, then (which I
hope will never be) may I rest my principal good in such vain trinkets,
and despise for them the more solid ornaments of a good fame, and a
chastity inviolate!

Give me leave to say, sir, in answer to what you hint, That you may in
a twelvemonth’s time marry me, on the continuance of my good behaviour;
that this weighs less with me, if possible, than any thing else you
have said: for, in the first place, there is an end of all merit, and
all good behaviour, on my side, if I have now any, the moment I consent
to your proposals: And I should be so far from expecting such an
honour, that I will pronounce, that I should be most unworthy of it.
What, sir, would the world say, were you to marry your harlot? That a
gentleman of your rank in life should stoop, not only to the base-born
Pamela, but to a base-born prostitute?—Little, sir, as I know of the
world, I am not to be caught by a bait so poorly covered as this!

Yet, after all, dreadful is the thought, that I, a poor, weak,
friendless, unhappy creature, am too full in your power! But permit me,
sir, to pray, as I now write on my bended knees, That before you
resolve upon my ruin, you will weigh well the matter. Hitherto, sir,
though you have taken large strides to this crying sin, yet are you on
this side the commission of it.—When once it is done, nothing can
recall it! And where will be your triumph?—What glory will the spoils
of such a weak enemy yield you? Let me but enjoy my poverty with
honesty, is all my prayer, and I will bless you, and pray for you,
every moment of my life! Think, O think! before it is yet too late!
what stings, what remorse will attend your dying hour, when you come to
reflect, that you have ruined, perhaps soul and body, a wretched
creature, whose only pride was her virtue! And how pleased you will be,
on the contrary, if in that tremendous moment you shall be able to
acquit yourself of this foul crime, and to plead in your own behalf,
that you suffered the earnest supplications of an unhappy wretch to
prevail with you to be innocent yourself, and let her remain so!—May
God Almighty, whose mercy so lately saved you from the peril of
perishing in deep waters, (on which, I hope, you will give me cause to
congratulate you!) touch your heart in my favour, and save you from
this sin, and me from this ruin!—And to him do I commit my cause; and
to him will I give the glory, and night and day pray for you, if I may
be permitted to escape this great evil!——

Your poor oppressed, broken spirited servant.

I took a copy of this for your perusal, my dear parents, if I shall
ever be so happy to see you again; (for I hope my conduct will be
approved of by you;) and at night, when Sir Simon was gone, he sent for
me down. Well, said he, have you considered my proposals? Yes, sir,
said I, I have: and there is my answer: But pray let me not see you
read it. Is it your bashfulness, said he, or your obstinacy, that makes
you not choose I should read it before you?

I offered to go away; and he said, Don’t run from me; I won’t read it
till you are gone. But, said he, tell me, Pamela, whether you comply
with my proposals, or not? Sir, said I, you will see presently; pray
don’t hold me; for he took my hand. Said he, Did you well consider
before you answered?—I did, sir, said I. If it be not what you think
will please me, said he, dear girl, take it back again, and reconsider
it; for if I have this as your absolute answer, and I don’t like it,
you are undone; for I will not sue meanly, where I can command. I fear,
said he, it is not what I like, by your manner: and let me tell you,
that I cannot bear denial. If the terms I have offered are not
sufficient, I will augment them to two-thirds of my estate; for, said
he, and swore a dreadful oath, I cannot live without you: and, since
the thing is gone so far, I will not! And so he clasped me in his arms
in such a manner as quite frightened me; and kissed me two or three
times.

I got from him, and run up stairs, and went to the closet, and was
quite uneasy and fearful.

In an hour’s time he called Mrs. Jewkes down to him! And I heard him
very high in passion: and all about me! And I heard her say, It was his
own fault; there would be an end of all my complaining and
perverseness, if he was once resolved; and other most impudent
aggravations. I am resolved not to go to bed this night, if I can help
it!—Lie still, lie still, my poor fluttering heart!—What will become of
me!

Almost twelve o’clock, Saturday night.

He sent Mrs. Jewkes, about ten o’clock, to tell me to come to him.
Where? said I. I’ll shew you, said she. I went down three or four
steps, and saw her making to his chamber, the door of which was open:
So I said, I cannot go there!—Don’t be foolish, said she; but come; no
harm will be done to you!—Well, said I, if I die, I cannot go there. I
heard him say, Let her come, or it shall be worse for her. I can’t
bear, said he, to speak to her myself!—Well, said I, I cannot come,
indeed I cannot; and so I went up again into my closet, expecting to be
fetched by force.

But she came up soon after, and bid me make haste to bed: Said I, I
will not go to bed this night, that’s certain!—Then, said she, you
shall be made to come to bed; and Nan and I will undress you. I knew
neither prayers nor tears would move this wicked woman: So I said, I am
sure you will let master in, and I shall be undone! Mighty piece of
undone! she said: but he was too much exasperated against me, to be so
familiar with me, she would assure me!—Ay, said she, you’ll be disposed
of another way soon, I can tell you for your comfort: and I hope your
husband will have your obedience, though nobody else can have it. No
husband in the world, said I, shall make me do an unjust or base
thing.—She said, That would be soon tried; and Nan coming in, What!
said I, am I to have two bed-fellows again, these warm nights? Yes,
said she, slippery-one, you are, till you can have one good one instead
of us. Said I, Mrs. Jewkes, don’t talk nastily to me: I see you are
beginning again; and I shall affront you, may be; for next to bad
actions, are bad words; for they could not be spoken, if they were not
in the heart.—Come to bed, purity! said she. You are a nonsuch, I
suppose. Indeed, said I, I can’t come to bed; and it will do you no
harm to let me stay all night in the great chair. Nan, said she,
undress my young lady. If she won’t let you, I’ll help you; and, if
neither of us can do it quietly, we’ll call my master to do it for us;
though, said she, I think it an office worthier of Monsieur
Colbrand!—You are very wicked, said I. I know it, said she; I am a
Jezebel, and a London prostitute, you know. You did great feats, said
I, to tell my master all this poor stuff; but you did not tell him how
you beat me. No, lambkin, said she, (a word I had not heard a good
while,) that I left for you to tell and you was going to do it if the
vulture had not taken the wolf’s part, and bid the poor innocent lamb
be silent!—Ay, said I, no matter for your fleers, Mrs. Jewkes; though I
can have neither justice nor mercy here, and cannot be heard in my
defence, yet a time will come, may be, when I shall be heard, and when
your own guilt will strike you dumb.—Ay! spirit, said she; and the
vulture too! Must we both be dumb? Why that, lambkin, will be
pretty!—Then, said the wicked one, you’ll have all the talk to
yourself!—Then how will the tongue of the pretty lambkin bleat out
innocence, and virtue, and honesty, till the whole trial be at an
end!—You’re a wicked woman, that’s certain, said I; and if you thought
any thing of another world, could not talk thus. But no wonder!—It
shews what hands I’m got into!—Ay, so it does, said she; but I beg
you’ll undress, and come to bed, or I believe your innocence won’t keep
you from still worse hands. I will come to bed, said I, if you will let
me have the keys in my own hand; not else, if I can help it. Yes, said
she, and then, hey for another contrivance, another escape!—No, no,
said I, all my contrivances are over, I’ll assure you! Pray let me have
the keys, and I will come to bed. She came to me, and took me in her
huge arms, as if I was a feather: Said she, I do this to shew you what
a poor resistance you can make against me, if I please to exert myself;
and so, lambkin, don’t say to your wolf, I won’t come to bed!—And set
me down, and tapped me on the neck: Ah! said she, thou art a pretty
creature, ’tis true; but so obstinate! so full of spirit! if thy
strength was but answerable to that, thou would’st run away with us
all, and this great house too on thy back!—But, undress, undress, I
tell you.

Well, said I, I see my misfortunes make you very merry, and very witty
too: but I will love you, if you will humour me with the keys of the
chamber-doors.—Are you sure you will love me? said she: Now speak your
conscience!—Why, said I, you must not put it so close; neither would
you, if you thought you had not given reason to doubt it!—But I will
love you as well as I can!—I would not tell a wilful lie: and if I did,
you would not believe me, after your hard usage of me. Well, said she,
that’s all fair, I own!—But Nan, pray pull off my young lady’s shoes
and stockings.—No, pray don’t, said I; I will come to bed presently,
since I must.

And so I went to the closet, and scribbled a little about this idle
chit-chat. And she being importunate, I was forced to go to bed; but
with some of my clothes on, as the former night; and she let me hold
the two keys; for there are two locks, there being a double door; and
so I got a little sleep that night, having had none for two or three
nights before.

I can’t imagine what she means; but Nan offered to talk a little once
or twice; and she snubbed her, and said, I charge you, wench, don’t
open your lips before me; and if you are asked any questions by Mrs.
Pamela, don’t answer her one word, while I am here!—But she is a lordly
woman to the maid-servants; and that has always been her character: O
how unlike good Mrs. Jervis in every thing.

Sunday morning.

A thought came into my head; I meant no harm; but it was a little bold.
For, seeing my master dressing to go to church; and his chariot getting
ready, I went to my closet, and I writ,

The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired for a gentleman
of great worth and honour, who labours under a temptation to exert his
great power to ruin a poor, distressed, worthless maiden:
And also,
The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired by a poor
distressed creature, for the preservation of her virtue and innocence.

Mrs. Jewkes came up: Always writing! said she; and would see it: And
strait, all that ever I could say, carried it down to my master.—He
looked upon it, and said, Tell her, she shall soon see how her prayers
are answered; she is very bold: but as she has rejected all my favours,
her reckoning for all is not far off. I looked after him out of the
window; and he was charmingly dressed: To be sure he is a handsome fine
gentleman!—What pity his heart is not as good as his appearance! Why
can’t I hate him?—But don’t be uneasy, if you should see this; for it
is impossible I should love him; for his vices all ugly him over, as I
may say.

My master sends word, that he shall not come home to dinner: I suppose
he dines with this Sir Simon Darnford. I am much concerned for poor Mr.
Williams. Mrs. Jewkes says, he is confined still, and takes on much.
All his trouble is brought upon him for my sake: This grieves me much.
My master, it seems, will have his money from him. This is very hard;
for it is three fifty pounds, he gave him, as he thought, as a salary
for three years that he has been with him: but there was no agreement
between them; and he absolutely depended on my master’s favour. To be
sure, it was the more generous of him to run these risks for the sake
of oppressed innocence: and I hope he will meet with his reward in due
time. Alas for me! I dare not plead for him; that would raise my
oppressor’s jealousy more. And I have not interest to save myself!

Sunday evening.

Mrs. Jewkes has received a line from my master: I wonder what it is,
for his chariot is come home without him. But she will tell me nothing;
so it is in vain to ask her. I am so fearful of plots and tricks, I
know not what to do!—Every thing I suspect; for, now my disgrace is
avowed, what can I think!—To be sure, the worst will be attempted! I
can only pour out my soul in prayer to God, for his blessed protection.
But, if I must suffer, let me not be long a mournful survivor!—Only let
me not shorten my own time sinfully!——

This woman left upon the table, in the chamber, this letter of my
master’s to her; and I bolted myself in, till I had transcribed it.
You’ll see how tremblingly, by the lines. I wish poor Mr. Williams’s
release at any rate; but this letter makes my heart ache. Yet I have
another day’s reprieve, thank God!

‘MRS. JEWKES,

‘I have been so pressed on Williams’s affair, that I shall set out this
afternoon, in Sir Simon’s chariot, and with Parson Peters, who is his
intercessor, for Stamford; and shall not be back till to-morrow
evening, if then. As to your ward, I am thoroughly incensed against
her: She has withstood her time; and now, would she sign and seal to my
articles, it is too late. I shall discover something, perhaps, by him;
and will, on my return, let her know, that all her ensnaring loveliness
shall not save her from the fate that awaits her. But let her know
nothing of this, lest it put her fruitful mind upon plots and
artifices. Be sure trust her not without another with you at night,
lest she venture the window in her foolish rashness: for I shall
require her at your hands.

‘Yours, etc.’

I had but just finished taking a copy of this, and laid the letter
where I had it, and unbolted the door, when she came up in a great
fright, for fear I should have seen it; but I being in my closet, and
that lying as she left it, she did not mistrust. O, said she, I was
afraid you had seen my master’s letter here, which I carelessly left on
the table. I wish, said I, I had known that. Why sure, said she, if you
had, you would not have offered to read my letters! Indeed, said I, I
should, at this time, if it had been in my way:—Do let me see it.—Well,
said she, I wish poor Mr. Williams well off: I understand my master is
gone to make up matters with him; which is very good. To be sure, added
she, he is a very good gentleman, and very forgiving!—Why, said I, as
if I had known nothing of the matter, how can he make up matters with
him? Is not Mr. Williams at Stamford? Yes, said she, I believe so; but
Parson Peters pleads for him, and he is gone with him to Stamford, and
will not be back to-night: so we have nothing to do, but to eat our
suppers betimes, and go to bed. Ay, that’s pure, said I; and I shall
have good rest this night, I hope. So, said she, you might every night,
but for your own idle fears. You are afraid of your friends, when none
are near you. Ay, that’s true, said I; for I have not one near me.

So I have one more good honest night before me: What the next may be I
know not, and so I’ll try to take in a good deal of sleep, while I can
be a little easy. Therefore, here I say, Good night, my dear parents;
for I have no more to write about this night: and though his letter
shocks me, yet I will be as brisk as I can, that she mayn’t suspect I
have seen it.

Tuesday night.

For the future, I will always mistrust most when appearances look
fairest. O your poor daughter! what has she not suffered since what I
wrote on Sunday night!—My worst trial, and my fearfullest danger! O how
I shudder to write you an account of this wicked interval of time! For,
my dear parents, will you not be too much frightened and affected with
my distress, when I tell you, that his journey to Stamford was all
abominable pretence! for he came home privately, and had well nigh
effected all his vile purposes, and the ruin of your poor daughter! and
that by such a plot as I was not in the least apprehensive of: And, oh!
you’ll hear what a vile and unwomanly part that wicked wretch, Mrs.
Jewkes, acted in it!

I left off with letting you know how much I was pleased that I had one
night’s reprieve added to my honesty. But I had less occasion to
rejoice than ever, as you will judge by what I have said already. Take,
then, the dreadful story, as well as I can relate it.

The maid Nan is a little apt to drink, if she can get at liquor; and
Mrs. Jewkes happened, or designed, as is too probable, to leave a
bottle of cherry-brandy in her way, and the wench drank some of it more
than she should; and when she came in to lay the cloth, Mrs. Jewkes
perceived it, and fell a rating at her most sadly; for she has too many
faults of her own, to suffer any of the like sort in any body else, if
she can help it; and she bid her get out of her sight, when we had
supped, and go to bed, to sleep off her liquor, before we came to bed.
And so the poor maid went muttering up stairs.

About two hours after, which was near eleven o’clock, Mrs. Jewkes and I
went up to go to bed; I pleasing myself with what a charming night I
should have. We locked both doors, and saw poor Nan, as I thought,
(but, oh! ’twas my abominable master, as you shall hear by and by,)
sitting fast asleep, in an elbow-chair, in a dark corner of the room,
with her apron thrown over her head and neck. And Mrs. Jewkes said,
There is that beast of a wench fast asleep, instead of being a-bed! I
knew, said she, she had taken a fine dose. I’ll wake her, said I. No,
don’t, said she; let her sleep on; we shall be better without her. Ay,
said I, so we shall; but won’t she get cold?

Said she, I hope you have no writing to-night. No, replied I, I will go
to bed with you, Mrs. Jewkes. Said she, I wonder what you can find to
write about so much! and am sure you have better conveniences of that
kind, and more paper than I am aware of; and I had intended to rummage
you, if my master had not come down; for I spied a broken tea-cup with
ink, which gave me suspicion: but as he is come, let him look after
you, if he will; and if you deceive him, it will be his own fault.

All this time we were undressing ourselves: And I fetched a deep sigh!
What do you sigh for? said she. I am thinking, Mrs. Jewkes, answered I,
what a sad life I live, and how hard is my lot. I am sure, the thief
that has robbed is much better off than I, ’bating the guilt; and I
should, I think, take it for a mercy, to be hanged out of the way,
rather than live in these cruel apprehensions. So, being not sleepy,
and in a prattling vein, I began to give a little history of myself, as
I did, once before, to Mrs. Jervis; in this manner:

Here, said I, were my poor honest parents; they took care to instill
good principles into my mind, till I was almost twelve years of age;
and taught me to prefer goodness and poverty to the highest condition
of life; and they confirmed their lessons by their own practice; for
they were, of late years, remarkably poor, and always as remarkably
honest, even to a proverb: for, As honest as goodman ANDREWS, was a
byeword.

Well then, said I, comes my late dear good lady, and takes a fancy to
me, and said, she would be the making of me, if I was a good girl; and
she put me to sing, to dance, to play on the spinnet, in order to
divert her melancholy hours; and also taught me all manner of fine
needle-work; but still this was her lesson, My good Pamela, be
virtuous, and keep the men at a distance. Well, so I was, I hope, and
so I did; and yet, though I say it, they all loved me and respected me;
and would do any thing for me, as if I was a gentlewoman.

But, then, what comes next?—Why, it pleased God to take my good lady:
and then comes my master: And what says he?—Why, in effect, it is, Be
not virtuous, Pamela.

So here I have lived about sixteen years in virtue and reputation; and
all at once, when I come to know what is good, and what is evil, I must
renounce all the good, all the whole sixteen years’ innocence, which,
next to God’s grace, I owed chiefly to my parents, and my lady’s good
lessons and examples, and choose the evil; and so, in a moment’s time,
become the vilest of creatures! And all this, for what, I pray? Why,
truly, for a pair of diamond ear-rings, a necklace, and a diamond ring
for my finger; which would not become me: For a few paltry fine
clothes, which, when I wore them, would make but my former poverty more
ridiculous to every body that saw me; especially when they knew the
base terms I wore them upon. But, indeed, I was to have a great parcel
of guineas beside; I forget how many; for, had there been ten times
more, they would have been not so much to me, as the honest six guineas
you tricked me out of, Mrs. Jewkes.

Well, forsooth! but then I was to have I know not how many pounds a
year for my life; and my poor father (there was the jest of it!) was to
be the manager for the abandoned prostitute his daughter: And then,
(there was the jest again!) my kind, forgiving, virtuous master, would
pardon me all my misdeeds!

Yes, thank him for nothing, truly. And what, pray, are all these
violent misdeeds?—Why, they are for daring to adhere to the good
lessons that were taught me; and not learning a new one, that would
have reversed all my former: For not being contented when I was run
away with, in order to be ruined; but contriving, if my poor wits had
been able, to get out of danger, and preserve myself honest.

Then was he once jealous of poor John, though he knew John was his own
creature, and helped to deceive me.

Then was he outrageous against poor Parson Williams! and him has this
good, merciful master, thrown into gaol; and for what? Why, truly, for
that, being a divine, and a good man, he had the fear of God before his
eyes, and was willing to forego all his expectations of interest, and
assist an oppressed poor creature.

But, to be sure, I must be forward, bold, saucy, and what not! to dare
to run away from certain ruin, and to strive to escape from an unjust
confinement; and I must be married to the parson, nothing so sure!

He would have had but a poor catch of me, had I consented: But he, and
you too, know I did not want to marry any body. I only wanted to go to
my poor parents, and to have my own liberty, and not to be confined by
such an unlawful restraint; and which would not have been inflicted
upon me, but only that I am a poor, destitute, young body, and have no
friend that is able to right me.

So, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, here is my history in brief. And I am a very
unhappy young creature, to be sure!—And why am I so?—Why, because my
master sees something in my person that takes his present fancy; and
because I would not be undone.—Why, therefore to choose, I must, and I
shall be undone!—And this is all the reason that can be given!

She heard me run on all this time, while I was undressing, without any
interruption; and I said, Well, I must go to the two closets, ever
since an affair of the closet at the other house, though he is so far
off. And I have a good mind to wake this poor maid. No, don’t, said
she, I charge you. I am very angry with her, and she’ll get no harm
there; and if she wakes, she may come to bed well enough, as long as
there is a candle in the chimney.

So I looked into the closet, and kneeled down in my own, as I used to
do, to say my prayers, and this with my underclothes in my hand, all
undressed; and passed by the poor sleeping wench, as I thought, in my
return. But, oh! little did I think it was my wicked, wicked master, in
a gown and petticoat of hers, and her apron over his face and
shoulders. What meanness will not Lucifer make his votaries stoop to,
to gain their abominable ends!

Mrs. Jewkes, by this time, was got to bed, on the farther side, as she
used to be; and, to make room for the maid, when she should awake, I
got into bed, and lay close to her. And I said, Where are the keys?
though, said I, I am not so much afraid to-night. Here, said the wicked
woman, put your arm under mine, and you shall find them about my wrist,
as they used to be. So I did, and the abominable designer held my hand
with her right-hand, as my right-arm was under her left.

In less than a quarter of an hour, I said, There’s poor Nan awake; I
hear her stir. Let us go to sleep, said she, and not mind her: she’ll
come to bed, when she’s quite awake. Poor soul! said I, I’ll warrant
she will have the head-ache finely to-morrow for this! Be silent, said
she, and go to sleep; you keep me awake; and I never found you in so
talkative a humour in my life. Don’t chide me, said I; I will but say
one thing more: Do you think Nan could hear me talk of my master’s
offers? No, no, said she; she was dead asleep. I’m glad of that, said
I; because I would not expose my master to his common servants; and I
knew you were no stranger to his fine articles. Said she, I think they
were fine articles, and you were bewitched you did not close with them:
But let us go to sleep. So I was silent; and the pretended Nan (O
wicked, base, villanous designer! what a plot, what an unexpected plot
was this!) seemed to be awaking; and Mrs. Jewkes, abhorrent creature!
said, Come, Nan!—what, are you awake at last?—Pr’ythee come to bed; for
Mrs. Pamela is in a talking fit, and won’t go to sleep one while.

At that, the pretended she came to the bed-side; and, sitting down in a
chair, where the curtain hid her, began to undress. Said I, Poor Mrs.
Anne, I warrant your head aches most sadly! How do you do?

—She answered not a word. Said the superlatively wicked woman, You know
I have ordered her not to answer you. And this plot, to be sure, was
laid when she gave her these orders the night before.

I heard her, as I thought, breathe all quick and short: Indeed, said I,
Mrs. Jewkes, the poor maid is not well. What ails you, Mrs. Anne? And
still no answer was made.

But, I tremble to relate it! the pretended she came into bed, but
trembled like an aspen-leaf; and I, poor fool that I was! pitied her
much—but well might the barbarous deceiver tremble at his vile
dissimulation, and base designs.

What words shall I find, my dear mother (for my father should not see
this shocking part), to describe the rest, and my confusion, when the
guilty wretch took my left arm, and laid it under his neck, and the
vile procuress held my right; and then he clasped me round the waist!

Said I, is the wench mad? Why, how now, confidence! thinking still it
had been Nan. But he kissed me with frightful vehemence; and then his
voice broke upon me like a clap of thunder. Now, Pamela, said he, is
the dreadful time of reckoning come, that I have threatened—I screamed
out in such a manner, as never anybody heard the like. But there was
nobody to help me: and both my hands were secured, as I said. Sure
never poor soul was in such agonies as I. Wicked man! said I; wicked
abominable woman! O God! my God! this time! this one time! deliver me
from this distress! or strike me dead this moment! And then I screamed
again and again.

Says he, One word with you, Pamela; one word hear me but; I must say
one word to you, it is this: You see now you are in my power!—You
cannot get from me, nor help yourself: Yet have I not offered any thing
amiss to you. But if you resolve not to comply with my proposals, I
will not lose this opportunity: If you do, I will yet leave you.

O sir, said I, leave me, leave me but, and I will do any thing I ought
to do.—Swear then to me, said he, that you will accept my proposals!
With struggling, fright, terror, I fainted away quite, and did not come
to myself soon, so that they both, from the cold sweats that I was in,
thought me dying.—And I remember no more, than that, when with great
difficulty they brought me to myself, she was sitting on one side of
the bed, with her clothes on; and he on the other with his, and in his
gown and slippers.

Your poor Pamela cannot answer for the liberties taken with her in her
deplorable state of death. And when I saw them there, I sat up in my
bed, without any regard to what appearance I made, and nothing about my
neck; and he soothing me, with an aspect of pity and concern, I put my
hand to his mouth, and said, O tell me, yet tell me not, what have I
suffered in this distress? And I talked quite wild, and knew not what:
for, to be sure, I was on the point of distraction.

He most solemnly, and with a bitter imprecation, vowed, that he had not
offered the least indecency; that he was frightened at the terrible
manner I was taken with the fit: that he should desist from his
attempt; and begged but to see me easy and quiet, and he would leave me
directly, and go to his own bed. O then, said I, take with you this
most wicked woman, this vile Mrs. Jewkes, as an earnest, that I may
believe you!

And will you, sir, said the wicked wretch, for a fit or two, give up
such an opportunity as this?—I thought you had known the sex better.
She is now, you see, quite well again!

This I heard; more she might say; but I fainted away once more, at
these words, and at his clasping his arms about me again. And, when I
came a little to myself, I saw him sit there, and the maid Nan, holding
a smelling-bottle to my nose, and no Mrs. Jewkes.

He said, taking my hand, Now will I vow to you, my dear Pamela, that I
will leave you the moment I see you better, and pacified. Here’s Nan
knows, and will tell you, my concern for you. I vow to God, I have not
offered any indecency to you: and, since I found Mrs. Jewkes so
offensive to you, I have sent her to the maid’s bed, and the maid shall
be with you to-night. And but promise me, that you will compose
yourself, and I will leave you. But, said I, will not Nan also hold my
hand? And will not she let you come in again to me?—He said, By heaven!
I will not come in again to-night. Nan, undress yourself, go to bed,
and do all you can to comfort the dear creature: And now, Pamela, said
he, give me but your hand, and say you forgive me, and I will leave you
to your repose. I held out my trembling hand, which he vouchsafed to
kiss; and I said, God forgive you, sir, as you have been just in my
distress; and as you will be just to what you promise! And he withdrew,
with a countenance of remorse, as I hoped; and she shut the doors, and,
at my request, brought the keys to bed.

This, O my dear parents! was a most dreadful trial. I tremble still to
think of it; and dare not recall all the horrid circumstances of it. I
hope, as he assures me, he was not guilty of indecency; but have reason
to bless God, who, by disabling me in my faculties, empowered me to
preserve my innocence; and, when all my strength would have signified
nothing, magnified himself in my weakness.

I was so weak all day on Monday, that I could not get out of my bed. My
master shewed great tenderness for me; and I hope he is really sorry,
and that this will be his last attempt; but he does not say so neither.

He came in the morning, as soon as he heard the door open and I began
to be fearful. He stopped short of the bed, and said, Rather than give
you apprehensions, I will come no farther. I said, Your honour, sir,
and your mercy, is all I have to beg. He sat himself on the side of the
bed, and asked kindly, how I did?—begged me to be composed; said, I
still looked a little wildly. And I said, Pray, good sir, let me not
see this infamous Mrs. Jewkes; I doubt I cannot bear her sight. She
shan’t come near you all this day, if you’ll promise to compose
yourself. Then, sir, I will try. He pressed my hand very tenderly, and
went out. What a change does this shew!—O may it be lasting!—But, alas!
he seems only to have altered his method of proceeding; and retains, I
doubt, his wicked purpose.

On Tuesday, about ten o’clock, when my master heard I was up, he sent
for me down into the parlour. As soon as he saw me, he said, Come
nearer to me, Pamela. I did so, and he took my hand, and said, You
begin to look well again: I am glad of it. You little slut, how did you
frighten me on Sunday night.

Sir, said I, pray name not that night; and my eyes overflowed at the
remembrance, and I turned my head aside.

Said he, Place some little confidence in me: I know what those charming
eyes mean, and you shall not need to explain yourself: for I do assure
you, that as soon as I saw you change, and a cold sweat bedew your
pretty face, and you fainted away, I quitted the bed, and Mrs. Jewkes
did so too. And I put on my gown, and she fetched her smelling-bottle,
and we both did all we could to restore you; and my passion for you was
all swallowed up in the concern I had for your recovery; for I thought
I never saw a fit so strong and violent in my life: and feared we
should not bring you to life again; for what I saw you in once before
was nothing to it. This, said he, might be my folly, and my
unacquaintedness with what passion your sex can shew when they are in
earnest. But this I repeat to you, that your mind may be entirely
comforted—Whatever I offered to you, was before you fainted away, and
that, I am sure, was innocent.

Sir, said I, that was very bad: and it was too plain you had the worst
designs. When, said he, I tell you the truth in one instance, you may
believe me in the other. I know not, I declare, beyond this lovely
bosom, your sex: but that I did intend what you call the worst is most
certain: and though I would not too much alarm you now, I could curse
my weakness, and my folly, which makes me own, that I love you beyond
all your sex, and cannot live without you. But if I am master of
myself, and my own resolution, I will not attempt to force you to any
thing again.

Sir, said I, you may easily keep your resolution, if you’ll send me out
of your way, to my poor parents; that is all I beg.

’Tis a folly to talk of it, said he. You must not, shall not go! And if
I could be assured you would not attempt it, you should have better
usage, and your confinement should be made easier to you.

But to what end, sir, am I to stay? said I: You yourself seem not sure
you can keep your own present good resolutions; and do you think, if I
was to stay, when I could get away, and be safe, it would not look, as
if either I confided too much in my own strength, or would tempt my
ruin? And as if I was not in earnest to wish myself safe, and out of
danger?—And then, how long am I to stay? And to what purpose? And in
what light must I appear to the world? Would not that censure me,
although I might be innocent? And you will allow, sir, that, if there
be any thing valuable or exemplary in a good name, or fair reputation,
one must not despise the world’s censure, if one can avoid it.

Well, said he, I sent not for you on this account, just now; but for
two reasons. The first is, That you promise me, that for a fortnight to
come you will not offer to go away without my express consent; and this
I expect for your own sake, that I may give you a little more liberty.
And the second is, That you will see and forgive Mrs. Jewkes: she takes
on much, and thinks that, as all her fault was her obedience to me, it
would be very hard to sacrifice her, as she calls it, to your
resentment.

As to the first, sir, said I, it is a hard injunction, for the reasons
I have mentioned. And as to the second, considering her vile, unwomanly
wickedness, and her endeavours to instigate you more to ruin me, when
your returning goodness seemed to have some compassion upon me, it is
still harder. But, to shew my obedience to your commands, (for you
know, my dear parents, I might as well make a merit of my compliance,
when my refusal would stand me in no stead,) I will consent to both;
and to every thing else, that you shall be pleased to enjoin, which I
can do, with innocence.

That’s my good girl! said he, and kissed me: This is quite prudent, and
shews me, that you don’t take insolent advantage of my favour for you;
and will, perhaps, stand you in more stead than you are aware of.

So he rung the bell, and said, Call down Mrs. Jewkes. She came down,
and he took my hand, and put it into hers; and said, Mrs. Jewkes, I am
obliged to you for all your diligence and fidelity to me; but Pamela, I
must own, is not; because the service I employed you in was not so very
obliging to her, as I could have wished she would have thought it: and
you were not to favour her, but obey me. But yet I’ll assure you, at
the very first word, she has once obliged me, by consenting to be
friends with you; and if she gives me no great cause, I shall not,
perhaps, put you on such disagreeable service again.—Now, therefore, be
you once more bed-fellows and board-fellows, as I may say, for some
days longer; and see that Pamela sends no letters nor messages out of
the house, nor keeps a correspondence unknown to me, especially with
that Williams; and, as for the rest, shew the dear girl all the respect
that is due to one I must love, if she will deserve it, as I hope she
will yet; and let her be under no unnecessary or harsh restraints. But
your watchful care is not, however, to cease: and remember that you are
not to disoblige me, to oblige her; and that I will not, cannot, yet
part with her.

Mrs. Jewkes looked very sullen, and as if she would be glad still to do
me a good turn, if it lay in her power.

I took courage then to drop a word or two for poor Mr. Williams; but he
was angry with me for it, and said he could not endure to hear his name
in my mouth; so I was forced to have done for that time.

All this time, my papers, that I buried under the rose-bush, lay there
still; and I begged for leave to send a letter to you. So I should, he
said, if he might read it first. But this did not answer my design; and
yet I would have sent you such a letter as he might see, if I had been
sure my danger was over. But that I cannot; for he now seems to take
another method, and what I am more afraid of, because, may be, he may
watch an opportunity, and join force with it, on occasion, when I am
least prepared: for now he seems to abound with kindness, and talks of
love without reserve, and makes nothing of allowing himself in the
liberty of kissing me, which he calls innocent; but which I do not
like, and especially in the manner he does it: but for a master to do
it at all to a servant, has meaning too much in it, not to alarm an
honest body.

Wednesday morning.

I find I am watched and suspected still very close; and I wish I was
with you; but that must not be, it seems, this fortnight. I don’t like
this fortnight; and it will be a tedious and a dangerous one to me, I
doubt.

My master just now sent for me down to take a walk with him in the
garden: but I like him not at all, nor his ways; for he would have, all
the way, his arm about my waist, and said abundance of fond things to
me, enough to make me proud, if his design had not been apparent. After
walking about, he led me into a little alcove, on the farther part of
the garden; and really made me afraid of myself, for he began to be
very teasing, and made me sit on his knee; and was so often kissing me,
that I said, Sir, I don’t like to be here at all, I assure you. Indeed
you make me afraid!—And what made me the more so, was what he once said
to Mrs. Jewkes, and did not think I heard him, and which, though always
uppermost with me, I did not mention before, because I did not know how
to bring it in, in my writing.

She, I suppose, had been encouraging him in his wickedness; for it was
before the last dreadful trial: and I only heard what he answered.

Said he, I will try once more; but I have begun wrong for I see terror
does but add to her frost; but she is a charming girl, and may be
thawed by kindness; and I should have melted her by love, instead of
freezing her by fear.

Is he not a wicked, sad man for this?—To be sure, I blush while I write
it. But I trust, that that God, who has delivered me from the paw of
the lion and the bear; that is, his and Mrs. Jewkes’s violences, will
soon deliver me from this Philistine, that I may not defy the commands
of the living God!

But, as I was saying, this expression coming into my thoughts, I was of
opinion, I could not be too much on my guard, at all times: more
especially when he took such liberties: for he professed honour all the
time with his mouth, while his actions did not correspond. I begged and
prayed he would let me go: and had I not appeared quite regardless of
all he said, and resolved not to stay, if I could help it, I know not
how far he would have proceeded; for I was forced to fall down upon my
knees.

At last he walked out with me, still bragging of his honour and his
love. Yes, yes, sir, said I, your honour is to destroy mine: and your
love is to ruin me; I see it too plainly. But, indeed, I will not talk
with you, sir, said I, any more. Do you know, said he, whom you talk
to, and where you are?

You may believe I had reason to think him not so decent as he should
be; for I said, As to where I am, sir, I know it too well; and that I
have no creature to befriend me: and, as to whom I talk to, sir, let me
ask you, What you would have me answer?

Why, tell me, said he, what answer you would make? It will only make
you angry, said I; and so I shall fare worse, if possible. I won’t be
angry, said he. Why, then, sir, said I, you cannot be my late good
lady’s son; for she loved me, and taught me virtue. You cannot then be
my master; for no master demeans himself so to his poor servant.

He put his arm round me, and his other hand on my neck, which made me
more angry and bold: and he said, What then am I? Why, said I,
(struggling from him, and in a great passion,) to be sure you are
Lucifer himself, in the shape of my master, or you could not use me
thus. These are too great liberties, said he, in anger; and I desire
that you will not repeat them, for your own sake: For if you have no
decency towards me, I’ll have none towards you.

I was running from him, and he said, Come back, when I bid you.—So,
knowing every place was alike dangerous to me, and I had nobody to run
to, I came back, at his call; and seeing him look displeased, I held my
hands together, and wept, and said, Pray, sir, forgive me. No, said he,
rather say, Pray, Lucifer, forgive me! And, now, since you take me for
the devil, how can you expect any good from me?—How, rather, can you
expect any thing but the worst treatment from me?—You have given me a
character, Pamela; and blame me not that I act up to it. Sir, said I,
let me beg you to forgive me: I am really sorry for my boldness; but
indeed you don’t use me like a gentleman: and how can I express my
resentment, if I mince the matter, while you are so indecent? Precise
fool! said he, what indecencies have I offered you?—I was bewitched I
had not gone through my purpose last Sunday night; and then your
licentious tongue had not given the worst name to little puny freedoms,
that shew my love and my folly at the same time. But, begone! said he,
taking my hand, and tossing it from him, and learn another conduct and
more wit; and I will lay aside my foolish regard for you, and assert
myself. Begone! said he, again, with a haughty air.

Indeed, sir, said I, I cannot go, till you pardon me, which I beg on my
bended knees. I am truly sorry for my boldness.—But I see how you go
on: you creep by little and little upon me; and now soothe me, and now
threaten me; and if I should forbear to shew my resentment, when you
offer incivilities to me, would not that be to be lost by degrees?
Would it not shew, that I could bear any thing from you, if I did not
express all the indignation I could express, at the first approaches
you make to what I dread? And have you not as good as avowed my
ruin?—And have you once made me hope you will quit your purposes
against me? How then, sir, can I act, but by shewing my abhorrence of
every step that makes towards my undoing? And what is left me but
words?—And can these words be other than such strong ones, as shall
shew the detestation which, from the bottom of my heart, I have for
every attempt upon my virtue? Judge for me, sir, and pardon me.

Pardon you! said he, What! when you don’t repent?—When you have the
boldness to justify yourself in your fault? Why don’t you say, you
never will again offend me? I will endeavour, sir, said I, always to
preserve that decency towards you which becomes me. But really, sir, I
must beg your excuse for saying, That when you forget what belongs to
decency in your actions, and when words are all that are left me, to
shew my resentment of such actions, I will not promise to forbear the
strongest expressions that my distressed mind shall suggest to me: nor
shall your angriest frowns deter me, when my honesty is in question.

What, then, said he, do you beg pardon for? Where is the promise of
amendment, for which I should forgive you? Indeed, sir, said I, I own
that must absolutely depend on your usage of me: for I will bear any
thing you can inflict upon me with patience, even to the laying down of
my life, to shew my obedience to you in other cases; but I cannot be
patient, I cannot be passive, when my virtue is at stake! It would be
criminal in me, if I was.

He said, he never saw such a fool in his life. And he walked by the
side of me some yards, without saying a word, and seemed vexed; and at
last walked in, bidding me attend him in the garden, after dinner. So
having a little time, I went up, and wrote thus far.

Wednesday night.

If, my dear parents, I am not destined more surely than ever for ruin,
I have now more comfort before me than ever I yet knew: and am either
nearer my happiness, or my misery, than ever I was. God protect me from
the latter, if it be his blessed will! I have now such a scene to open
to you, that, I know, will alarm both your hopes and your fears, as it
does mine. And this it is:

After my master had dined, he took a turn into the stables, to look at
his stud of horses; and, when he came in, he opened the parlour-door,
where Mrs. Jewkes and I sat at dinner; and, at his entrance, we both
rose up; but he said, Sit still, sit still, and let me see how you eat
your victuals, Pamela. O, said Mrs. Jewkes, very poorly, indeed, sir!
No, said I, pretty well, sir, considering. None of your considerings,
said he, pretty face; and tapped me on the cheek. I blushed, but was
glad he was so good-humoured; but I could not tell how to sit before
him, nor to behave myself. So he said, I know, Pamela, you are a nice
carver: my mother used to say so. My lady, sir, said I, was very good
to me in every thing, and would always make me do the honours of her
table for her, when she was with her few select friends that she loved.
Cut up, said he, that chicken. I did so. Now, said he, and took a knife
and fork, and put a wing upon my plate, let me see you eat that. O sir,
said I, I have eaten a whole breast of a chicken already, and cannot
eat so much. But he said, I must eat it for his sake, and he would
teach me to eat heartily: So I did eat it; but was much confused at his
so kind and unusual freedom and condescension. And, good lack! you
can’t imagine how Mrs. Jewkes looked and stared, and how respectful she
seemed to me, and called me good madam, I’ll assure you, urging me to
take a little bit of tart.

My master took two or three turns about the room, musing and
thoughtful, as I had never before seen him; and at last he went out,
saying, I am going into the garden: You know, Pamela, what I said to
you before dinner. I rose, and courtesied, saying, I would attend his
honour; and he said, Do, good girl!

Well, said Mrs. Jewkes, I see how things will go. O, madam, as she
called me again, I am sure you are to be our mistress! And then I know
what will become of me. Ah Mrs. Jewkes, said I, if I can but keep
myself virtuous, ’tis the most of my ambition; and I hope, no
temptation shall make me otherwise.

Notwithstanding I had no reason to be pleased with his treatment of me
before dinner, yet I made haste to attend him; and I found him walking
by the side of that pond, which, for want of grace, and through a
sinful despondence, had like to have been so fatal to me, and the sight
of which, ever since, has been a trouble and reproach to me. And it was
by the side of this pond, and not far from the place where I had that
dreaded conflict, that my present hopes, if I am not to be deceived
again, began to dawn: which I presume to flatter myself with being a
happy omen for me, as if God Almighty would shew your poor sinful
daughter, how well I did to put my affiance in his goodness, and not to
throw away myself, because my ruin seemed inevitable, to my
short-sighted apprehension.

So he was pleased to say, Well, Pamela, I am glad you are come of your
own accord, as I may say: give me your hand. I did so; and he looked at
me very steadily, and pressing my hand all the time, at last said, I
will now talk to you in a serious manner.

You have a good deal of wit, a great deal of penetration, much beyond
your years, and, as I thought, your opportunities. You are possessed of
an open, frank, and generous mind; and a person so lovely, that you
excel all your sex, in my eyes. All these accomplishments have engaged
my affection so deeply, that, as I have often said, I cannot live
without you; and I would divide, with all my soul, my estate with you,
to make you mine upon my own terms. These you have absolutely rejected;
and that, though in saucy terms enough, yet in such a manner as makes
me admire you the more. Your pretty chit-chat to Mrs. Jewkes, the last
Sunday night, so innocent, and so full of beautiful simplicity, half
disarmed my resolution before I approached your bed: And I see you so
watchful over your virtue, that though I hoped to find it otherwise, I
cannot but confess my passion for you is increased by it. But now, what
shall I say farther, Pamela?—I will make you, though a party, my
adviser in this matter, though not, perhaps, my definitive judge.

You know I am not a very abandoned profligate; I have hitherto been
guilty of no very enormous or vile actions. This of seizing you, and
confining you thus, may perhaps be one of the worst, at least to
persons of real innocence. Had I been utterly given up to my passions,
I should before now have gratified them, and not have shewn that
remorse and compassion for you, which have reprieved you, more than
once, when absolutely in my power; and you are as inviolate a virgin as
you were when you came into my house.

But what can I do? Consider the pride of my condition. I cannot endure
the thought of marriage, even with a person of equal or superior degree
to myself; and have declined several proposals of that kind: How then,
with the distance between us in the world’s judgment, can I think of
making you my wife?—Yet I must have you; I cannot bear the thoughts of
any other man supplanting me in your affections: and the very
apprehension of that has made me hate the name of Williams, and use him
in a manner unworthy of my temper.

Now, Pamela, judge for me; and, since I have told you, thus candidly,
my mind, and I see yours is big with some important meaning, by your
eyes, your blushes, and that sweet confusion which I behold struggling
in your bosom, tell me, with like openness and candour, what you think
I ought to do, and what you would have me do.

It is impossible for me to express the agitations of my mind, on this
unexpected declaration, so contrary to his former behaviour. His manner
too had something so noble, and so sincere, as I thought, that, alas
for me! I found I had need of all my poor discretion, to ward off the
blow which this treatment gave to my most guarded thoughts. I threw
myself at his feet; for I trembled, and could hardly stand: O sir, said
I, spare your poor servant’s confusion! O spare the poor Pamela!—Speak
out, said he, and tell me, when I bid you, What you think I ought to
do? I cannot say what you ought to do, answered I: but I only beg you
will not ruin me; and, if you think me virtuous, if you think me
sincerely honest, let me go to my poor parents. I will vow to you, that
I will never suffer myself to be engaged without your approbation.

Still he insisted upon a more explicit answer to his question, of what
I thought he ought to do. And I did, As to my poor thoughts of what you
ought to do, I must needs say, that indeed I think you ought to regard
the world’s opinion, and avoid doing any thing disgraceful to your
birth and fortune; and, therefore, if you really honour the poor Pamela
with your respect, a little time, absence, and the conversation of
worthier persons of my sex, will effectually enable you to overcome a
regard so unworthy your condition: And this, good sir, is the best
advice I can offer.

Charming creature! lovely Pamela! said he, (with an ardour that was
never before so agreeable to me,) this generous manner is of a piece
with all the rest of your conduct. But tell me, still more explicitly,
what you would advise me to, in the case.

O, sir! said I, take not advantage of my credulity, and these my weak
moments: but were I the first lady in the land, instead of the poor
abject Pamela, I would, I could tell you. But I can say no more—

O my dear father and mother! now I know you will indeed be concerned
for me;—for now I am for myself.—And now I begin to be afraid I know
too well the reason why all his hard trials of me, and my black
apprehensions, would not let me hate him.

But be assured still, by God’s grace, that I shall do nothing unworthy
of your Pamela; and if I find that he is still capable of deceiving me,
and that this conduct is only put on to delude me more, I shall think
nothing in this world so vile, and so odious; and nothing, if he be not
the worst of his kind, (as he says, and, I hope, he is not,) so
desperately guileful, as the heart of man.

He generously said, I will spare your confusion, Pamela. But I hope I
may promise myself, that you can love me preferably to any other man;
and that no one in the world has had any share in your affections; for
I am very jealous of what I love; and if I thought you had a secret
whispering in your soul, that had not yet come up to a wish, for any
other man breathing, I should not forgive myself to persist in my
affection for you; nor you, if you did not frankly acquaint me with it.

As I still continued on my knees, on the grass border by the pond-side,
he sat himself down on the grass by me, and took me in his arms: Why
hesitates my Pamela? said he.—Can you not answer me with truth, as I
wish? If you cannot, speak, and I will forgive you.

O good sir, said I, it is not that; indeed it is not: but a frightful
word or two that you said to Mrs. Jewkes, when you thought I was not in
hearing, comes cross my mind; and makes me dread that I am in more
danger than ever I was in my life.

You have never found me a common liar, said he, (too fearful and
foolish Pamela!) nor will I answer how long I may hold in my present
mind; for my pride struggles hard within me, I’ll assure you; and if
you doubt me, I have no obligation to your confidence or opinion. But,
at present, I am really sincere in what I say: And I expect you will be
so too; and answer directly my question.

I find, sir, said I, I know not myself; and your question is of such a
nature, that I only want to tell you what I heard, and to have your
kind answer to it; or else, what I have to say to your question, may
pave the way to my ruin, and shew a weakness that I did not believe was
in me.

Well, said he, you may say what you have overheard; for, in not
answering me directly, you put my soul upon the rack; and half the
trouble I have had with you would have brought to my arms one of the
finest ladies in England.

O sir, said I, my virtue is as dear to me, as if I was of the highest
quality; and my doubts (for which you know I have had too much reason)
have made me troublesome. But now, sir, I will tell you what I heard,
which has given me great uneasiness.

You talked to Mrs. Jewkes of having begun wrong with me, in trying to
subdue me with terror, and of frost, and such like—You remember it
well:—And that you would, for the future, change your conduct, and try
to melt me, that was your word, by kindness.

I fear not, sir, the grace of God supporting me, that any acts of
kindness would make me forget what I owe to my virtue: but, sir, I may,
I find, be made more miserable by such acts, than by terror; because my
nature is too frank and open to make me wish to be ungrateful: and if I
should be taught a lesson I never yet learnt, with what regret should I
descend to the grave, to think that I could not hate my undoer: and
that, at the last great day, I must stand up as an accuser of the poor
unhappy soul, that I could wish it in my power to save!

Exalted girl! said he, what a thought is that!—Why, now, Pamela, you
excel yourself! You have given me a hint that will hold me long. But,
sweet creature, said he, tell me what is this lesson, which you never
yet learnt, and which you are so afraid of learning?

If, sir, said I, you will again generously spare my confusion, I need
not speak it: But this I will say, in answer to the question you seem
most solicitous about, that I know not the man breathing that I would
wish to be married to, or that ever I thought of with such an idea. I
had brought my mind so to love poverty, that I hoped for nothing but to
return to the best, though the poorest of parents; and to employ myself
in serving God, and comforting them; and you know not, sir, how you
disappointed those hopes, and my proposed honest pleasures, when you
sent me hither.

Well then, said he, I may promise myself, that neither the parson, nor
any other man, is any the least secret motive to your steadfast refusal
of my offers? Indeed, sir, said I, you may; and, as you was pleased to
ask, I answer, that I have not the least shadow of a wish, or thought,
for any man living.

But, said he, (for I am foolishly jealous, and yet it shews my fondness
for you,) have you not encouraged Williams to think you will have him?
Indeed, sir, said I, I have not; but the very contrary. And would you
not have had him, said he, if you had got away by his means? I had
resolved, sir, said I, in my mind, otherwise; and he knew it; and the
poor man—I charge you, said he, say not a word in his favour! You will
excite a whirlwind in my soul, if you name him with kindness; and then
you’ll be borne away with the tempest.

Sir, said I, I have done!—Nay, said he, but do not have done; let me
know the whole. If you have any regard for him, speak out; for it would
end fearfully for you, for me, and for him, if I found that you
disguised any secret of your soul from me, in this nice particular.

Sir, said I, if I have ever given you cause to think me sincere—Say
then, said he, interrupting me with great vehemence, and taking both my
hands between his, Say, that you now, in the presence of God, declare
that you have not any the most hidden regard for Williams, or any other
man.

Sir, said I, I do. As God shall bless me, and preserve my innocence, I
have not. Well, said he, I will believe you, Pamela; and in time,
perhaps, I may better bear that man’s name. And, if I am convinced that
you are not prepossessed, my vanity makes me assured, that I need not
to fear a place in your esteem, equal, if not preferable, to any man in
England. But yet it stings my pride to the quick, that you was so
easily brought, and at such a short acquaintance, to run away with that
college novice!

O good sir, said I, may I be heard one thing? And though I bring upon
me your highest indignation, I will tell you, perhaps, the unnecessary
and imprudent, but yet the whole truth.

My honesty (I am poor and lowly, and am not entitled to call it honour)
was in danger. I saw no means of securing myself from your avowed
attempts. You had shewed you would not stick at little matters; and
what, sir, could any body have thought of my sincerity, in preferring
that to all other considerations, if I had not escaped from these
dangers, if I could have found any way for it?—I am not going to say
any thing for him; but, indeed, indeed, sir, I was the cause of putting
him upon assisting me in my escape. I got him to acquaint me what
gentry there were in the neighbourhood that I might fly to; and
prevailed upon him—Don’t frown at me, good sir; for I must tell you the
whole truth—to apply to one Lady Jones; to Lady Darnford; and he was so
good to apply to Mr. Peters, the minister: But they all refused me; and
then it was he let me know, that there was no honourable way but
marriage. That I declined; and he agreed to assist me for God’s sake.

Now, said he, you are going—I boldly put my hand before his mouth,
hardly knowing the liberty I took: Pray, sir, said I, don’t be angry; I
have just done—I would only say, that rather than have staid to be
ruined, I would have thrown myself upon the poorest beggar that ever
the world saw, if I thought him honest.—And I hope, when you duly weigh
all matters, you will forgive me, and not think me so bold, and so
forward, as you have been pleased to call me.

Well, said he, even in this your last speech, which, let me tell you,
shews more your honesty of heart than your prudence, you have not
over-much pleased me. But I must love you; and that vexes me not a
little. But tell me, Pamela, for now the former question recurs: Since
you so much prize your honour, and your virtue; since all attempts
against that are so odious to you; and since I have avowedly made
several of these attempts, do you think it is possible for you to love
me preferably to any other of my sex?

Ah, sir! said I, and here my doubt recurs, that you may thus graciously
use me, to take advantage of my credulity.

Still perverse and doubting! said he—Cannot you take me as I am at
present? And that, I have told you, is sincere and undesigning,
whatever I may be hereafter.

Ah, sir! replied I, what can I say? I have already said too much, if
this dreadful hereafter should take place. Don’t bid me say how well I
can—And then, my face glowing as the fire, I, all abashed, leaned upon
his shoulder, to hide my confusion.

He clasped me to him with great ardour, and said, Hide your dear face
in my bosom, my beloved Pamela! your innocent freedoms charm me!—But
then say, How well—what?

If you will be good, said I, to your poor servant, and spare her, I
cannot say too much! But if not, I am doubly undone!—Undone indeed!

Said he, I hope my present temper will hold; for I tell you frankly,
that I have known, in this agreeable hour, more sincere pleasure than I
have experienced in all the guilty tumults that my desiring soul
compelled me into, in the hopes of possessing you on my own terms. And,
Pamela, you must pray for the continuance of this temper; and I hope
your prayers will get the better of my temptations.

This sweet goodness overpowered all my reserves. I threw myself at his
feet, and embraced his knees: What pleasure, sir, you give me at these
gracious words, is not lent your poor servant to express!—I shall be
too much rewarded for all my sufferings, if this goodness hold! God
grant it may, for your own soul’s sake as well as mine. And oh! how
happy should I be, if——

He stopt me, and said, But, my dear girl, what must we do about the
world, and the world’s censure? Indeed, I cannot marry!

Now was I again struck all of a heap. However, soon recollecting
myself, Sir, said I, I have not the presumption to hope such an honour.
If I may be permitted to return in peace and safety to my poor parents,
to pray for you there, it is all I at present request! This, sir, after
all my apprehensions and dangers, will be a great pleasure to me. And,
if I know my own poor heart, I shall wish you happy in a lady of
suitable degree; and rejoice most sincerely in every circumstance that
shall make for the happiness of my late good lady’s most beloved son.

Well, said he, this conversation, Pamela, is gone farther than I
intended it. You need not be afraid, at this rate, of trusting yourself
with me: but it is I that ought to be doubtful of myself, when I am
with you.—But before I say any thing farther on this subject, I will
take my proud heart to task; and, till then, let every thing be as if
this conversation had never passed. Only, let me tell you, that the
more confidence you place in me, the more you’ll oblige me: but your
doubts will only beget cause of doubts. And with this ambiguous saying,
he saluted me with a more formal manner, if I may so say, than before,
and lent me his hand; and so we walked toward the house, side by side,
he seeming very thoughtful and pensive, as if he had already repented
him of his goodness.

What shall I do, what steps take, if all this be designing—O the
perplexities of these cruel doubtings!—To be sure, if he be false, as I
may call it, I have gone too far, much too far!—I am ready, on the
apprehension of this, to bite my forward tongue (or rather to beat my
more forward heart, that dictated to that poor machine) for what I have
said. But sure, at least, he must be sincere for the time!—He could not
be such a practised dissembler!—If he could, O how desperately wicked
is the heart of man!—And where could he learn all these barbarous
arts?—If so, it must be native surely to the sex!—But, silent be my
rash censurings; be hushed, ye stormy tumults of my disturbed mind! for
have I not a father who is a man?—A man who knows no guile! who would
do no wrong!—who would not deceive or oppress, to gain a kingdom!—How
then can I think it is native to the sex? And I must also hope my good
lady’s son cannot be the worst of men!—If he is, hard the lot of the
excellent woman that bore him!—But much harder the hap of your poor
Pamela, who has fallen into such hands!—But yet I will trust in God,
and hope the best: and so lay down my tired pen for this time.

Thursday morning.

Somebody rapped at our chamber-door this morning, soon after it was
light: Mrs. Jewkes asked, who it was? My master said, Open the door,
Mrs. Jewkes! O, said I, for God’s sake, Mrs. Jewkes, don’t! Indeed,
said she, but I must. Then, said I, and clung about her, let me slip on
my clothes first. But he rapped again, and she broke from me; and I was
frightened out of my wits, and folded myself in the bed-clothes. He
entered, and said, What, Pamela, so fearful, after what passed
yesterday between us! O, sir, sir, said I, I fear my prayers have
wanted their wished effect! Pray, good sir, consider—He sat down on the
bed-side, and interrupted me; No need of your foolish fears; I shall
say but a word or two, and go away.

After you went up stairs, said he, I had an invitation to a ball, which
is to be this night at Stamford, on occasion of a wedding; and I am
going to call on Sir Simon, and his lady and daughters; for the bride
is a relation of theirs: so I shall not be at home till Saturday. I
come, therefore, to caution you, Mrs. Jewkes, before Pamela, (that she
may not wonder at being closer confined, than for these three or four
days past,) that nobody sees her, nor delivers any letter to her, in
that space; for a person has been seen lurking about, and inquiring
after her, and I have been well informed, that either Mrs. Jervis, or
Mr. Longman, has written a letter, with a design of having it conveyed
to her: And, said he, you must know, Pamela, that I have ordered Mr.
Longman to give up his accounts, and have dismissed Jonathan and Mrs.
Jervis, since I have been here; for their behaviour has been
intolerable; and they have made such a breach between my sister Davers
and me, as we shall never, perhaps, make up. Now, Pamela, I shall take
it kindly in you, if you will confine yourself to your chamber pretty
much, for the time I am absent, and not give Mrs. Jewkes cause of
trouble or uneasiness; and the rather, as you know she acts by my
orders.

Alas! sir, said I, I fear all these good people have suffered for my
sake!—Why, said he, I believe so too; and there was never a girl of
your innocence, that set a large family in such an uproar, surely.—But
let that pass. You know both of you my mind, and, in part, the reason
of it. I shall only say, that I have had such a letter from my sister,
as I could not have expected; and, Pamela, said he, neither you nor I
have reason to thank her, as you shall know, perhaps at my return.—I go
in my coach, Mrs. Jewkes, because I take Lady Darnford, and Mrs.
Peters’s niece, and one of Lady Darnford’s daughters, along with me;
and Sir Simon and his other daughter go in his chariot: so let all the
gates be fastened; and don’t take any airing in either of the chariots,
nor let any body go to the gate, without you, Mrs. Jewkes. I’ll be
sure, said she, to obey your honour.

I will give Mrs. Jewkes no trouble, sir, said I; and will keep pretty
much in my chamber, and not stir so much as into the garden without
her; to shew you I will obey in every thing I can. But I begin to
fear—Ay, said he, more plots and contrivances, don’t you?—But I’ll
assure you, you never had less reason; and I tell you the truth; for I
am really going to Stamford this time; and upon the occasion I tell
you. And so, Pamela, give me your hand, and one kiss; and then I am
gone.

I durst not refuse, and said, God bless you, sir, wherever you go!—But
I am sorry for what you tell me about your servants!

He and Mrs. Jewkes had a little talk without the door; and I heard her
say, You may depend, sir, upon my care and vigilance.

He went in his coach, as he said he should, and very richly dressed,
which looks as if what he said was likely: but really I have been used
to so many tricks, and plots, and surprises, that I know not what to
think. But I mourn for poor Mrs. Jervis.—So here is Parson Williams;
here’s poor naughty John; here is good Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. Longman,
and Mr. Jonathan, turned away for me!—Mr. Longman is rich, indeed, and
so need the less matter it; but I know it will grieve him: and for poor
Mr. Jonathan, I am sure it will cut that good old servant to the heart.
Alas for me! what mischiefs am I the occasion of!—Or, rather, my
master, whose actions towards me have made so many of my kind friends
forfeit his favour, for my sake!

I am very sad about these things: If he really loved me, methinks he
should not be so angry, that his servants loved me too.—I know not what
to think!

Friday night.

I have removed my papers from under the rose-bush; for I saw the
gardener begin to dig near that spot; and I was afraid he would find
them.

Mrs. Jewkes and I were looking yesterday through the iron gate that
fronts the elms; and a gipsy-like body made up to us, and said; If,
madam, you will give me some broken victuals, I will tell you both your
fortunes. I said, Let us hear our fortunes, Mrs. Jewkes. She said, I
don’t like these sort of people; but we will hear what she’ll say to
us, however. I shan’t fetch you any victuals, woman; but I will give
you some pence, said she.

But Nan coming out, she said, Fetch some bread, and some of the cold
meat, and you shall have your fortune told, Nan.

This, you’ll think, like some of my other matters, a very trifling
thing to write about. But mark the discovery of a dreadful plot, which
I have made by it. O, bless me! What can I think of this naughty, this
very naughty gentleman!—Now will I hate him most heartily. Thus it
was:—

Mrs. Jewkes had no suspicion of the woman, the iron gate being locked,
and she on the outside, and we on the inside; and so put her hand
through. She said, muttering over a parcel of cramp words; Why, madam,
you will marry soon, I can tell you. At that she seemed pleased, and
said, I am glad to hear that; and shook her fat sides with laughing.
The woman looked most earnestly at me, all the time, and as if she had
meaning. Then it came into my head, from my master’s caution, that
possibly this woman might be employed to try to get a letter into my
hands; and I was resolved to watch all her motions. So Mrs. Jewkes
said, What sort of a man shall I have, pray?—Why, said she, a man
younger than yourself; and a very good husband he’ll prove.—I am glad
of that, said she; and laughed again. Come, madam, let us hear your
fortune.

The woman came to me, and took my hand. O! said she, I cannot tell your
fortune: your hand is so white and fine, I cannot see the lines: but,
said she, and, stooping, pulled up a little tuft of grass, I have a way
for that; and so rubbed my hand with the mould part of the tuft: Now,
said she, I can see the lines.

Mrs. Jewkes was very watchful of all her ways, and took the tuft, and
looked upon it, lest any thing should be in that. And then the woman
said, Here is the line of Jupiter crossing the line of life; and
Mars—Odd! my pretty mistress, said she, you had best take care of
yourself; for you are hard beset, I’ll assure you. You will never be
married, I can see; and will die of your first child. Out upon thee,
woman! said I, better thou hadst never come here.

Said Mrs. Jewkes, whispering, I don’t like this: it looks like a cheat:
Pray, Mrs. Pamela, go in, this moment. So I will, said I; for I have
enough of fortune-telling. And in I went.

The woman wanted sadly to tell me more, which made Mrs. Jewkes threaten
her, suspecting still the more; and away the woman went, having told
Nan her fortune, and she would be drowned.

This thing ran strongly in all our heads; and we went, an hour after,
to see if the woman was lurking about, and took Mr. Colbrand for our
guard. Looking through the iron gate, he spied a man sauntering about
the middle of the walk; which filled Mrs. Jewkes with still more
suspicions; and she said, Mr. Colbrand, you and I will walk towards
this fellow, and see what he saunters there for: And, Nan, do you and
madam stay at the gate.

So they opened the iron gate and walked down towards the man; and
guessing the woman, if employed, must mean something by the tuft of
grass, I cast my eye that way, whence she pulled it, and saw more grass
seemingly pulled up: then I doubted not something was there for me; and
I walked to it, and standing over it, said to Nan, That’s a pretty sort
of wild flower, that grows yonder, near the elm, the fifth from us on
the left; pray pull it for me. Said she, It is a common weed. Well,
said I, but pull it for me; there are sometimes beautiful colours in a
weed.

While she went on, I stooped, and pulled up a good handful of the
grass, and in it a bit of paper, which I put instantly in my bosom, and
dropt the grass: and my heart went pit-a-pat at the odd adventure. Said
I, Let’s go in, Mrs. Anne. No, said she, we must stay till Mrs. Jewkes
comes.

I was all impatience to read this paper: and when Colbrand and she
returned, I went in. Said she, Certainly there is some reason for my
master’s caution: I can make nothing of this sauntering fellow; but, to
be sure, there was some roguery in the gipsy. Well, said I, if there
was, she lost her aim, you see! Ay, very true, said she; but that was
owing to my watchfulness; and you was very good to go away, when I
spoke to you.

I hastened up stairs to my closet, and found the billet to contain, in
a hand that seemed disguised, and bad spelling, the following words:

‘Twenty contrivances have been thought of to let you know your danger:
but all have proved in vain. Your friends hope it is not yet too late
to give you this caution, if it reaches your hands. The ’squire is
absolutely determined to ruin you; and, because he despairs of any
other way, he will pretend great love and kindness to you, and that he
will marry you. You may expect a parson, for this purpose, in a few
days; but it is a sly artful fellow, of a broken attorney, that he has
hired to personate a minister. The man has a broad face, pitted much
with the small-pox, and is a very great companion. So take care of
yourself. Doubt not this advice. Perhaps you’ll have had but too much
reason already to confirm you in the truth of it. From your zealous
well-wisher, ‘SOMEBODY.’

Now, my dear father and mother, what shall we say of this truly
diabolical master! O, how shall I find words to paint my griefs, and
his deceit! I have as good as confessed I love him; but, indeed, it was
on supposing him good.—This, however, has given him too much advantage.
But now I will break this wicked forward heart of mine, if it will not
be taught to hate him! O, what a black dismal heart must he have! So
here is a plot to ruin me, and by my own consent to!—No wonder he did
not improve his wicked opportunities, (which I thought owing to remorse
for his sin, and compassion for me,) when he had such a project as this
in reserve!—Here should I have been deluded with the hopes of a
happiness that my highest ambition could have had aspired to!—But how
dreadful must have been my lot, when I had found myself an undone
creature, and a guilty harlot, instead of a lawful wife! Oh! this is
indeed too much, too much, for your poor Pamela to support! This is the
worse, as I hoped all the worst was over; and that I had the pleasure
of beholding a reclaimed man, and not an abandoned libertine. What now
must your poor daughter do? Now all her hopes are dashed! And if this
fails him, then comes, to be sure, my forced disgrace! for this shews
he will never leave till he has ruined me—O, the wretched, wretched
Pamela!

Saturday noon, one o’clock.

My master is come home; and, to be sure, has been where he said. So
once he has told truth; and this matter seems to be gone off without a
plot: No doubt he depends upon his sham wicked marriage! He has brought
a gentleman with him to dinner; and so I have not seen him yet.

Two o’clock.

I am very sorrowful, and still have greater reason; for, just now, as I
was in my closet, opening the parcel I had hid under the rose-bush, to
see if it was damaged by lying so long, Mrs. Jewkes came upon me by
surprise, and laid her hands upon it; for she had been looking through
the key-hole, it seems.

I know not what I shall do! For now he will see all my private thoughts
of him, and all my secrets, as I may say. What a careless creature I
am!—To be sure I deserve to be punished.

You know I had the good luck, by Mr. Williams’s means, to send you all
my papers down to Sunday night, the 17th day of my imprisonment. But
now these papers contain all my matters from that time, to Wednesday
the 27th day of my distress: And which, as you may now, perhaps, never
see, I will briefly mention the contents to you.

In these papers, then, are included, ‘An account of Mrs. Jewkes’s arts
to draw me in to approve of Mr. Williams’s proposal for marriage; and
my refusing to do so; and desiring you not to encourage his suit to me.
Mr. Williams’s being wickedly robbed, and a visit of hers to him;
whereby she discovered all his secrets. How I was inclined to get off,
while she was gone; but was ridiculously prevented by my foolish fears,
etc. My having the key of the back-door. Mrs. Jewkes’s writing to my
master all the secrets she had discovered of Mr. Williams, and her
behaviour to me and him upon it. Continuance of my correspondence with
Mr. Williams by the tiles; begun in the parcel you had. My reproaches
to him for his revealing himself to Mrs. Jewkes; and his letter to me
in answer, threatening to expose my master, if he deceived him;
mentioning in it John Arnold’s correspondence with him; and a letter
which John sent, and was intercepted, as it seems. Of the
correspondence being carried on by a friend of his at Gainsborough. Of
the horse he was to provide for me, and one for himself. Of what Mr.
Williams had owned to Mrs. Jewkes; and of my discouraging his
proposals. Then it contained a pressing letter of mine to him, urging
my escape before my master came; with his half-angry answer to me. Your
good letter to me, my dear father, sent to me by Mr. Williams’s
conveyance; in which you would have me encourage Mr. Williams, but
leave it to me; and in which, fortunately enough, you take notice of my
being uninclined to marry.—My earnest desire to be with you. The
substance of my answer to Mr. Williams, expressing more patience, etc.
A dreadful letter of my master to Mrs. Jewkes; which, by mistake, was
directed to me; and one to me, directed by like mistake to her; and
very free reflections of mine upon both. The concern I expressed for
Mr. Williams’s being taken in, deceived, and ruined. An account of Mrs.
Jewkes’s glorying in her wicked fidelity. A sad description I gave of
Monsieur Colbrand, a person he sent down to assist Mrs. Jewkes in
watching me. How Mr. Williams was arrested, and thrown into gaol; and
the concern I expressed upon it; and my free reflections on my master
for it. A projected contrivance of mine, to get away out of the window,
and by the back-door; and throwing by petticoat and handkerchief into
the pond to amuse them, while I got off: An attempt that had like to
have ended very dreadfully for me! My further concern for Mr.
Williams’s ruin, on my account: And, lastly, my over-hearing Mrs.
Jewkes brag of her contrivance to rob Mr. Williams, in order to get at
my papers; which, however, he preserved, and sent safe to you.’

These, down to the execution of my unfortunate plot to escape, are, to
the best of my remembrance, the contents of the papers, which this
merciless woman seized: For, how badly I came off, and what followed, I
still have safe, as I hope, sewed in my under-coat, about my hips.

In vain were all my prayers and tears to her, to get her not to shew
them to my master. For she said, It had now come out, why I affected to
be so much alone; and why I was always writing. And she thought herself
happy, she said, she had found these; for often and often had she
searched every place she could think of, for writings, to no purpose
before. And she hoped, she said, there was nothing in them by what any
body might see; for, said she, you know you are all innocence!—Insolent
creature! said I, I am sure you are all guilt!—And so you must do your
worst; for now I can’t help myself, and I see there is no mercy to be
expected from you.

Just now, my master being come up, she went to him upon the stairs, and
gave him my papers. There, sir, said she; you always said Mrs. Pamela
was a great writer; but I never could get at any thing of hers before.
He took them; and, without coming to me, went down to the parlour
again. And what with the gipsy affair, and what with this, I could not
think of going down to dinner; and she told him that too; and so I
suppose I shall have him up stairs, as soon as his company is gone.

Saturday, six o’clock.

My master came up, and, in a pleasanter manner than I expected, said,
So, Pamela, we have seized, it seems, your treasonable papers?
Treasonable! said I, very sullenly. Ay, said he, I suppose so; for you
are a great plotter: but I have not read them yet.

Then, sir, said I, very gravely, it will be truly honourable in you not
to read them; but to give them to me again. To whom, says he, are they
written?—To my father, sir; but I suppose you see to whom.—Indeed,
returned he, I have not read three lines yet. Then, pray, sir, don’t
read them; but give them to me again. That I will not, said he, till I
have read them. Sir, said I, you served me not well in the letters I
used to write formerly: I think it was not worthy your character to
contrive to get them in your hands, by that false John Arnold! for
should such a gentleman as you mind what your poor servant writes?—Yes,
said he, by all means, mind what such a servant as my Pamela writes.

Your Pamela! thought I. Then the sham marriage came into my head; and
indeed it has not been out of it, since the gipsy affair.—But, said he,
have you any thing in these papers you would not have me see? To be
sure, sir, said I, there is; for what one writes to one’s father and
mother, is not for every body to see. Nor, said he, am I every body.

Those letters, added he, that I did see by John’s means, were not to
your disadvantage, I’ll assure you; for they gave me a very high
opinion of your wit and innocence: And if I had not loved you, do you
think I would have troubled myself about your letters?

Alas! sir, said I, great pride to me that! For they gave you such an
opinion of my innocence, that you was resolved to ruin me. And what
advantage have they brought me!—Who have been made a prisoner, and used
as I have been between you and your housekeeper.

Why, Pamela, said he, a little seriously, why this behaviour, for my
goodness to you in the garden?—This is not of a piece with your conduct
and softness there, that quite charmed me in your favour: And you must
not give me cause to think that you will be the more insolent, as you
find me kinder. Ah! sir, said I, you know best your own heart and
designs! But I fear I was too open-hearted then; and that you still
keep your resolution to undo me, and have only changed the form of your
proceedings.

When I tell you once again, said he, a little sternly, that you cannot
oblige me more, than by placing some confidence in me, I will let you
know, that these foolish and perverse doubts are the worst things you
can be guilty of. But, said he, I shall possibly account for the cause
of them, in these papers of yours; for I doubt not you have been
sincere to your father and mother, though you begin to make me suspect
you: For I tell you, perverse girl, that it is impossible you should be
thus cold and insensible, after what has passed in the garden, if you
were not prepossessed in some other person’s favour: And let me add,
that if I find it so, it shall be attended with such effects, as will
make every vein in your heart bleed.

He was going away in wrath; and I said, One word, good sir, one word
before you read them, since you will read them: Pray make
allowances—for all the harsh reflections that you will find in them, on
your own conduct to me: And remember only, that they were not written
for your sight; and were penned by a poor creature hardly used, and who
was in constant apprehension of receiving from you the worst treatment
that you could inflict upon her.

If that be all, said he, and there be nothing of another nature, that I
cannot forgive, you have no cause for uneasiness; for I had as many
instances of your saucy reflections upon me in your former letters, as
there were lines; and yet, you see, I have never upbraided you on that
score; though, perhaps, I wished you had been more sparing of your
epithets, and your freedoms of that sort.

Well, sir, said I, since you will, you must read them; and I think I
have no reason to be afraid of being found insincere, or having, in any
respect, told you a falsehood; because, though I don’t remember all I
wrote, yet I know I wrote my heart; and that is not deceitful. And
remember, sir, another thing, that I always declared I thought myself
right to endeavour to make my escape from this forced and illegal
restraint; and so you must not be angry that I would have done so, if I
could.

I’ll judge you, never fear, said he, as favourably as you deserve; for
you have too powerful a pleader within me. And so went down stairs.

About nine o’clock he sent for me down into the parlour. I went a
little fearfully; and he held the paper in his hand, and said, Now,
Pamela, you come upon your trial. Said I, I hope I have a just judge to
hear my cause. Ay, said he, and you may hope for a merciful one too, or
else I know not what will become of you.

I expect, continued he, that you will answer me directly, and plainly,
to every question I shall ask you.—In the first place, here are several
love-letters between you and Williams. Love-letters! sir, said I.—Well,
call them what you will, said he, I don’t entirely like them, I’ll
assure you, with all the allowances you desired me to make for you. Do
you find, sir, said I, that I encouraged his proposal, or do you not?
Why, said he, you discourage his address in appearance; but no
otherwise than all your cunning sex do to ours, to make us more eager
in pursuing you.

Well, sir, said I, that is your comment; but it does not appear so in
the text. Smartly said! says he: Where a d—l gottest thou, at these
years, all this knowledge? And then thou hast a memory, as I see by
your papers, that nothing escapes. Alas! sir, said I, what poor
abilities I have, serve only to make me more miserable!—I have no
pleasure in my memory, which impresses things upon me, that I could be
glad never were, or everlastingly to forget.

Well, said he, so much for that—But where are the accounts (since you
have kept so exact a journal of all that has befallen you) previous to
these here in my hand? My father has them, sir, said I.—By whose means?
said he—By Mr. Williams’s, said I. Well answered, said he. But cannot
you contrive to get me a sight of them? That would be pretty! said I. I
wish I could have contrived to have kept those you have from your
sight. Said he, I must see them, Pamela, or I shall never be easy; for
I must know how this correspondence between you and Williams began: and
if I can see them, it shall be better for you, if they answer what
these give me hope they will.

I can tell you, sir, very faithfully, said I, what the beginning was;
for I was bold enough to be the beginner. That won’t do, said he; for
though this may appear a punctilio to you, to me it is of high
importance. Sir, said I, if you please to let me go to my father, I
will send them to you by any messenger you shall send for them. Will
you so? But I dare say, if you will write for them, they will send them
to you, without the trouble of such a journey to yourself: and I beg
you will.

I think, sir, said I, as you have seen all my former letters through
John’s baseness, and now these, through your faithful housekeeper’s
officious watchfulness, you might see all the rest: But I hope you will
not desire it, till I can see how much my pleasing you in this
particular will be of use to myself.

You must trust to my honour for that. But tell me, Pamela, said the sly
gentleman, since I have seen these, would you have voluntarily shewn me
those, had they been in your possession?

I was not aware of this inference, and said, Yes, truly, sir, I think I
should, if you commanded it. Well then, Pamela, said he, as I am sure
you have found means to continue your journal, I desire, till the
former part can come, that you will shew me the succeeding.—O sir, sir,
said I, have you caught me so?—But indeed you must excuse me there.

Why, said he, tell me truly, have you not continued your account till
now? Don’t ask me, sir, said I. But I insist upon your answer, replied
he. Why then, sir, I will not tell an untruth; I have.—That’s my good
girl! said he, I love sincerity at my heart.—In another, sir, said I, I
presume you mean!—Well, said he, I’ll allow you to be a little witty
upon me; because it is in you, and you cannot help it: but you will
greatly oblige me, to shew me voluntarily what you have written. I long
to see the particulars of your plot, and your disappointment, where
your papers leave off: for you have so beautiful a manner, that it is
partly that, and partly my love for you, that has made me desirous of
reading all you write; though a great deal of it is against myself; for
which you must expect to suffer a little: and as I have furnished you
with the subject, I have a title to see the fruits of your
pen.—Besides, said he, there is such a pretty air of romance, as you
relate them, in your plots, and my plots, that I shall be better
directed in what manner to wind up the catastrophe of the pretty novel.

If I was your equal, sir, said I, I should say this is a very provoking
way of jeering at the misfortunes you have brought upon me.

O, said he, the liberties you have taken with my character in your
letters, sets us upon a par, at least in that respect. Sir, I could not
have taken those liberties, if you had not given me the cause: and the
cause, sir, you know, is before the effect.

True, Pamela, said he; you chop logic very prettily. What the deuse do
we men go to school for? If our wits were equal to women’s, we might
spare much time and pains in our education: for nature teaches your
sex, what, in a long course of labour and study, ours can hardly attain
to.—But, indeed, every lady is not a Pamela.

You delight to banter your poor servant, said I.

Nay, continued he, I believe I must assume to myself half the merit of
your wit, too; for the innocent exercises you have had for it, from me,
have certainly sharpened your invention.

Sir, said I, could I have been without those innocent exercises, as you
are pleased to call them, I should have been glad to have been as dull
as a beetle. But then, Pamela, said he, I should not have loved you so
well. But then, sir, I should have been safe, easy, and happy.—Ay, may
be so, and may be not; and the wife, too, of some clouterly plough-boy.

But then, sir, I should have been content and innocent; and that’s
better than being a princess, and not so. And may be not, said he; for
if you had had that pretty face, some of us keen fox-hunters should
have found you out; and, in spite of your romantic notions, (which
then, too, perhaps, would not have had so strong a place in your mind,)
might have been more happy with the ploughman’s wife, than I have been
with my mother’s Pamela. I hope, sir, said I, God would have given me
more grace.

Well, but, resumed he, as to these writings of yours, that follow your
fine plot, I must see them. Indeed, sir, you must not, if I can help
it. Nothing, said he, pleases me better, than that, in all your arts,
shifts, and stratagems, you have had a great regard to truth; and have,
in all your little pieces of deceit, told very few wilful fibs. Now I
expect you’ll continue this laudable rule in your conversation with
me.—Let me know then, where you have found supplies of pen, ink, and
paper, when Mrs. Jewkes was so vigilant, and gave you but two sheets at
a time?—Tell me truth.

Why, sir, little did I think I should have such occasion for them; but,
when I went away from your house, I begged some of each of good Mr.
Longman, who gave me plenty. Yes, yes, said he, it must be good Mr.
Longman! All your confederates are good, every one of them: but such of
my servants as have done their duty, and obeyed my orders, are painted
out by you as black as devils! nay, so am I too, for that matter.

Sir, said I, I hope you won’t be angry, but, saving yourself, do you
think they are painted worse than they deserve? or worse than the parts
they acted require?

You say, saving myself, Pamela; but is not that saying a mere
compliment to me, because I am present, and you are in my hands? Tell
me truly.—Good sir, excuse me; but I fancy I might ask you, Why you
should think so, if there was not a little bit of conscience that told
you, there was but too much reason for it?

He kissed me, and said, I must either do thus, or be angry with you;
for you are very saucy, Pamela.—But, with your bewitching chit-chat,
and pretty impertinence, I will not lose my question. Where did you
hide your paper, pens, and ink?

Some, sir, in one place, some in another; that I might have some left,
if others should be found.—That’s a good girl! said he; I love you for
your sweet veracity. Now tell me where it is you hide your written
papers, your saucy journal?—I must beg your excuse for that, sir, said
I. But indeed, answered he, you will not have it: for I will know, and
I will see them.—This is very hard, sir, said I; but I must say, you
shall not, if I can help it.

We were standing most of this time; but he then sat down, and took me
by both my hands, and said, Well said, my pretty Pamela, if you can
help it! But I will not let you help it. Tell me, are they in your
pocket? No, sir, said I; my heart up at my mouth. Said he, I know you
won’t tell a downright fib for the world: but for equivocation! no
jesuit ever went beyond you. Answer me then, Are they in neither of
your pockets? No, sir, said I. Are they not, said he, about your stays?
No, sir, replied I: But pray no more questions: for ask me ever so
much, I will not tell you.

O, said he, I have a way for that. I can do as they do abroad, when the
criminals won’t confess; torture them till they do.—But pray, sir, said
I, is this fair, just, or honest? I am no criminal; and I won’t
confess.

O, my girl! said he, many an innocent person has been put to the
torture. But let me know where they are, and you shall escape the
question, as they call it abroad.

Sir, said I, the torture is not used in England, and I hope you won’t
bring it up. Admirably said! said the naughty gentleman.—But I can tell
you of as good a punishment. If a criminal won’t plead with us, here in
England, we press him to death, or till he does plead. And so now,
Pamela, that is a punishment shall certainly be yours, if you won’t
tell without.

Tears stood in my eyes, and I said, This, sir, is very cruel and
barbarous.—No matter, said he; it is but like your Lucifer, you know,
in my shape! And, after I have done so many heinous things by you as
you think, you have no great reason to judge so hardly of this; or, at
least, it is but of a piece with the rest.

But, sir, said I, (dreadfully afraid he had some notion they were about
me,) if you will be obeyed in this unreasonable manner, though it is
sad tyranny, to be sure!—let me go up to them, and read them over
again, and you shall see so far as to the end of the sad story that
follows those you have.

I’ll see them all, said he, down to this time, if you have written so
far:—Or, at least, till within this week.—Then let me go up to them,
said I, and see what I have written, and to what day, to shew them to
you; for you won’t desire to see every thing. But I will, replied
he.—But say, Pamela, tell me truth: Are they above? I was much
affrighted. He saw my confusion. Tell me truth, said he. Why, sir,
answered I, I have sometimes hid them under the dry mould in the
garden; sometimes in one place, sometimes in another; and those you
have in your hand, were several days under a rose-bush, in the garden.
Artful slut! said he, What’s this to my question?—Are they not about
you?—If, said I, I must pluck them out of my hiding-place behind the
wainscot, won’t you see me?—Still more and more artful! said he—Is this
an answer to my question?—I have searched every place above, and in
your closet, for them, and cannot find them; so I will know where they
are. Now, said he, it is my opinion they are about you; and I never
undressed a girl in my life; but I will now begin to strip my pretty
Pamela; and I hope I shall not go far before I find them.

I fell a crying, and said, I will not be used in this manner. Pray,
sir, said I, (for he began to unpin my handkerchief,) consider! Pray
sir, do!—And pray, said he, do you consider. For I will see these
papers. But may be, said he, they are tied about your knees, with your
garters, and stooped. Was ever any thing so vile and so wicked?—I fell
on my knees, and said, What can I do? What can I do? If you’ll let me
go up I’ll fetch them to you. Will you, said he, on your honour, let me
see them uncurtailed, and not offer to make them away; no not a single
paper?—I will, sir.—On your honour? Yes, sir. And so he let me go up
stairs, crying sadly for vexation to be so used. Sure nobody was ever
so served as I am!

I went to my closet, and there I sat me down, and could not bear the
thoughts of giving up my papers. Besides, I must all undress me, in a
manner, to untack them. So I writ thus:

‘SIR,

‘To expostulate with such an arbitrary gentleman, I know will signify
nothing; and most hardly do you use the power you so wickedly have got
over me. I have heart enough, sir, to do a deed that would make you
regret using me thus; and I can hardly bear it, and what I am further
to undergo. But a superior consideration withholds me; thank God, it
does!—I will, however, keep my word, if you insist upon it when you
have read this; but, sir, let me beg of you to give me time till
to-morrow morning, that I may just run them over, and see what I put
into your hands against me: and I will then give my papers to you,
without the least alteration, or adding or diminishing: But I should
beg still to be excused, if you please: But if not, spare them to me
but till to-morrow morning: and this, so hardly am I used, shall be
thought a favour, which I shall be very thankful for.’

I guessed it would not be long before I heard from him and he
accordingly sent up Mrs. Jewkes for what I had promised. So I gave her
this note to carry to him. And he sent word, that I must keep my
promise, and he would give me till morning; but that I must bring them
to him, without his asking again.

So I took off my under-coat, and with great trouble of mind, unsewed
them from it. And there is a vast quantity of it. I will just slightly
touch upon the subjects; because I may not, perhaps, get them again for
you to see.

They begin with an account of ‘my attempting to get away out of the
window first, and then throwing my petticoat and handkerchief into the
pond. How sadly I was disappointed, the lock of the back-door being
changed. How, in trying to climb over the door, I tumbled down, and was
piteously bruised; the bricks giving way, and tumbling upon me. How,
finding I could not get off, and dreading the hard usage I should
receive, I was so wicked as to think of throwing myself into the water.
My sad reflections upon this matter. How Mrs. Jewkes used me upon this
occasion, when she found me. How my master had like to have been
drowned in hunting; and my concern for his danger, notwithstanding his
usage of me. Mrs. Jewkes’s wicked reports, to frighten me, that I was
to be married to the ugly Swiss; who was to sell me on the wedding-day
to my master. Her vile way of talking to me, like a London prostitute.
My apprehensions of seeing preparations made for my master’s coming.
Her causeless fears that I was trying to get away again, when I had no
thoughts of it; and my bad usage upon it. My master’s dreadful arrival;
and his hard, very hard treatment of me; and Mrs. Jewkes’s insulting of
me. His jealousy of Mr. Williams and me. How Mrs. Jewkes vilely
instigated him to wickedness.’ And down to here, I put into one parcel,
hoping that would content him. But for fear it should not, I put into
another parcel the following; viz.

‘A copy of his proposals to me, of a great parcel of gold, and fine
clothes and rings, and an estate of I can’t tell what a year; and 50l.
a year for the life of both you, my dear parents, to be his mistress;
with an insinuation, that, may be, he would marry me at the year’s end:
All sadly vile: With threatenings, if I did not comply, that he would
ruin me, without allowing me any thing. A copy of my answer, refusing
all, with just abhorrence: But begging at last his goodness towards me,
and mercy on me, in the most moving manner I could think of. An account
of his angry behaviour, and Mrs. Jewkes’s wicked advice hereupon. His
trying to get me to his chamber; and my refusal to go. A deal of stuff
and chit-chat between me and the odious Mrs. Jewkes; in which she was
very wicked and very insulting. Two notes I wrote, as if to be carried
to church, to pray for his reclaiming, and my safety; which Mrs. Jewkes
seized, and officiously shewed him. A confession of mine, that,
notwithstanding his bad usage, I could not hate him. My concern for Mr.
Williams. A horrid contrivance of my master’s to ruin me; being in my
room, disguised in clothes of the maid’s, who lay with me and Mrs.
Jewkes. How narrowly I escaped, (it makes my heart ache to think of it
still!) by falling into fits. Mrs. Jewkes’s detestable part in this sad
affair. How he seemed moved at my danger, and forbore his abominable
designs; and assured me he had offered no indecency. How ill I was for
a day or two after; and how kind he seemed. How he made me forgive Mrs.
Jewkes. How, after this, and great kindness pretended, he made rude
offers to me in the garden, which I escaped. How I resented them.’ Then
I had written, ‘How kindly he behaved himself to me; and how he praised
me, and gave me great hopes of his being good at last. Of the too
tender impression this made upon me; and how I began to be afraid of my
own weakness and consideration for him, though he had used me so ill.
How sadly jealous he was of Mr. Williams; and how I, as justly could,
cleared myself as to his doubts on that score. How, just when he had
raised me up to the highest hope of his goodness, he dashed me sadly
again, and went off more coldly. My free reflections upon this trying
occasion.’

This brought down matters from Thursday, the 20th day of my
imprisonment, to Wednesday the 41st, and here I was resolved to end,
let what would come; for only Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, remain to
give an account of; and Thursday he set out to a ball at Stamford; and
Friday was the gipsy story; and this is Saturday, his return from
Stamford. And truly, I shall have but little heart to write, if he is
to see all.

So these two parcels of papers I have got ready for him against
to-morrow morning. To be sure I have always used him very freely in my
writings, and shewed him no mercy; but yet he must thank himself for
it; for I have only writ truth; and I wish he had deserved a better
character at my hands, as well for his own sake as mine.—So, though I
don’t know whether ever you’ll see what I write, I must say, that I
will go to bed, with remembering you in my prayers, as I always do, and
as I know you do me: And so, my dear parents, good night.

Sunday morning.

I remembered what he said, of not being obliged to ask again for my
papers; and what I should be forced to do, and could not help, I
thought I might as well do in such a manner as might shew I would not
disoblige on purpose: though I stomached this matter very heavily too.
I had therefore got in readiness my two parcels; and he, not going to
church in the morning, bid Mrs. Jewkes tell me he was gone into the
garden.

I knew that was for me to go to him; and so I went: for how can I help
being at his beck? which grieves me not a little, though he is my
master, as I may say; for I am so wholly in his power, that it would do
me no good to incense him; and if I refused to obey him in little
matters, my refusal in greater would have the less weight. So I went
down to the garden; but as he walked in one walk, I took another, that
I might not seem too forward neither.

He soon ’spied me, and said, Do you expect to be courted to come to me?
Sir, said I, and crossed the walk to attend him, I did not know but I
should interrupt you in your meditations this good day.

Was that the case, said he, truly, and from your heart? Why, sir, said
I, I don’t doubt but you have very good thoughts sometimes, though not
towards me. I wish, said he, I could avoid thinking so well of you as I
do. But where are the papers?—I dare say you had them about you
yesterday; for you say in those I have, that you will bury your
writings in the garden, for fear you should be searched, if you did not
escape. This, added he, gave me a glorious pretence to search you; and
I have been vexing myself all night, that I did not strip you garment
by garment, till I had found them. O fie, sir, said I; let me not be
scared, with hearing that you had such a thought in earnest.

Well, said he, I hope you have not now the papers to give me; for I had
rather find them myself, I’ll assure you.

I did not like this way of talk at all; and thinking it best not to
dwell upon it, said, Well, but, sir, you will excuse me, I hope, giving
up my papers.

Don’t trifle with me, said he; Where are they?—I think I was very good
to you last night, to humour you as I did. If you have either added or
diminished, and have not strictly kept your promise, woe be to you!
Indeed, sir, said I, I have neither added nor diminished. But there is
the parcel that goes on with my sad attempt to escape, and the terrible
consequences it had like to have been followed with. And it goes down
to the naughty articles you sent me. And as you know all that has
happened since, I hope these will satisfy you.

He was going to speak; but I said, to drive him from thinking of any
more, And I must beg you, sir, to read the matter favourably, if I have
exceeded in any liberties of my pen.

I think, said he, half-smiling, you may wonder at my patience, that I
can be so easy to read myself abused as I am by such a saucy slut.—Sir,
said I, I have wondered you should be so desirous to see my bold stuff;
and, for that very reason, I have thought it a very good, or a very bad
sign. What, said he, is your good sign?—That it may have an effect upon
your temper, at last, in my favour, when you see me so sincere. Your
bad sign? Why, that if you can read my reflections and observations
upon your treatment of me, with tranquillity, and not be moved, it is a
sign of a very cruel and determined heart. Now, pray, sir, don’t be
angry at my boldness in telling you so freely my thoughts. You may,
perhaps, said he, be least mistaken, when you think of your bad sign.
God forbid! said I.

So I took out my papers; and said, Here, sir, they are. But if you
please to return them, without breaking the seal, it will be very
generous: and I will take it for a great favour, and a good omen.

He broke the seal instantly, and opened them: So much for your omen!
replied he. I am sorry for it, said I, very seriously; and was walking
away. Whither now? said he. I was going in, sir, that you might have
time to read them, if you thought fit. He put them into his pocket, and
said, You have more than these. Yes, sir: but all they contain, you
know as well as I.—But I don’t know, said he, the light you put things
in; and so give them me, if you have not a mind to be searched.

Sir, said I, I can’t stay, if you won’t forbear that ugly word.—Give me
then no reason for it. Where are the other papers? Why, then, unkind
sir, if it must be so, here they are. And so I gave him, out of my
pocket, the second parcel, sealed up, as the former, with this
superscription; From the naughty articles, down, through sad attempts,
to Thursday the 42d day of my imprisonment. This is last Thursday, is
it? Yes, sir; but now you will see what I write, I will find some other
way to employ my time: for how can I write with any face, what must be
for your perusal, and not for those I intended to read my melancholy
stories?

Yes, said he, I would have you continue your penmanship by all means;
and, I assure you, in the mind I am in, I will not ask you for any
after these; except any thing very extraordinary occurs. And I have
another thing to tell you, added he, that if you send for those from
your father, and let me read them, I may, very probably, give them all
back again to you. And so I desire you will do it.

This a little encourages me to continue my scribbling; but, for fear of
the worst, I will, when they come to any bulk, contrive some way to
hide them, if I can, that I may protest I have them not about me,
which, before, I could not say of a truth; and that made him so
resolutely bent to try to find them upon me; for which I might have
suffered frightful indecencies.

He led me, then, to the side of the pond; and sitting down on the
slope, made me sit by him. Come, said he, this being the scene of part
of your project, and where you so artfully threw in some of your
clothes, I will just look upon that part of your relation. Sir, said I,
let me then walk about, at a little distance; for I cannot bear the
thought of it. Don’t go far, said he.

When he came, as I suppose, to the place where I mentioned the bricks
falling upon me, he got up, and walked to the door, and looked upon the
broken part of the wall; for it had not been mended; and came back,
reading on to himself, towards me; and took my hand, and put it under
his arm.

Why, this, said he, my girl, is a very moving tale. It was a very
desperate attempt, and, had you got out, you might have been in great
danger; for you had a very bad and lonely way; and I had taken such
measures, that, let you have been where you would, I should have had
you.

You may see, sir, said I, what I ventured, rather than be ruined; and
you will be so good as hence to judge of the sincerity of my
profession, that my honesty is dearer to me than my life. Romantic
girl! said he, and read on.

He was very serious at my reflections, on what God had enabled me to
escape. And when he came to my reasonings about throwing myself into
the water, he said, Walk gently before; and seemed so moved, that he
turned away his face from me; and I blessed this good sign, and began
not so much to repent at his seeing this mournful part of my story.

He put the papers in his pocket, when he had read my reflections, and
thanks for escaping from myself; and said, taking me about the waist, O
my dear girl! you have touched me sensibly with your mournful relation,
and your sweet reflections upon it. I should truly have been very
miserable had it taken effect. I see you have been used too roughly;
and it is a mercy you stood proof in that fatal moment.

Then he most kindly folded me in his arms: Let us, say I too, my
Pamela, walk from this accursed piece of water; for I shall not, with
pleasure, look upon it again, to think how near it was to have been
fatal to my fair one. I thought, added he, of terrifying you to my
will, since I could not move you by love; and Mrs. Jewkes too well
obeyed me, when the terrors of your return, after your disappointment,
were so great, that you had hardly courage to withstand them; but had
like to have made so fatal a choice, to escape the treatment you
apprehended.

O sir, said I, I have reason, I am sure, to bless my dear parents, and
my good lady, your mother, for giving me something of a religious
education; for, but for that, and God’s grace, I should, more than upon
one occasion, have attempted, at least, a desperate act: and I the less
wonder how poor creatures, who have not the fear of God before their
eyes, and give way to despondency, cast themselves into perdition.

Come, kiss me, said he, and tell me you forgive me for pushing you into
so much danger and distress. If my mind hold, and I can see those
former papers of yours, and that these in my pocket give me no cause to
altar my opinion, I will endeavour to defy the world and the world’s
censures, and make my Pamela amends, if it be in the power of my whole
life, for all the hardships I have made her undergo.

All this looked well; but you shall see how strangely it was all
turned. For this sham-marriage then came into my mind again; and I
said, Your poor servant is far unworthy of this great honour; for what
will it be but to create envy to herself, and discredit to you?
Therefore, sir, permit me to return to my poor parents, and that is all
I have to ask.

He was in a fearful passion then. And is it thus, said he, in my fond
conceding moments, that I am to be despised and answered?—Precise,
perverse, unseasonable Pamela! begone from my sight! and know as well
how to behave in a hopeful prospect, as in a distressful state; and
then, and not till then, shalt thou attract the shadow of my notice.

I was startled, and going to speak: but he stamped with his foot, and
said, Begone! I tell you: I cannot bear this stupid romantic folly.

One word, said I; but one word, I beseech you, sir.

He turned from me in great wrath, and took down another alley, and so I
went, with a very heavy heart; and fear I was too unseasonable, just at
a time when he was so condescending: but if it was a piece of art of
his side, as I apprehended, to introduce the sham-wedding, (and, to be
sure, he is very full of stratagem and art,) I think I was not so much
to blame.

So I went up to my closet; and wrote thus far, while he walked about
till dinner was ready; and he is now sat down to it, as I hear by Mrs.
Jewkes, very sullen, thoughtful, and out of humour; and she asks, What
I have done to him?—Now, again, I dread to see him!—When will my fears
be over?

Three o’clock.

Well, he continues exceeding wrath. He has ordered his travelling
chariot to be got ready with all speed. What is to come next, I wonder!

Sure I did not say so much!—But see the lordliness of a high
condition!—A poor body must not put in a word, when they take it into
their heads to be angry! What a fine time a person of an equal
condition would have of it, if she were even to marry such a one!—His
poor dear mother spoiled him at first. Nobody must speak to him or
contradict him, as I have heard, when he was a child; and so he has not
been used to be controlled, and cannot bear the least thing that
crosses his violent will. This is one of the blessings attending men of
high condition! Much good may do them with their pride of birth, and
pride of fortune! say I:—All that it serves for, as far as I can see,
is, to multiply their disquiets, and every body’s else that has to do
with them.

So, so! where will this end?—Mrs. Jewkes has been with me from him, and
she says, I must get out of the house this moment. Well, said I, but
whither am I to be carried next? Why, home, said she, to your father
and mother. And can it be? said I; No, no, I doubt I shall not be so
happy as that!—To be sure some bad design is on foot again! To be sure
it is!—Sure, sure, said I, Mrs. Jewkes, he has not found out some other
housekeeper worse than you! She was very angry, you may well think. But
I know she can’t be made worse than she is.

She came up again. Are you ready? said she. Bless me, said I, you are
very hasty! I have heard of this not a quarter of an hour ago. But I
shall be soon ready; for I have but little to take with me, and no kind
friends in this house to take leave of, to delay me. Yet, like a fool,
I can’t help crying.—Pray, said I, just step down, and ask, if I may
not have my papers.

So, I am quite ready now, against she comes up with an answer; and so I
will put up these few writings in my bosom, that I have left.

I don’t know what to think—nor how to judge; but I shall never believe
I am with you, till I am on my knees before you, begging both your
blessings. Yet I am sorry he is so angry with me! I thought I did not
say so much!

There is, I see, the chariot drawn out, the horses too, the grim
Colbrand going to get on horseback. What will be the end of all this?

Monday.

Well, where this will end, I cannot say. But here I am, at a little
poor village, almost such a one as yours! I shall learn the name of it
by and by: and Robin assures me, he has orders to carry me to you, my
dear father and mother. O that he may say truth, and not deceive me
again! But having nothing else to do, and I am sure I shall not sleep a
wink to-night, if I was to go to bed, I will write my time away, and
take up my story where I left off, on Sunday afternoon.

Mrs. Jewkes came up to me, with this answer about my papers: My master
says, he will not read them yet, lest he should be moved by any thing
in them to alter his resolution. But if he should think it worth while
to read them, he will send them to you, afterwards, to your father’s.
But, said she, here are your guineas that I borrowed: for all is over
now with you, I find.

She saw me cry, and said, Do you repent?—Of what? said I.—Nay, I can’t
tell, replied she; but, to be sure, he has had a taste of your
satirical flings, or he would not be so angry. O! continued she, and
held up her hand, thou hast a spirit!—But I hope it will now be brought
down.—I hope so too, said I.

Well, added I, I am ready. She lifted up the window, and said, I’ll
call Robin to take your portmanteau: Bag and baggage! proceeded she,
I’m glad you’re going. I have no words, said I, to throw away upon you,
Mrs. Jewkes; but, making her a very low courtesy, I most heartily thank
you for all your virtuous civilities to me. And so adieu; for I’ll have
no portmanteau, I’ll assure you, nor any thing but these few things
that I brought with me in my handkerchief, besides what I have on. For
I had all this time worn my own bought clothes, though my master would
have had it otherwise often: but I had put up paper, ink, and pens,
however.

So down I went, and as I passed by the parlour, she stepped in, and
said, Sir, you have nothing to say to the girl before she goes? I heard
him reply, though I did not see him, Who bid you say, the girl, Mrs.
Jewkes, in that manner? She has offended only me.

I beg your honour’s pardon, said the wretch; but if I was your honour,
she should not, for all the trouble she has cost you, go away
scot-free. No more of this, as I told you before, said he: What! when I
have such proof, that her virtue is all her pride, shall I rob her of
that?—No, added he, let her go, perverse and foolish as she is; but she
deserves to go honest, and she shall go so!

I was so transported with this unexpected goodness, that I opened the
door before I knew what I did; and said, falling on my knees at the
door, with my hands folded, and lifted up, O thank you, thank your
honour, a million of times!—May God bless you for this instance of your
goodness to me! I will pray for you as long as I live, and so shall my
dear father and mother. And, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, I will pray for you
too, poor wicked wretch that you are!

He turned from me, and went into his closet, and shut the door. He need
not have done so; for I would not have gone nearer to him!

Surely I did not say so much, to incur all this displeasure.

I think I was loath to leave the house. Can you believe it?—What could
be the matter with me, I wonder?—I felt something so strange, and my
heart was so lumpish!—I wonder what ailed me!—But this was so
unexpected!—I believe that was all!—Yet I am very strange still.
Surely, surely, I cannot be like the old murmuring Israelites, to long
after the onions and garlick of Egypt, when they had suffered there
such heavy bondage?—I’ll take thee, O lumpish, contradictory,
ungovernable heart! to severe task, for this thy strange impulse, when
I get to my dear father’s and mother’s; and if I find any thing in thee
that should not be, depend upon it thou shalt be humbled, if strict
abstinence, prayer, and mortification, will do it!

But yet, after all, this last goodness of his has touched me too
sensibly. I wish I had not heard it, almost; and yet, methinks, I am
glad I did; for I should rejoice to think the best of him, for his own
sake.

Well, and so I went out to the chariot, the same that brought me down.
So, Mr. Robert, said I, here I am again! a poor sporting-piece for the
great! a mere tennis-ball of fortune! You have your orders, I hope.
Yes, madam, said he. Pray, now, said I, don’t madam me, nor stand with
your hat off to such a one as I. Had not my master, said he, ordered me
not to be wanting in respect to you, I would have shewn you all I
could. Well, said I, with my heart full, that’s very kind, Mr. Robert.

Mr. Colbrand, mounted on horseback, with pistols before him, came up to
me, as soon as I got in, with his hat off too. What, monsieur! said I,
are you to go with me?—Part of the way, he said, to see you safe. I
hope that’s kind too, in you, Mr. Colbrand, said I.

I had nobody to wave my handkerchief to now, nor to take leave of; and
so I resigned myself to my contemplations, with this strange wayward
heart of mine, that I never found so ungovernable and awkward before.

So away drove the chariot!—And when I had got out of the elm-walk, and
into the great road, I could hardly think but I was in a dream all the
time. A few hours before, in my master’s arms almost, with twenty kind
things said to me, and a generous concern for the misfortunes he had
brought upon me; and only by one rash half-word exasperated against me,
and turned out of doors, at an hour’s warning; and all his kindness
changed to hate! And I now, from three o’clock to five, several miles
off! But if I am going to you, all will be well again, I hope.

Lack-a-day, what strange creatures are men! gentlemen, I should say,
rather! For, my dear deserving good mother, though poverty be both your
lots, has had better hap, and you are, and have always been, blest in
one another!—Yet this pleases me too; he was so good, he would not let
Mrs. Jewkes speak ill of me, and scorned to take her odious unwomanly
advice. O, what a black heart has this poor wretch! So I need not rail
against men so much; for my master, bad as I have thought him, is not
half so bad as this woman.—To be sure she must be an atheist!—Do you
think she is not?

We could not reach further than this little poor place and sad
alehouse, rather than inn; for it began to be dark, and Robin did not
make so much haste as he might have done; and he was forced to make
hard shift for his horses.

Mr. Colbrand, and Robert too, are very civil. I see he has got my
portmanteau lashed behind the coach. I did not desire it; but I shall
not come quite empty.

A thorough riddance of me, I see!—Bag and baggage! as Mrs. Jewkes says.
Well, my story surely would furnish out a surprising kind of novel, if
it was to be well told.

Mr. Robert came up to me, just now, and begged me to eat something: I
thanked him; but said, I could not eat. I bid him ask Mr. Colbrand to
walk up; and he came; but neither of them would sit; nor put their hats
on. What mockado is this, to such a poor soul as I! I asked them, if
they were at liberty to tell me the truth of what they were to do with
me? If not, I would not desire it.—They both said, Robin was ordered to
carry me to my father’s; and Mr. Colbrand was to leave me within ten
miles, and then strike off for the other house, and wait till my master
arrived there. They both spoke so solemnly, that I could not but
believe them.

But when Robin went down, the other said, he had a letter to give me
next day at noon, when we baited, as we were to do, at Mrs. Jewkes’s
relation’s.—May I not, said I, beg the favour to see it to-night? He
seemed so loath to deny me, that I have hopes I shall prevail on him by
and by.

Well, my dear father and mother, I have got the letter, on great
promises of secrecy, and making no use of it. I will try if I can open
it without breaking the seal, and will take a copy of it by and by; for
Robin is in and out: there being hardly any room in this little house
for one to be long alone. Well, this is the letter:

‘When these lines are delivered to you, you will be far on your way to
your father and mother, where you have so long desired to be: and, I
hope, I shall forbear thinking of you with the least shadow of that
fondness my foolish heart had entertained for you: I bear you, however,
no ill will; but the end of my detaining you being over, I would not
that you should tarry with me an hour more than needed, after the
ungenerous preference you gave, at a time that I was inclined to pass
over all other considerations, for an honourable address to you; for
well I found the tables entirely turned upon me, and that I was in far
more danger from you, than you were from me; for I was just upon
resolving to defy all the censures of the world, and to make you my
wife.

‘I will acknowledge another truth: That, had I not parted with you as I
did, but permitted you to stay till I had read your journal,
reflecting, as I doubt not I shall find it, and till I had heard your
bewitching pleas in your own behalf, I feared I could not trust myself
with my own resolution. And this is the reason, I frankly own, that I
have determined not to see you, nor hear you speak; for well I know my
weakness in your favour.

‘But I will get the better of this fond folly: Nay, I hope I have
already done it, since it was likely to cost me so dear. And I write
this to tell you, that I wish you well with all my heart, though you
have spread such mischief through my family.—And yet I cannot but say
that I could wish you would not think of marrying in haste; and,
particularly, that you would not have this cursed Williams.—But what is
all this to me now?—Only, my weakness makes me say, That as I had
already looked upon you as mine, and you have so soon got rid of your
first husband; so you will not refuse, to my memory, the decency that
every common person observes, to pay a twelvemonth’s compliment, though
but a mere compliment, to my ashes.

‘Your papers shall be faithfully returned you; and I have paid so dear
for my curiosity in the affection they have rivetted upon me for you,
that you would look upon yourself amply revenged if you knew what they
have cost me.

‘I thought of writing only a few lines; but I have run into length. I
will now try to recollect my scattered thoughts, and resume my reason;
and shall find trouble enough to replace my affairs, and my own family,
and to supply the chasms you have made in it: For, let me tell you,
though I can forgive you, I never can my sister, nor my domestics; for
my vengeance must be wreaked somewhere.

‘I doubt not your prudence in forbearing to expose me any more than is
necessary for your own justification; and for that I will suffer myself
to be accused by you, and will also accuse myself, if it be needful.
For I am, and will ever be, ‘Your affectionate well-wisher.’

This letter, when I expected some new plot, has affected me more than
any thing of that sort could have done. For here is plainly his great
value for me confessed, and his rigorous behaviour accounted for in
such a manner, as tortures me much. And all this wicked gipsy story is,
as it seems, a forgery upon us both, and has quite ruined me: For, O my
dear parents, forgive me! but I found, to my grief, before, that my
heart was too partial in his favour; but now with so much openness, so
much affection; nay, so much honour too, (which was all I had before
doubted, and kept me on the reserve,) I am quite overcome. This was a
happiness, however, I had no reason to expect. But, to be sure, I must
own to you, that I shall never be able to think of any body in the
world but him.—Presumption! you will say; and so it is: But love is not
a voluntary thing: Love, did I say?—But come, I hope not:—At least it
is not, I hope, gone so far as to make me very uneasy: For I know not
how it came, nor when it began; but crept, crept it has, like a thief,
upon me; and before I knew what was the matter, it looked like love.

I wish, since it is too late, and my lot determined, that I had not had
this letter, nor heard him take my part to that vile woman; for then I
should have blessed myself in having escaped so happily his designing
arts upon my virtue: but now my poor mind is all topsy-turvied, and I
have made an escape to be more a prisoner.

But I hope, since thus it is, that all will be for the best; and I
shall, with your prudent advice, and pious prayers, be able to overcome
this weakness.—But, to be sure, my dear sir, I will keep a longer time
than a twelvemonth, as a true widow, for a compliment, and more than a
compliment, to your ashes! O the dear word!—How kind, how moving, how
affectionate is the word! O why was I not a duchess, to shew my
gratitude for it! But must labour under the weight of an obligation,
even had this happiness befallen me, that would have pressed me to
death, and which I never could return by a whole life of faithful love,
and cheerful obedience.

O forgive your poor daughter!—I am sorry to find this trial so sore
upon me; and that all the weakness of my weak sex, and tender years,
who never before knew what it was to be so touched, is come upon me,
and too mighty to be withstood by me.—But time, prayer, and resignation
to God’s will, and the benefits of your good lessons, and examples, I
hope, will enable me to get over this so heavy a trial.

O my treacherous, treacherous heart! to serve me thus! and give no
notice to me of the mischiefs thou wast about to bring upon me!—But
thus foolishly to give thyself up to the proud invader, without ever
consulting thy poor mistress in the least! But thy punishment will be
the first and the greatest; and well deservest thou to smart, O
perfidious traitor! for giving up so weakly thy whole self, before a
summons came; and to one, too, who had used me so hardly; and when,
likewise, thou hadst so well maintained thy post against the most
violent and avowed, and, therefore, as I thought, more dangerous
attacks!

After all, I must either not shew you this my weakness, or tear it out
of my writing. Memorandum: to consider of this, when I get home.

Monday morning, eleven o’clock.

We are just come in here, to the inn kept by Mrs. Jewkes’s relation.
The first compliment I had, was in a very impudent manner, How I liked
the ’squire?—I could not help saying, Bold, forward woman! Is it for
you, who keep an inn, to treat passengers at this rate? She was but in
jest, she said, and asked pardon: And she came, and begged excuse
again, very submissively, after Robin and Mr. Colbrand had talked to
her a little.

The latter here, in great form, gave me, before Robin, the letter which
I had given him back for that purpose. And I retired, as if to read it;
and so I did; for I think I can’t read it too often; though, for my
peace of mind’s sake, I might better try to forget it. I am sorry,
methinks, I cannot bring you back a sound heart; but, indeed, it is an
honest one, as to any body but me; for it has deceived nobody else:
Wicked thing that it is!

More and more surprising things still——

Just as I had sat down, to try to eat a bit of victuals, to get ready
to pursue my journey, came in Mr. Colbrand in a mighty hurry. O madam!
madam! said he, here be de groom from de ’Squire B——, all over in a
lather, man and horse! O how my heart went pit-a-pat! What now, thought
I, is to come next! He went out, and presently returned with a letter
for me, and another, enclosed, for Mr. Colbrand. This seemed odd, and
put me all in a trembling. So I shut the door; and never, sure, was the
like known! found the following agreeable contents:—

‘In vain, my Pamela, do I find it to struggle against my affection for
you. I must needs, after you were gone, venture to entertain myself
with your Journal, when I found Mrs. Jewkes’s bad usage of you, after
your dreadful temptations and hurts; and particularly your generous
concern for me, on hearing how narrowly I escaped drowning; (though my
death would have been your freedom, and I had made it your interest to
wish it); and your most agreeable confession in another place, that,
notwithstanding all my hard usage of you, you could not hate me; and
that expressed in so sweet, so soft, and so innocent a manner, that I
flatter myself you may be brought to love me (together with the other
parts of your admirable Journal:) I began to repent my parting with
you; but, God is my witness! for no unlawful end, as you would call it;
but the very contrary: and the rather, as all this was improved in your
favour, by your behaviour at leaving my house: For, oh! that melodious
voice praying for me at your departure, and thanking me for my rebuke
to Mrs. Jewkes, still hangs upon my ears, and delights my memory. And
though I went to bed, I could not rest; but about two got up, and made
Thomas get one of the best horses ready, in order to set out to
overtake you, while I sat down to write this to you.

‘Now, my dear Pamela, let me beg of you, on the receipt of this, to
order Robin to drive you back again to my house. I would have set out
myself, for the pleasure of bearing you company back in the chariot;
but am really indisposed; I believe, with vexation that I should part
thus with my soul’s delight, as I now find you are, and must be, in
spite of the pride of my own heart.

‘You cannot imagine the obligation your return will lay me under to
your goodness; and yet, if you will not so far favour me, you shall be
under no restraint, as you will see by my letter enclosed to Colbrand;
which I have not sealed, that you may read it. But spare me, my dearest
girl! the confusion of following you to your father’s; which I must do,
if you persist to go on; for I find I cannot live a day without you.

‘If you are the generous Pamela I imagine you to be, (for hitherto you
have been all goodness, where it has not been merited,) let me see, by
this new instance, the further excellence of your disposition; let me
see you can forgive the man who loves you more than himself; let me
see, by it, that you are not prepossessed in any other person’s favour:
And one instance more I would beg, and then I am all gratitude; and
that is, that you would despatch Monsieur Colbrand with a letter to
your father, assuring him that all will end happily; and to desire,
that he will send to you, at my house, the letters you found means, by
Williams’s conveyance, to send him. And when I have all my proud, and,
perhaps, punctilious doubts answered, I shall have nothing to do, but
to make you happy, and be so myself. For I must be ‘Yours, and only
yours.’

‘Monday morn, near three o’clock.’

O my exulting heart! how it throbs in my bosom, as if it would reproach
me for so lately upbraiding it for giving way to the love of so dear a
gentleman!—But take care thou art not too credulous neither, O fond
believer! Things that we wish, are apt to gain a too ready credence
with us. This sham-marriage is not yet cleared up: Mrs. Jewkes, the
vile Mrs. Jewkes! may yet instigate the mind of this master: His pride
of heart, and pride of condition, may again take place: And a man that
could in so little a space, first love me, then hate, then banish me
his house, and send me away disgracefully; and now send for me again,
in such affectionate terms, may still waver, may still deceive thee.
Therefore will I not acquit thee yet, O credulous, fluttering,
throbbing mischief! that art so ready to believe what thou wishest! And
I charge thee to keep better guard than thou hast lately done, and lead
me not to follow too implicitly thy flattering and desirable impulses.
Thus foolishly dialogued I with my heart; and yet, all the time, this
heart is Pamela.

I opened the letter to Monsieur Colbrand; which was in these words:—

‘MONSIEUR,

‘I am sure you’ll excuse the trouble I give you. I have, for good
reasons, changed my mind; and I have besought it, as a favour, that
Mrs. Andrews will return to me the moment Tom reaches you. I hope, for
the reasons I have given her, she will have the goodness to oblige me.
But, if not, you are to order Robin to pursue his directions, and set
her down at her father’s door. If she will oblige me in her return,
perhaps she’ll give you a letter to her father, for some papers to be
delivered to you for her; which you’ll be so good, in that case, to
bring to her here: But if she will not give you such a letter, you’ll
return with her to me, if she please to favour me so far; and that with
all expedition, that her health and safety will permit; for I am pretty
much indisposed; but hope it will be but slight, and soon go off. I am
‘Yours, etc.’

‘On second thoughts, let Tom go forward with Mrs. Andrews’s letter, if
she pleases to give one; and you return with her, for her safety.’

Now this is a dear generous manner of treating me. O how I love to be
generously used!—Now, my dear parents, I wish I could consult you for
your opinions, how I should act. Should I go back, or should I not?—I
doubt he has got too great hold in my heart, for me to be easy
presently, if I should refuse: And yet this gipsy information makes me
fearful.

Well, I will, I think, trust in his generosity! Yet is it not too great
a trust?—especially considering how I have been used!—But then that was
while he avowed his bad designs; and now he gives great hope of his
good ones. And I may be the means of making many happy, as well as
myself, by placing a generous confidence in him.

And then, I think, he might have sent to Colbrand, or to Robin, to
carry me back, whether I would or not. And how different is his
behaviour to that! And would it not look as if I was prepossessed, as
he calls it, if I don’t oblige him; and as if it was a silly female
piece of pride, to make him follow me to my father’s; and as if I would
use him hardly in my turn, for his having used me ill in his? Upon the
whole, I resolved to obey him; and if he uses me ill afterwards, double
will be his ungenerous guilt!—Though hard will be my lot, to have my
credulity so justly blamable, as it will then seem. For, to be sure,
the world, the wise world, that never is wrong itself, judges always by
events. And if he should use me ill, then I shall be blamed for
trusting him: If well, O then I did right, to be sure!—But how would my
censurers act in my case, before the event justifies or condemns the
action, is the question?

Then I have no notion of obliging by halves; but of doing things with a
grace, as one may say, where they are to be done; and so I wrote the
desired letter to you, assuring you, that I had before me happier
prospects than ever I had; and hoped all would end well: And that I
begged you would send me, by the bearer, Mr. Thomas, my master’s groom,
those papers, which I had sent you by Mr. Williams’s conveyance: For
that they imported me much, for clearing up a point in my conduct, that
my master was desirous to know, before he resolved to favour me, as he
had intended.—But you will have that letter, before you can have this;
for I would not send you this without the preceding; which now is in my
master’s hands.

And so, having given the letter to Mr. Thomas for him to carry to you,
when he had baited and rested after his great fatigue, I sent for
Monsieur Colbrand, and Robin, and gave to the former his letter; and
when he had read it, I said, You see how things stand. I am resolved to
return to our master; and as he is not so well as were to be wished,
the more haste you make the better: and don’t mind my fatigue, but
consider only yourselves, and the horses. Robin, who guessed the
matter, by his conversation with Thomas, (as I suppose,) said, God
bless you, madam, and reward you, as your obligingness to my good
master deserves; and may we all live to see you triumph over Mrs.
Jewkes!

I wondered to hear him say so; for I was always careful of exposing my
master, or even that naughty woman, before the common servants. But yet
I question whether Robin would have said this, if he had not guessed,
by Thomas’s message, and my resolving to return, that I might stand
well with his master. So selfish are the hearts of poor mortals, that
they are ready to change as favour goes!

So they were not long getting ready; and I am just setting out, back
again: and I hope I shall have no reason to repent it.

Robin put on very vehemently; and when we came to the little town,
where we lay on Sunday night, he gave his horses a bait, and said, he
would push for his master’s that night, as it would be moon-light, if I
should not be too much fatigued because there was no place between that
and the town adjacent to his master’s, fit to put up at, for the night.
But Monsieur Colbrand’s horse beginning to give way, made a doubt
between them: wherefore I said, (hating to be on the road,) if it could
be done, I should bear it well enough, I hoped; and that Monsieur
Colbrand might leave his horse, when it failed, at some house, and come
into the chariot. This pleased them both; and, about twelve miles
short, he left the horse, and took off his spurs and holsters, etc.
and, with abundance of ceremonial excuses, came into the chariot; and I
sat the easier for it; for my bones ached sadly with the jolting, and
so many miles travelling in so few hours, as I have done, from Sunday
night, five o’clock. But, for all this, it was eleven o’clock at night,
when we came to the village adjacent to my master’s; and the horses
began to be very much tired, and Robin too: but I said, It would be
pity to put up only three miles short of the house.

So about one we reached the gate; but every body was a-bed. But one of
the helpers got the keys from Mrs. Jewkes, and opened the gates; and
the horses could hardly crawl into the stable. And I, when I went to
get out of the chariot, fell down, and thought I had lost the use of my
limbs.

Mrs. Jewkes came down with her clothes huddled on, and lifted up her
hands and eyes, at my return; but shewed more care of the horses than
of me. By that time the two maids came; and I made shift to creep in,
as well as I could.

It seems my poor master was very ill indeed, and had been upon the bed
most part of the day; and Abraham (who succeeded John) sat up with him.
And he was got into a fine sleep, and heard not the coach come in, nor
the noise we made; for his chamber lies towards the garden,—on the
other side of the house. Mrs. Jewkes said, He had a feverish complaint,
and had been blooded; and, very prudently, ordered Abraham, when he
awaked, not to tell him I was come, for fear of surprising him, and
augmenting his fever; nor, indeed, to say any thing of me, till she
herself broke it to him in the morning, as she should see how he was.

So I went to bed with Mrs. Jewkes, after she had caused me to drink
almost half a pint of burnt wine, made very rich and cordial, with
spices; which I found very refreshing, and set me into a sleep I little
hoped for.

Tuesday morning.

Getting up pretty early, I have written thus far, while Mrs. Jewkes
lies snoring in bed, fetching up her last night’s disturbance. I long
for her rising, to know how my poor master does. ’Tis well for her she
can sleep so purely. No love, but for herself, will ever break her
rest, I am sure. I am deadly sore all over, as if I had been soundly
beaten. I did not think I could have lived under such fatigue.

Mrs. Jewkes, as soon as she got up, went to know how my master did, and
he had had a good night; and, having drank plentifully of sack whey,
had sweated much; so that his fever had abated considerably. She said
to him, that he must not be surprised, and she would tell him news. He
asked, What? And she said, I was come. He raised himself up in his bed;
Can it be? said he—What, already!—She told him I came last night.
Monsieur Colbrand coming to inquire of his health, he ordered him to
draw near him, and was highly pleased with the account he gave him of
the journey, my readiness to come back, and my willingness to reach
home that night. And he said, Why, these tender fair ones, I think,
bear fatigue better than us men. But she is very good, to give me such
an instance of her readiness to oblige me. Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, said he,
take great care of her health! and let her be a-bed all day. She told
him I had been up these two hours. Ask her, said he, if she will be so
good as to make me a visit: If she won’t, I’ll rise, and go to her.
Indeed, sir, said she, you must be still; and I’ll go to her. But don’t
urge her too much, said he, if she be unwilling.

She came to me, and told me all the above; and I said, I would most
willingly wait upon him; for, indeed, I longed to see him, and was much
grieved he was so ill.—So I went down with her. Will she come? said he,
as I entered the room. Yes, sir, said we; and she said, at the first
word, Most willingly.—Sweet excellence! said he.

As soon as he saw me, he said, O my beloved Pamela! you have made me
quite well. I’m concerned to return my acknowledgments to you in so
unfit a place and manner; but will you give me your hand? I did, and he
kissed it with great eagerness. Sir, said I, you do me too much
honour!—I am sorry you are so ill.—I can’t be ill, said he, while you
are with me. I am very well already.

Well, said he, and kissed my hand again, you shall not repent this
goodness. My heart is too full of it to express myself as I ought. But
I am sorry you have had such a fatiguing time of it.—Life is no life
without you! If you had refused me, and yet I had hardly hopes you
would oblige me, I should have had a severe fit of it, I believe; for I
was taken very oddly, and knew not what to make of myself: but now I
shall be well instantly. You need not, Mrs. Jewkes, added he, send for
the doctor from Stamford, as we talked yesterday; for this lovely
creature is my doctor, as her absence was my disease.

He begged me to sit down by his bed-side, and asked me, if I had
obliged him with sending for my former packet? I said I had, and hoped
it would be brought. He said it was doubly kind.

I would not stay long because of disturbing him. And he got up in the
afternoon, and desired my company; and seemed quite pleased, easy, and
much better. He said, Mrs. Jewkes, after this instance of my good
Pamela’s obligingness in her return, I am sure we ought to leave her
entirely at her own liberty; and pray, if she pleases to take a turn in
our chariot, or in the garden, or to the town, or wherever she will,
let her be left at liberty, and asked no questions; and do you do all
in your power to oblige her. She said she would, to be sure.

He took my hand, and said, One thing I will tell you, Pamela, because I
know you will be glad to hear it, and yet not care to ask me: I had,
before you went, taken Williams’s bond for the money; for how the poor
man had behaved I can’t tell, but he could get no bail; and if I have
no fresh reason given me, perhaps I shall not exact the payment; and he
has been some time at liberty, and now follows his school; but,
methinks, I could wish you would not see him at present.

Sir, said I, I will not do any thing to disoblige you wilfully; and I
am glad he is at liberty, because I was the occasion of his
misfortunes. I durst say no more, though I wanted to plead for the poor
gentleman; which, in gratitude, I thought I ought, when I could do him
service. I said, I am sorry, sir, Lady Davers, who loves you so well,
should have incurred your displeasure, and that there should be any
variance between your honour and her; I hope it was not on my account.
He took out of his waistcoat pocket, as he sat in his gown, his
letter-case, and said, Here, Pamela, read that when you go up stairs,
and let me have your thoughts upon it; and that will let you into the
affair.

He said he was very heavy of a sudden, and would lie down, and indulge
for that day; and if he was better in the morning, would take an airing
in the chariot. And so I took my leave for the present, and went up to
my closet, and read the letter he was pleased to put into my hands;
which is as follows:—

‘BROTHER,

‘I am very uneasy at what I hear of you; and must write, whether it
please you or not, my full mind. I have had some people with me,
desiring me to interpose with you; and they have a greater regard for
your honour, than, I am sorry to say it, you have yourself. Could I
think, that a brother of mine would so meanly run away with my late
dear mother’s waiting-maid, and keep her a prisoner from all her
friends, and to the disgrace of your own? But I thought, when you would
not let the wench come to me on my mother’s death, that you meant no
good.—I blush for you, I’ll assure you. The girl was an innocent, good
girl; but I suppose that’s over with her now, or soon will. What can
you mean by this, let me ask you? Either you will have her for a kept
mistress, or for a wife. If the former, there are enough to be had
without ruining a poor wench that my mother loved, and who really was a
very good girl: and of this you may be ashamed. As to the other, I dare
say you don’t think of it; but if you should, you would be utterly
inexcusable. Consider, brother, that ours is no upstart family; but is
as ancient as the best in the kingdom! and, for several hundreds of
years, it has never been known, that the heirs of it have disgraced
themselves by unequal matches: And you know you have been sought to by
some of the best families in the nation, for your alliance. It might be
well enough, if you were descended of a family of yesterday, or but a
remove or two from the dirt you seem so fond of. But, let me tell you,
that I, and all mine, will renounce you for ever, if you can descend so
meanly; and I shall be ashamed to be called your sister. A handsome
man, as you are, in your person; so happy in the gifts of your mind,
that every body courts your company; and possessed of such a noble and
clear estate; and very rich in money besides, left you by the best of
fathers and mothers, with such ancient blood in your veins, untainted!
for you to throw away yourself thus, is intolerable; and it would be
very wicked in you to ruin the wench too. So that I beg you will
restore her to her parents, and give her 100L. or so, to make her happy
in some honest fellow of her own degree; and that will be doing
something, and will also oblige and pacify

‘Your much grieved sister.’

‘If I have written too sharply, consider it is my love to you, and the
shame you are bringing upon yourself; and I wish this may have the
effect upon you, intended by your very loving sister.’

This is a sad letter, my dear father and mother; and one may see how
poor people are despised by the proud and the rich! and yet we were all
on a foot originally: And many of these gentry, that brag of their
ancient blood, would be glad to have it as wholesome, and as really
untainted, as ours!—Surely these proud people never think what a short
stage life is; and that, with all their vanity; a time is coming, when
they shall be obliged to submit to be on a level with us: And true said
the philosopher, when he looked upon the skull of a king, and that of a
poor man, that he saw no difference between them. Besides, do they not
know, that the richest of princes, and the poorest of beggars, are to
have one great and tremendous judge, at the last day; who will not
distinguish between them, according to their circumstances in
life?—But, on the contrary, may make their condemnations the greater,
as their neglected opportunities were the greater? Poor souls! how do I
pity their pride!—O keep me, Heaven! from their high condition, if my
mind shall ever be tainted with their vice! or polluted with so cruel
and inconsiderate a contempt of the humble estate which they behold
with so much scorn!

But, besides, how do these gentry know, that, supposing they could
trace back their ancestry for one, two, three, or even five hundred
years, that then the original stems of these poor families, though they
have not kept such elaborate records of their good-for nothingness, as
it often proves, were not still deeper rooted?—And how can they be
assured, that one hundred years hence, or two, some of those now
despised upstart families may not revel in their estates, while their
descendants may be reduced to the others’ dunghills!—And, perhaps, such
is the vanity, as well as changeableness, of human estates, in their
turns set up for pride of family, and despise the others!

These reflections occurred to my thoughts, made serious by my master’s
indisposition, and this proud letter of the lowly Lady Davers, against
the high-minded Pamela. Lowly, I say, because she could stoop to such
vain pride; and high-minded I, because I hope I am too proud ever to do
the like!—But, after all, poor wretches that we be! we scarce know what
we are, much less what we shall be!—But, once more pray I to be kept
from the sinful pride of a high estate.

On this occasion I recall the following lines, which I have read; where
the poet argues in a much better manner:—


    “——————Wise Providence
     Does various parts for various minds dispense:
     The meanest slaves, or those who hedge and ditch,
     Are useful, by their sweat, to feed the rich.
     The rich, in due return, impart their store;
     Which comfortably feeds the lab’ring poor.
     Nor let the rich the lowest slave disdain:
     He’s equally a link of Nature’s chain:
     Labours to the same end, joins in one view;
     And both alike the will divine pursue;
     And, at the last, are levell’d, king and slave,
     Without distinction, in the silent grave.”




Wednesday morning.

My master sent me a message just now, that he was so much better, that
he would take a turn, after breakfast, in the chariot, and would have
me give him my company. I hope I shall know how to be humble, and
comport myself as I should do, under all these favours.

Mrs. Jewkes is one of the most obliging creatures in the world; and I
have such respects shewn me by every one, as if I was as great as Lady
Davers—But now, if this should all end in the sham-marriage!—It cannot
be, I hope. Yet the pride of greatness and ancestry, and such-like, is
so strongly set out in Lady Davers’s letter, that I cannot flatter
myself to be so happy as all these desirable appearances make for me.
Should I be now deceived, I should be worse off than ever. But I shall
see what light this new honour will procure me!—So I’ll get ready. But
I won’t, I think, change my garb. Should I do it, it would look as if I
would be nearer on a level with him: and yet, should I not, it might be
thought a disgrace to him: but I will, I think, open the portmanteau,
and, for the first time since I came hither, put on my best silk
nightgown. But then that will be making myself a sort of right to the
clothes I had renounced; and I am not yet quite sure I shall have no
other crosses to encounter. So I will go as I am; for, though ordinary,
I am as clean as a penny, though I say it. So I’ll e’en go as I am,
except he orders otherwise. Yet Mrs. Jewkes says, I ought to dress as
fine as I can.—But I say, I think not. As my master is up, and at
breakfast, I will venture down to ask him how he will have me be.

Well, he is kinder and kinder, and, thank God, purely recovered!—How
charmingly he looks, to what he did yesterday! Blessed be God for it!

He arose, and came to me, and took me by the hand, and would set me
down by him; and he said, My charming girl seemed going to speak. What
would you say?—Sir, said I, (a little ashamed,) I think it is too great
an honour to go into the chariot with you. No, my dear Pamela, said he;
the pleasure of your company will be greater than the honour of mine;
and so say no more on that head.

But, sir, said I, I shall disgrace you to go thus. You would grace a
prince, my fair-one, said the good, kind, kind gentleman! in that
dress, or any you shall choose: And you look so pretty, that, if you
shall not catch cold in that round-eared cap, you shall go just as you
are. But, sir, said I, then you’ll be pleased to go a bye-way, that it
mayn’t be seen you do so much honor to your servant. O my good girl!
said he, I doubt you are afraid of yourself being talked of, more than
me: for I hope by degrees to take off the world’s wonder, and teach
them to expect what is to follow, as a due to my Pamela.

O the dear good man! There’s for you, my dear father and mother!—Did I
not do well now to come back?—O could I get rid of my fears of this
sham-marriage, (for all this is not yet inconsistent with that
frightful scheme,) I should be too happy!

So I came up, with great pleasure, for my gloves: and now wait his kind
commands. Dear, dear sir! said I to myself, as if I was speaking to
him, for God’s sake let me have no more trials and reverses; for I
could not bear it now, I verily think!

At last the welcome message came, that my master was ready; and so I
went down as fast as I could; and he, before all the servants, handed
me in, as if I was a lady; and then came in himself. Mrs. Jewkes begged
he would take care he did not catch cold, as he had been ill. And I had
the pride to hear his new coachman say, to one of his fellow-servants,
They are a charming pair, I am sure! ’tis pity they should be parted!—O
my dear father and mother! I fear your girl will grow as proud as any
thing! And, especially, you will think I have reason to guard against
it, when you read the kind particulars I am going to relate.

He ordered dinner to be ready by two; and Abraham, who succeeds John,
went behind the coach. He bid Robin drive gently, and told me, he
wanted to talk to me about his sister Davers, and other matters.
Indeed, at first setting out he kissed me a little too often, that he
did; and I was afraid of Robin’s looking back, through the fore-glass,
and people seeing us, as they passed; but he was exceedingly kind to
me, in his words, as well. At last, he said,

You have, I doubt not, read, over and over, my sister’s saucy letter;
and find, as I told you, that you are no more obliged to her than I am.
You see she intimates, that some people had been with her; and who
should they be, but the officious Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. Longman, and
Jonathan! and so that has made me take the measures I did in dismissing
them my service.—I see, said he, you are going to speak on their
behalfs; but your time is not come to do that, if ever I shall permit
it.

My sister, says he, I have been beforehand with; for I have renounced
her. I am sure I have been a kind brother to her; and gave her to the
value of 3000L. more than her share came to by my father’s will, when I
entered upon my estate. And the woman, surely, was beside herself with
passion and insolence, when she wrote me such a letter; for well she
knew I would not bear it. But you must know, Pamela, that she is much
incensed, that I will give no ear to a proposal of hers, of a daughter
of my Lord ——, who, said he, neither in person, or mind, or
acquirements, even with all her opportunities, is to be named in a day
with my Pamela. But yet you see the plea, my girl, which I made to you
before, of the pride of condition, and the world’s censure, which, I
own, sticks a little too close with me still: for a woman shines not
forth to the public as man; and the world sees not your excellencies
and perfections: If it did, I should entirely stand acquitted by the
severest censures. But it will be taken in the lump; that here is Mr.
B——, with such and such an estate, has married his mother’s
waiting-maid: not considering there is not a lady in the kingdom that
can out-do her, or better support the condition to which she will be
raised, if I should marry her. And, said he, putting his arm round me,
and again kissing me, I pity my dear girl too, for her part in this
censure; for, here will she have to combat the pride and slights of the
neighbouring gentry all around us. Sister Davers, you see, will never
be reconciled to you. The other ladies will not visit you; and you
will, with a merit superior to them all, be treated as if unworthy
their notice. Should I now marry my Pamela, how will my girl relish all
this? Won’t these be cutting things to my fair-one? For, as to me, I
shall have nothing to do, but, with a good estate in possession, to
brazen out the matter of my former pleasantry on this subject, with my
companions of the chase, the green, and the assemblee; stand their rude
jests for once or twice, and my fortune will create me always respect
enough, I warrant you. But, I say, what will my poor girl do, as to her
part, with her own sex? For some company you must keep. My station will
not admit it to be with my servants; and the ladies will fly your
acquaintance; and still, though my wife, will treat you as my mother’s
waiting-maid.—What says my girl to this?

You may well guess, my dear father and mother, how transporting these
kind, these generous and condescending sentiments were to me!—I thought
I had the harmony of the spheres all around me; and every word that
dropped from his lips was as sweet as the honey of Hybla to me.—Oh!
sir, said I, how inexpressibly kind and good is all this! Your poor
servant has a much greater struggle than this to go through, a more
knotty difficulty to overcome.

What is that? said he, a little impatiently: I will not forgive your
doubts now.—No, sir, said I, I cannot doubt; but it is, how I shall
support, how I shall deserve your goodness to me.—Dear girl! said he,
and hugged me to his breast, I was afraid you would have made me angry
again; but that I would not be, because I see you have a grateful
heart; and this your kind and cheerful return, after such cruel usage
as you had experienced in my house, enough to make you detest the
place, has made me resolve to bear any thing in you, but doubts of my
honour, at a time when I am pouring out my soul, with a true and
affectionate ardour, before you.

But, good sir, said I, my greatest concern will be for the rude jests
you will have yourself to encounter with, for thus stooping beneath
yourself. For, as to me, considering my lowly estate, and little merit,
even the slights and reflections of the ladies will be an honour to me:
and I shall have the pride to place more than half their ill will to
their envy at my happiness. And if I can, by the most cheerful duty,
and resigned obedience, have the pleasure to be agreeable to you, I
shall think myself but too happy, let the world say what it will.

He said, You are very good, my dearest girl! But how will you bestow
your time, when you will have no visits to receive or pay? No parties
of pleasure to join in? No card-tables to employ your winter evenings;
and even, as the taste is, half the day, summer and winter? And you
have often played with my mother, too, and so know how to perform a
part there, as well as in the other diversions: and I’ll assure you, my
girl, I shall not desire you to live without such amusements, as my
wife might expect, were I to marry a lady of the first quality.

O, sir, said I, you are all goodness! How shall I bear it?—But do you
think, sir, in such a family as yours, a person whom you shall honour
with the name of mistress of it, will not find useful employments for
her time, without looking abroad for any others?

In the first place, sir, if you will give me leave, I will myself look
into such parts of the family economy, as may not be beneath the rank
to which I shall have the honour of being exalted, if any such there
can be; and this, I hope, without incurring the ill will of any honest
servant.

Then, sir, I will ease you of as much of your family accounts, as I
possibly can, when I have convinced you that I am to be trusted with
them; and you know, sir, my late good lady made me her treasurer, her
almoner, and every thing.

Then, sir, if I must needs be visiting or visited, and the ladies won’t
honour me so much, or even if they would now and then, I will visit, if
your goodness will allow me so to do, the sick poor in the
neighbourhood around you; and administer to their wants and
necessities, in such matters as may not be hurtful to your estate, but
comfortable to them; and entail upon you their blessings, and their
prayers for your dear health and welfare.

Then I will assist your housekeeper, as I used to do, in the making
jellies, comfits, sweetmeats, marmalades, cordials; and to pot, and
candy, and preserve for the uses of the family; and to make, myself,
all the fine linen of it for yourself and me.

Then, sir, if you will sometimes indulge me with your company, I will
take an airing in your chariot now and then: and when you shall return
home from your diversions on the green, or from the chase, or where you
shall please to go, I shall have the pleasure of receiving you with
duty, and a cheerful delight; and, in your absence, count the moments
till you return; and you will, may be, fill up some part of my time,
the sweetest by far! with your agreeable conversation, for an hour or
two now and then; and be indulgent to the impertinent overflowings of
my grateful heart, for all your goodness to me.

The breakfasting-time, the preparations for dinner, and sometimes to
entertain your chosen friends, and the company you shall bring home
with you, gentlemen, if not ladies, and the supperings, will fill up a
great part of the day in a very necessary manner.

And, may be, sir, now and then a good-humoured lady will drop in; and,
I hope, if they do, I shall so behave myself, as not to add to the
disgrace you will have brought upon yourself: for, indeed, I will be
very circumspect, and try to be as discreet as I can; and as humble
too, as shall be consistent with your honour.

Cards, ’tis true, I can play at, in all the usual games that our sex
delight in; but this I am not fond of, nor shall ever desire to play,
unless to induce such ladies, as you may wish to see, not to abandon
your house for want of an amusement they are accustomed to.

Music, which our good lady taught me, will fill up some intervals, if I
should have any.

And then, sir, you know, I love reading and scribbling; and though all
the latter will be employed in the family accounts, between the
servants and me, and me and your good self: yet reading, at proper
times, will be a pleasure to me, which I shall be unwilling to give up,
for the best company in the world, except yours. And, O sir! that will
help to polish my mind, and make me worthier of your company and
conversation; and, with the explanations you will give me, of what I
shall not understand, will be a sweet employment, and improvement too.

But one thing, sir, I ought not to forget, because it is the chief: My
duty to God will, I hope, always employ some good portion of my time,
with thanks for his superlative goodness to me; and to pray for you and
myself: for you, sir, for a blessing on you, for your great goodness to
such an unworthy creature: for myself, that I may be enabled to
discharge my duty to you, and be found grateful for all the blessings I
shall receive at the hands of Providence, by means of your generosity
and condescension.

With all this, sir, said I, can you think I shall be at a loss to pass
my time? But, as I know, that every slight to me, if I come to be so
happy, will be, in some measure, a slight to you, I will beg of you,
sir, not to let me go very fine in dress; but appear only so, as that
you may not be ashamed of it after the honour I shall have of being
called by your worthy name: for well I know, sir, that nothing so much
excites the envy of my own sex, as seeing a person above them in
appearance, and in dress. And that would bring down upon me an hundred
saucy things, and low-born brats, and I can’t tell what!

There I stopped; for I had prattled a great deal too much so early: and
he said, clasping me to him, Why stops my dear Pamela?—Why does she not
proceed? I could dwell upon your words all the day long; and you shall
be the directress of your own pleasures, and your own time, so sweetly
do you choose to employ it: and thus shall I find some of my own bad
actions atoned for by your exemplary goodness, and God will bless me
for your sake.

O, said he, what pleasure you give me in this sweet foretaste of my
happiness! I will now defy the saucy, busy censurers of the world; and
bid them know your excellence, and my happiness, before they, with
unhallowed lips, presume to judge of my actions, and your merit!—And
let me tell you, my Pamela, that I can add my hopes of a still more
pleasing amusement, and what your bashful modesty would not permit you
to hint; and which I will no otherwise touch upon, lest it should seem,
to your nicety, to detract from the present purity of my good
intentions, than to say, I hope to have superadded to all these, such
an employment, as will give me a view of perpetuating my happy
prospects, and my family at the same time; of which I am almost the
only male.

I blushed, I believe; yet could not be displeased at the decent and
charming manner with which he insinuated this distant hope: And oh!
judge for me, how my heart was affected with all these things!

He was pleased to add another charming reflection, which shewed me the
noble sincerity of his kind professions. I do own to you, my Pamela,
said he, that I love you with a purer flame than ever I knew in my
whole life; a flame to which I was a stranger; and which commenced for
you in the garden; though you, unkindly, by your unseasonable doubts,
nipped the opening bud, while it was too tender to bear the cold blasts
of slight or negligence. And I know more sincere joy and satisfaction
in this sweet hour’s conversation with you, than all the guilty tumults
of my former passion ever did, or (had even my attempts succeeded) ever
could have afforded me.

O, sir, said I, expect not words from your poor servant, equal to these
most generous professions. Both the means, and the will, I now see, are
given to you, to lay me under an everlasting obligation. How happy
shall I be, if, though I cannot be worthy of all this goodness and
condescension, I can prove myself not entirely unworthy of it! But I
can only answer for a grateful heart; and if ever I give you cause,
wilfully, (and you will generously allow for involuntary
imperfections,) to be disgusted with me, may I be an outcast from your
house and favour, and as much repudiated, as if the law had divorced me
from you!

But sir, continued I, though I was so unseasonable as I was in the
garden, you would, I flatter myself, had you then heard me, have
pardoned my imprudence, and owned I had some cause to fear, and to wish
to be with my poor father and mother: and this I the rather say, that
you should not think me capable of returning insolence for your
goodness; or appearing foolishly ungrateful to you, when you was so
kind to me.

Indeed, Pamela, said he, you gave me great uneasiness; for I love you
too well not to be jealous of the least appearance of your indifference
to me, or preference to any other person, not excepting your parents
themselves. This made me resolve not to hear you; for I had not got
over my reluctance to marriage; and a little weight, you know, turns
the scale, when it hangs in an equal balance. But yet, you see, that
though I could part with you, while my anger held, yet the regard I had
then newly professed for your virtue, made me resolve not to offer to
violate it; and you have seen likewise, that the painful struggle I
underwent when I began to reflect, and to read your moving journal,
between my desire to recall you, and my doubt whether you would return,
(though yet I resolved not to force you to it,) had like to have cost
me a severe illness: but your kind and cheerful return has dispelled
all my fears, and given me hope, that I am not indifferent to you; and
you see how your presence has chased away my illness.

I bless God for it, said I; but since you are so good as to encourage
me, and will not despise my weakness, I will acknowledge, that I
suffered more than I could have imagined, till I experienced it, in
being banished your presence in so much anger; and the more still was I
affected, when you answered the wicked Mrs. Jewkes so generously in my
favour, at my leaving your house. For this, sir, awakened all my
reverence for you; and you saw I could not forbear, not knowing what I
did, to break boldly in upon you, and acknowledge your goodness on my
knees. ’Tis true, my dear Pamela, said he, we have sufficiently
tortured one another; and the only comfort that can result from it,
will be, reflecting upon the matter coolly and with pleasure, when all
these storms are overblown, (as I hope they now are,) and we sit
together secured in each other’s good opinion, recounting the uncommon
gradations by which we have ascended to the summit of that felicity,
which I hope we shall shortly arrive at.

Meantime, said the good gentleman, let me hear what my dear girl would
have said in her justification, could I have trusted myself with her,
as to her fears, and the reason of her wishing herself from me, at a
time that I had begun to shew my fondness for her, in a manner that I
thought would have been agreeable to her and virtue.

I pulled out of my pocket the gipsy letter; but I said, before I shewed
it to him, I have this letter, sir, to shew you, as what, I believe,
you will allow must have given me the greatest disturbance: but, first,
as I know not who is the writer, and it seems to be in a disguised
hand, I would beg it as a favour, that, if you guess who it is, which I
cannot, it may not turn to their prejudice, because it was written,
very probably, with no other view, than to serve me.

He took it, and read it. And it being signed Somebody, he said, Yes,
this is indeed from Somebody; and, disguised as the hand is, I know the
writer: Don’t you see, by the setness of some of these letters, and a
little secretary cut here and there, especially in that c, and that r,
that it is the hand of a person bred in the law-way? Why, Pamela, said
he, ’tis old Longman’s hand: an officious rascal as he is!—But I have
done with him. O sir, said I, it would be too insolent in me to offer
(so much am I myself overwhelmed with your goodness,) to defend any
body that you are angry with: Yet, sir, so far as they have incurred
your displeasure for my sake, and for no other want of duty or respect,
I could wish—But I dare not say more.

But, said he, as to the letter and the information it contains: Let me
know, Pamela, when you received this? On the Friday, sir, said I, that
you were gone to the wedding at Stamford.—How could it be conveyed to
you, said he, unknown to Mrs. Jewkes, when I gave her such a strict
charge to attend you, and you had promised me, that you would not throw
yourself in the way of such intelligence? For, said he, when I went to
Stamford, I knew, from a private intimation given me, that there would
be an attempt made to see you, or give you a letter, by somebody, if
not to get you away; but was not certain from what quarter, whether
from my sister Davers, Mrs. Jervis, Mr. Longman, or John Arnold, or
your father; and as I was then but struggling with myself, whether to
give way to my honourable inclinations, or to free you, and let you go
to your father, that I might avoid the danger I found myself in of the
former; (for I had absolutely resolved never to wound again even your
ears with any proposals of a contrary nature;) that was the reason I
desired you to permit Mrs. Jewkes to be so much on her guard till I
came back, when I thought I should have decided this disputed point
within myself, between my pride and my inclinations.

This, good sir, said I, accounts well to me for your conduct in that
case, and for what you said to me and Mrs. Jewkes on that occasion: And
I see more and more how much I may depend upon your honour and goodness
to me.—But I will tell you all the truth. And then I recounted to him
the whole affair of the gipsy, and how the letter was put among the
loose grass, etc. And he said, The man who thinks a thousand dragons
sufficient to watch a woman, when her inclination takes a contrary
bent, will find all too little; and she will engage the stones in the
street, or the grass in the field, to act for her, and help on her
correspondence. If the mind, said he, be not engaged, I see there is
hardly any confinement sufficient for the body; and you have told me a
very pretty story; and, as you never gave me any reason to question
your veracity, even in your severest trials, I make no doubt of the
truth of what you have now mentioned: and I will, in my turn, give you
such a proof of mine, that you shall find it carry a conviction with
it.

You must know, then, my Pamela, that I had actually formed such a
project, so well informed was this old rascally Somebody! and the time
was fixed for the very person described in this letter to be here; and
I had thought he should have read some part of the ceremony (as little
as was possible, to deceive you) in my chamber; and so I hoped to have
you mine upon terms that then would have been much more agreeable to me
than real matrimony. And I did not in haste intend you the
mortification of being undeceived; so that we might have lived for
years, perhaps, very lovingly together; and I had, at the same time,
been at liberty to confirm or abrogate it as I pleased.

O sir, said I, I am out of breath with the thoughts of my danger! But
what good angel prevented the execution of this deep-laid design?

Why, your good angel, Pamela, said he; for when I began to consider,
that it would have made you miserable, and me not happy; that if you
should have a dear little one, it would be out of my own power to
legitimate it, if I should wish it to inherit my estate; and that, as I
am almost the last of my family, and most of what I possess must
descend to a strange line, and disagreeable and unworthy persons;
notwithstanding that I might, in this case, have issue of my own body;
when I further considered your untainted virtue, what dangers and
trials you had undergone by my means, and what a world of troubles I
had involved you in, only because you were beautiful and virtuous,
which had excited all my passion for you; and reflected also upon your
tried prudence and truth! I, though I doubted not effecting this my
last plot, resolved to overcome myself; and, however I might suffer in
struggling with my affection for you, to part with you, rather than to
betray you under so black a veil. Besides, said he, I remember how much
I had exclaimed against and censured an action of this kind, that had
been attributed to one of the first men of the law, and of the kingdom,
as he afterwards became; and that it was but treading in a path that
another had marked out for me; and, as I was assured, with no great
satisfaction to himself, when he came to reflect; my foolish pride was
a little piqued with this, because I loved to be, if I went out of the
way, my own original, as I may call it. On all these considerations it
was, that I rejected this project, and sent word to the person, that I
had better considered of the matter, and would not have him come, till
he heard further from me: And, in this suspense I suppose, some of your
confederates, Pamela, (for we have been a couple of plotters, though
your virtue and merit have procured you faithful friends and partisans,
which my money and promises could hardly do,) one way or other got
knowledge of it, and gave you this notice; but, perhaps, it would have
come too late, had not your white angel got the better of my black one,
and inspired me with resolutions to abandon the project, just as it was
to have been put into execution. But yet I own, that, from these
appearances, you were but too well justified in your fears, on this odd
way of coming at this intelligence; and I have only one thing to blame
you for, that though I was resolved not to hear you in your own
defence, yet, as you have so ready a talent at your pen, you might have
cleared your part of this matter up to me by a line or two; and when I
had known what seeming good grounds you had for pouring cold water on a
young flame, that was just then rising to an honourable expansion,
should not have imputed it, as I was apt to do, to unseasonable insult
for my tenderness to you, on one hand; to perverse nicety, on the
other; or to (what I was most alarmed by, and concerned for)
prepossession for some other person: And this would have saved us both
much fatigue, I of mind, you of body.

And, indeed, sir, said I, of mind too; and I could not better manifest
this, than by the cheerfulness with which I obeyed your recalling me to
your presence.

Ay, that, my dear Pamela, said he, and clasped me in his arms, was the
kind, the inexpressibly kind action, that has rivetted my affections to
you, and obliges me, in this free and unreserved manner, to pour my
whole soul into your bosom.

I said, I had the less merit in this my return, because I was driven,
by an irresistible impulse to it; and could not help it, if I would.

This, said he, (and honoured me by kissing my hand,) is engaging,
indeed; if I may hope, that my Pamela’s gentle inclination for her
persecutor was the strongest motive to her return; and I so much value
a voluntary love in the person I would wish for my wife, that I would
have even prudence and interest hardly named in comparison with it: And
can you return me sincerely the honest compliment I now make you?—In
the choice I have made, it is impossible I should have any view to my
interest. Love, true love, is the only motive by which I am induced.
And were I not what I am, could you give me the preference to any other
you know in the world, notwithstanding what has passed between us? Why,
said I, should your so much obliged Pamela refuse to answer this kind
question? Cruel as I have thought you, and dangerous as your views to
my honesty have been; you, sir, are the only person living that ever
was more than indifferent to me: and before I knew this to be what I
blush now to call it, I could not hate you, or wish you ill, though,
from my soul, the attempts you made were shocking, and most distasteful
to me.

I am satisfied, my Pamela, said he; nor shall I want to see those
papers that you have kindly written for to your father; though I still
wish to see them too, for the sake of the sweet manner in which you
relate what has passed, and to have before me the whole series of your
sufferings, that I may learn what degree of kindness may be sufficient
to recompense you for them.

In this manner, my dear father and mother, did your happy daughter find
herself blessed by her generous master! An ample recompense for all her
sufferings did I think this sweet conversation only. A hundred tender
things he expressed besides, that though they never can escape my
memory, yet would be too tedious to write down. Oh, how I blessed God,
and, I hope, ever shall, for all his gracious favours to his unworthy
handmaid! What a happy change is this! And who knows but my kind, my
generous master, may put it in my power, when he shall see me not quite
unworthy of it, to be a means, without injuring him, to dispense around
me, to many persons, the happy influences of the condition to which I
shall be, by his kind favour, exalted? Doubly blest shall I be, in
particular, if I can return the hundredth part of the obligations I owe
to such honest good parents, to whose pious instructions and examples,
under God, I owe all my present happiness, and future prospects.—O the
joy that fills my mind on these proud hopes! on these delightful
prospects!—It is too mighty for me, and I must sit down to ponder all
these things, and to admire and bless the goodness of that Providence,
which has, through so many intricate mazes, made me tread the paths of
innocence, and so amply rewarded me for what it has itself enabled me
to do! All glory to God alone be ever given for it, by your poor
enraptured daughter!——

I will now continue my most pleasing relation.

As the chariot was returning home from this sweet airing, he said, From
all that has passed between us in this pleasing turn, my Pamela will
see, and will believe, that the trials of her virtue are all over from
me: But, perhaps, there will be some few yet to come of her patience
and humility. For I have, at the earnest importunity of Lady Darnford,
and her daughters, promised them a sight of my beloved girl: And so I
intend to have their whole family, and Lady Jones, and Mrs. Peters’s
family, to dine with me once in a few days. And, since I believe you
would hardly choose, at present, to grace the table on the occasion,
till you can do it in your own right, I should be glad you would not
refuse coming down to us if I should desire it; for I would preface our
nuptials, said the dear gentleman! O what a sweet word was that!—with
their good opinion of your merits: and to see you, and your sweet
manner, will be enough for that purpose; and so, by degrees, prepare my
neighbours for what is to follow: And they already have your character
from me, and are disposed to admire you.

Sir, said I, after all that has passed, I should be unworthy, if I
could not say, that I can have no will but yours: And however awkwardly
I shall behave in such company, weighed down with a sense of your
obligations on one side, and my own unworthiness, with their
observations on the other, I will not scruple to obey you.

I am obliged to you, Pamela, said he, and pray be only dressed as you
are; for since they know your condition, and I have told them the story
of your present dress, and how you came by it, one of the young ladies
begs it as a favour, that they may see you just as you are: and I am
the rather pleased it should be so, because they will perceive you owe
nothing to dress, but make a much better figure with your own native
stock of loveliness, than the greatest ladies arrayed in the most
splendid attire, and adorned with the most glittering jewels.

O sir, said I, your goodness beholds your poor servant in a light
greatly beyond her merit! But it must not be expected, that others,
ladies especially, will look upon me with your favourable eyes: but,
nevertheless, I should be best pleased to wear always this humble garb,
till you, for your own sake, shall order it otherwise: for, oh, sir,
said I, I hope it will be always my pride to glory most in your
goodness! and it will be a pleasure to me to shew every one, that, with
respect to my happiness in this life, I am entirely the work of your
bounty; and to let the world see from what a lowly original you have
raised me to honours, that the greatest ladies would rejoice in.

Admirable Pamela! said he; excellent girl!—Surely thy sentiments are
superior to those of all thy sex!—I might have addressed a hundred fine
ladies; but never, surely, could have had reason to admire one as I do
you.

As, my dear father and mother, I repeat these generous sayings, only
because they are the effect of my master’s goodness, being far from
presuming to think I deserve one of them; so I hope you will not
attribute it to my vanity; for I do assure you, I think I ought rather
to be more humble, as I am more obliged: for it must be always a sign
of a poor condition, to receive obligations one cannot repay; as it is
of a rich mind, when it can confer them without expecting or needing a
return. It is, on one side, the state of the human creature, compared,
on the other, to the Creator; and so, with due deference, may his
beneficence be said to be Godlike, and that is the highest that can be
said.

The chariot brought us home at near the hour of two; and, blessed be
God, my master is pure well, and cheerful; and that makes me hope he
does not repent him of his late generous treatment of me. He handed me
out of the chariot, and to the parlour, with the same goodness, that he
shewed when he put me into it, before several of the servants. Mrs.
Jewkes came to inquire how he did. Quite well, Mrs. Jewkes, said he;
quite well: I thank God, and this good girl, for it!—I am glad of it,
said she; but I hope you are not the worse for my care, and my
doctoring of you!—No, but the better, Mrs. Jewkes, said he; you have
much obliged me by both.

Then he said, Mrs. Jewkes, you and I have used this good girl very
hardly.—I was afraid, sir, said she, I should be the subject of her
complaints.—I assure you, said he, she has not opened her lips about
you. We have had a quite different subject to talk of; and I hope she
will forgive us both: You especially she must; because you have done
nothing but by my orders. But I only mean, that the necessary
consequence of those orders has been very grievous to my Pamela: And
now comes our part to make her amends, if we can.

Sir, said she, I always said to madam (as she called me), that you was
very good, and very forgiving. No, said he, I have been stark naught;
and it is she, I hope, will be very forgiving. But all this preamble is
to tell you, Mrs. Jewkes, that now I desire you’ll study to oblige her,
as much as (to obey me) you was forced to disoblige her before. And
you’ll remember, that in every thing she is to be her own mistress.

Yes, said she, and mine too, I suppose, sir? Ay, said the generous
gentleman, I believe it will be so in a little time.—Then, said she, I
know how it will go with me! And so put her handkerchief to her
eyes.—Pamela, said my master, comfort poor Mrs. Jewkes.

This was very generous, already to seem to put her in my power: and I
took her by the hand, and said, I shall never take upon me, Mrs.
Jewkes, to make a bad use of any opportunities that may be put into my
hands by my generous master; nor shall I ever wish to do you any
disservice, if I might: for I shall consider, that what you have done,
was in obedience to a will which it will become me also to submit to
and so, if the effects of our obedience may be different, yet as they
proceed from one cause, that must be always reverenced by me.

See there, Mrs. Jewkes, said my master, we are both in generous hands;
and indeed, if Pamela did not pardon you, I should think she but half
forgave me, because you acted by my instructions.—Well, said she, God
bless you both together, since it must be so; and I will double my
diligence to oblige my lady, as I find she will soon be.

O my dear father and mother! now pray for me on another score; for fear
I should grow too proud, and be giddy and foolish with all these
promising things, so soothing to the vanity of my years and sex. But
even to this hour can I pray, that God would remove from me all these
delightful prospects, if they were likely so to corrupt my mind, as to
make me proud and vain, and not acknowledge, with thankful humility,
the blessed Providence which has so visibly conducted me through the
dangerous paths I have trod, to this happy moment.

My master was pleased to say, that he thought I might as well dine with
him, since he was alone: But I begged he would excuse me, for fear, as
I said, such excess of goodness and condescension, all at once, should
turn my head;—and that he would, by slower degrees, bring on my
happiness, lest I should not know how to bear it.

Persons that doubt themselves, said he, seldom do amiss: And if there
was any fear of what you say, you could not have it in your thoughts:
for none but the presumptuous, the conceited, and the thoughtless, err
capitally. But, nevertheless, said he, I have such an opinion of your
prudence, that I shall generally think what you do right, because it is
you that do it.

Sir, said I, your kind expressions shall not be thrown away upon me, if
I can help it; for they will task me with the care of endeavouring to
deserve your good opinion, and your approbation, as the best rule of my
conduct.

Being then about to go up stairs, Permit me, sir, said I, (looking
about me with some confusion, to see that nobody was there,) thus on my
knees to thank you, as I often wanted to do in the chariot, for all
your goodness to me, which shall never, I hope, be cast away upon me.
And so I had the boldness to kiss his hand.

I wonder, since, how I came to be so forward. But what could I do?—My
poor grateful heart was like a too full river, which overflows its
banks: and it carried away my fear and my shamefacedness, as that does
all before it on the surface of its waters!

He clasped me in his arms with transport, and condescendingly kneeled
by me, and kissing me, said, O my dear obliging good girl, on my knees,
as you on yours, I vow to you everlasting truth and fidelity! and may
God but bless us both with half the pleasures that seem to be before
us, and we shall have no reason to envy the felicity of the greatest
princes!—O sir, said I, how shall I support so much goodness! I am
poor, indeed, in every thing, compared to you! and how far, very far,
do you, in every generous way, leave me behind you!

He raised me, and, as I bent towards the door, led me to the stairs
foot, and, saluting me there again, left me to go up to my closet,
where I threw myself on my knees in raptures of joy, and blessed that
gracious God, who had thus changed my distress to happiness, and so
abundantly rewarded me for all the sufferings I had passed through.—And
oh, how light, how very light, do all those sufferings now appear,
which then my repining mind made so grievous to me!—Hence, in every
state of life, and in all the changes and chances of it, for the
future, will I trust in Providence, who knows what is best for us, and
frequently turns the very evils we most dread, to be the causes of our
happiness, and of our deliverance from greater.—My experiences, young
as I am, as to this great point of reliance on God, are strong, though
my judgment in general may be weak and uninformed: but you’ll excuse
these reflections, because they are your beloved daughter’s; and, so
far as they are not amiss, derive themselves from the benefit of yours
and my late good lady’s examples and instructions.

I have written a vast deal in a little time; and shall only say, to
conclude this delightful Wednesday, That in the afternoon my good
master was so well, that he rode out on horseback, and came home about
nine at night; and then stepped up to me, and, seeing me with pen and
ink before me in my closet, said, I come only to tell you I am very
well, my Pamela: and since I have a letter or two to write, I will
leave you to proceed in yours, as I suppose that was your employment,
(for I had put by my papers at his coming up,) and so he saluted me,
bid me good night, and went down; and I finished up to this place
before I went to bed. Mrs. Jewkes told me, if it was more agreeable to
me, she would be in another room; but I said, No thank you, Mrs.
Jewkes; pray let me have your company. And she made me a fine courtesy,
and thanked me.—How times are altered!

Thursday.

This morning my master came up to me, and talked with me on various
subjects, for a good while together, in the most kind manner. Among
other things, he asked me, if I chose to order any new clothes against
my marriage. (O how my heart flutters when he mentions this subject so
freely!) I said, I left every thing to his good pleasure, only repeated
my request, for the reasons aforegiven, that I might not be too fine.

He said, I think, my dear, it shall be very private: I hope you are not
afraid of a sham-marriage; and pray get the service by heart, that you
may see nothing is omitted. I glowed between shame and delight. O how I
felt my cheeks burn!

I said, I feared nothing, I apprehended nothing, but my own
unworthiness. Said he, I think it shall be done within these fourteen
days, from this day, at this house. O how I trembled! but not with
grief, you may believe—What says my girl? Have you to object against
any day of the next fourteen: because my affairs require me to go to my
other house, and I think not to stir from this till I am happy with
you?

I have no will but yours, said I (all glowing like the fire, as I could
feel:) But, sir, did you say in the house? Ay, said he; for I care not
how privately it be done; and it must be very public if we go to
church. It is a holy rite, sir, said I; and would be better, methinks,
in a holy place.

I see (said he, most kindly) my lovely maid’s confusion; and your
trembling tenderness shews I ought to oblige you all I may. Therefore I
will order my own little chapel, which has not been used for two
generations, for any thing but a lumber-room, because our family seldom
resided here long together, to be cleared and cleaned, and got ready
for the ceremony, if you dislike your own chamber or mine.

Sir, said I, that will be better than the chamber, and I hope it will
never be lumbered again, but kept to the use for which, as I presume,
it has been consecrated. O yes, said he, it has been consecrated, and
that several ages ago, in my great great grandfather’s time, who built
that and the good old house together.

But now, my good girl, if I do not too much add to your sweet
confusion, shall it be in the first seven days, or the second of this
fortnight? I looked down, quite out of countenance. Tell me, said he.

In the second, if you please, sir, said I.—As you please, said he most
kindly; but I should thank you, Pamela, if you would choose the first.
I’d rather, sir, if you please, said I, have the second. Well, said he,
be it so; but don’t defer it till the last day of the fourteen.

Pray sir, said I, since you embolden me to talk on this important
subject, may I not send my dear father and mother word of my
happiness?—You may, said he; but charge them to keep it secret, till
you or I direct the contrary. And I told you, I would see no more of
your papers; but I meant, I would not without your consent: but if you
will shew them to me (and now I have no other motive for my curiosity,
but the pleasure I take in reading what you write,) I shall acknowledge
it as a favour.

If, sir, said I, you will be pleased to let me write over again one
sheet, I will; though I had relied upon your word, and not written them
for your perusal. What is that? said he: though I cannot consent to it
beforehand: for I more desire to see them, because they are your true
sentiments at the time, and because they were not written for my
perusal. Sir, said I, what I am loath you should see, are very severe
reflections on the letter I received by the gipsy, when I apprehended
your design of the sham-marriage; though there are other things I would
not have you see; but that is the worst. It can’t be worse, said he, my
dear sauce-box, than I have seen already; and I will allow your
treating me in ever so black a manner, on that occasion, because it
must have a very black appearance to you.—Well, sir, said I, I think I
will obey you before night. But don’t alter a word, said he. I won’t,
sir, replied I, since you order it.

While we were talking, Mrs. Jewkes came up, and said Thomas was
returned. O, said my master, let him bring up the papers: for he hoped,
and so did I, that you had sent them by him. But it was a great balk,
when he came up and said, Sir, Mr. Andrews did not care to deliver
them; and would have it, that his daughter was forced to write that
letter to him: and, indeed, sir, said he, the old gentleman took on
sadly, and would have it that his daughter was undone, or else, he
said, she would not have turned back, when on her way, (as I told him
she did, said Thomas,) instead of coming to them. I began to be afraid
now that all would be bad for me again.

Well, Tom, said he, don’t mince the matter; tell me, before Mrs.
Andrews, what they said. Why, sir, both he and Goody Andrews, after
they had conferred together upon your letter, madam, came out, weeping
bitterly, that grieved my very heart; and they said, Now all was over
with their poor daughter; and either she had written that letter by
compulsion, or had yielded to your honour; so they said; and was, or
would be ruined!

My master seemed vexed, as I feared. And I said, Pray, sir, be so good
as to excuse the fears of my honest parents. They cannot know your
goodness to me.

And so (said he, without answering me,) they refused to deliver the
papers? Yes, and please your honour, said Thomas, though I told them,
that you, madam, of your own accord, on a letter I had brought you,
very cheerfully wrote what I carried: But the old gentleman said, Why,
wife, there are in these papers twenty things nobody should see but
ourselves, and especially not the ’squire. O the poor girl has had so
many stratagems to struggle with! and now, at last, she has met with
one that has been too hard for her. And can it be possible for us to
account for her setting out to come to us, and in such post haste, and,
when she had got above half-way, to send us this letter, and to go back
again of her own accord, as you say; when we know that all her delight
would have been to come to us and to escape from the perils she had
been so long contending with? And then, and please your honour, he
said, he could not bear this; for his daughter was ruined, to be sure,
before now. And so, said Thomas, the good old couple sat themselves
down, and, hand-in-hand, leaning upon each other’s shoulder, did
nothing but lament.—I was piteously grieved, said he; but all I could
say could not comfort them; nor would they give me the papers; though I
told them I should deliver them only to Mrs. Andrews herself. And so,
and please your honour, I was forced to come away without them.

My good master saw me all bathed in tears at this description of your
distress and fears for me; and he said, I would not have you take on
so. I am not angry with your father in the main; he is a good man; and
I would have you write out of hand, and it shall be sent by the post to
Mr. Atkins, who lives within two miles of your father, and I’ll enclose
it in a cover of mine, in which I’ll desire Mr. Atkins, the moment it
comes to his hand, to convey it safely to your father or mother; and
say nothing of their sending their papers, that it may not make them
uneasy; for I want not now to see them on any other score than that of
mere curiosity; and that will do at any time. And so saying, he saluted
me before Thomas, and with his own handkerchief wiped my eyes; and said
to Thomas, The good old folks are not to be blamed in the main. They
don’t know my honourable intentions by their dear daughter; who, Tom,
will, in a little time, be your mistress; though I shall keep the
matter private some days, and would not have it spoken of by my
servants out of my house.

Thomas said, God bless your honour! You know best. And I said, O, sir,
you are all goodness!—How kind is this, to forgive the disappointment,
instead of being angry, as I feared you would! Thomas then withdrew.
And my master said, I need not remind you of writing out of hand, to
make the good folks easy: and I will leave you to yourself for that
purpose; only send me down such of your papers, as you are willing I
should see, with which I shall entertain myself for an hour or two.
But, one thing, added he, I forgot to tell you: The neighbouring gentry
I mentioned will be here to-morrow to dine with me, and I have ordered
Mrs. Jewkes to prepare for them. And must I, sir, said I, be shewn to
them? O yes, said he; that’s the chief reason of their coming. And
you’ll see nobody equal to yourself: don’t be concerned.

I opened my papers, as soon as my master had left me; and laid out
those beginning on the Thursday morning he set out for Stamford, ‘with
the morning visit he made me before I was up, and the injunctions of
watchfulness, etc. to Mrs. Jewkes; the next day’s gipsy affair, and my
reflections, in which I called him truly diabolical, and was otherwise
very severe, on the strong appearances the matter had then against him.
His return on Saturday, with the dread he put me in, on the offering to
search me for my papers which followed those he had got by Mrs.
Jewkes’s means. My being forced to give them up. His carriage to me
after he had read them, and questions to me. His great kindness to me
on seeing the dangers I had escaped and the troubles I had undergone.
And how I unseasonably, in the midst of his goodness, expressed my
desire of being sent to you, having the intelligence of a
sham-marriage, from the gipsy, in my thoughts. How this enraged him,
and made him turn me that very Sunday out of his house, and send me on
my way to you. The particulars of my journey, and my grief at parting
with him; and my free acknowledgment to you, that I found, unknown to
myself, I had begun to love him, and could not help it. His sending
after me, to beg my return; but yet generously leaving me at my
liberty, when he might have forced me to return whether I was willing
or not. My resolution to oblige him, and fatiguing journey back. My
concern for his illness on my return. His kind reception of me, and
shewing me his sister Davers’s angry letter, against his behaviour to
me, desiring him to set me free, and threatening to renounce him as a
brother, if he should degrade himself by marrying me. My serious
reflections on this letter, etc.’ (all which, I hope, with the others,
you will shortly see.) And this carried matters down to Tuesday night
last.

All that followed was so kind on his side, being our chariot
conference, as above, on Wednesday morning, and how good he has been
ever since, that I thought I would go no further; for I was a little
ashamed to be so very open on that tender and most grateful subject;
though his great goodness to me deserves all the acknowledgments I can
possibly make.

And when I had looked these out, I carried them down myself into the
parlour to him; and said, putting them into his hands, Your allowances,
good sir, as heretofore; and if I have been too open and free in my
reflections or declarations, let my fears on one side, and my sincerity
on the other, be my excuse. You are very obliging, my good girl, said
he. You have nothing to apprehend from my thoughts, any more than from
my actions.

So I went up, and wrote the letter to you, briefly acquainting you with
my present happiness, and my master’s goodness, and expressing the
gratitude of heart, which I owe to the kindest gentleman in the world,
and assuring you, that I should soon have the pleasure of sending back
to you, not only those papers, but all that succeeded them to this
time, as I know you delight to amuse yourself in your leisure hours
with my scribble: And I said, carrying it down to my master, before I
sealed it, Will you please, sir, to take the trouble of reading what I
write to my dear parents? Thank you, Pamela, said he, and set me on his
knee, while he read it; and seemed much pleased with it; and giving it
me again, You are very happy, said he, my beloved girl, in your style
and expressions: and the affectionate things you say of me are
inexpressibly obliging; and again, with this kiss, said he, do I
confirm for truth all that you have promised for my intentions in this
letter.—O what halcyon days are these! God continue them!—A change
would kill me quite.

He went out in his chariot in the afternoon; and in the evening
returned, and sent me word, he would be glad of my company for a little
walk in the garden; and down I went that very moment.

He came to meet me. So, says he, how does my dear girl do now?—Whom do
you think I have seen since I have been out?—I don’t know, sir, said I.
Why, said he, there is a turning in the road, about five miles off,
that goes round a meadow, that has a pleasant foot-way, by the side of
a little brook, and a double row of limes on each side, where now and
then the gentry in the neighbourhood walk, and angle, and divert
themselves.—I’ll shew it you next opportunity.—And I stept out of my
chariot, to walk across this meadow, and bid Robin meet me with it on
the further part of it: And whom should I ‘spy there, walking, with a
book in his hand, reading, but your humble servant Mr. Williams! Don’t
blush, Pamela, said he. As his back was towards me, I thought I would
speak to the man: and, before he saw me, I said, How do you, old
acquaintance? (for, said he, you know we were of one college for a
twelvemonth.) I thought the man would have jumped into the brook, he
gave such a start at hearing my voice, and seeing me.

Poor man! said I. Ay, said he, but not too much of your poor man, in
that soft accent, neither, Pamela.—Said I, I am sorry my voice is so
startling to you, Mr. Williams. What are you reading? Sir, said he, and
stammered with the surprise, it is the French Telemachus; for I am
about perfecting myself, if I can, in the French tongue.—Thought I, I
had rather so, than perfecting my Pamela in it.—You do well, replied
I.—Don’t you think that yonder cloud may give us a small shower? and it
did a little begin to wet.—He said, he believed not much.

If, said I, you are for the village, I’ll give you a cast; for I shall
call at Sir Simon’s in my return from the little round I am taking. He
asked me if it was not too great a favour?—No, said I, don’t talk of
that; let us walk to the further opening there, and we shall meet my
chariot.

So, Pamela, continued my master, we fell into conversation as we
walked. He said he was very sorry he had incurred my displeasure; and
the more, as he had been told, by Lady Jones, who had it from Sir
Simon’s family, that I had a more honourable view than at first was
apprehended. I said, We fellows of fortune, Mr. Williams, take
sometimes a little more liberty with the world than we ought to do;
wantoning, very probably, as you contemplative folks would say, in the
sunbeams of a dangerous affluence; and cannot think of confining
ourselves to the common paths, though the safest and most eligible,
after all. And you may believe I could not very well like to be
supplanted in a view that lay next my heart; and that by an old
acquaintance, whose good, before this affair, I was studious to
promote.

I would only say, sir, said he, that my first motive was entirely such
as became my function: And, very politely, said my master, he added,
And I am very sure, that however inexcusable I might seem in the
progress of the matter, yourself, sir, would have been sorry to have it
said, you had cast your thoughts on a person, that nobody could have
wished for but yourself.

Well, Mr. Williams, said I, I see you are a man of gallantry, as well
as religion: But what I took most amiss was, that, if you thought me
doing a wrong thing, you did not expostulate with me upon it, as your
function might have allowed you to do; but immediately determined to
counterplot me, and attempt to secure to yourself a prize you would
have robbed me of, and that from my own house. But the matter is at an
end, and I retain not any malice upon it; though you did not know but I
might, at last, do honourably by her, as I actually intend.

I am sorry for myself, sir, said he, that I should so unhappily incur
your displeasure; but I rejoice for her sake in your honourable
intentions: give me leave only to say, that if you make Miss Andrews
your lady, she will do credit to your choice with every body that sees
her, or comes to know her; and, for person and mind both, you may
challenge the county.

In this manner, said my master, did the parson and I confabulate; and I
set him down at his lodgings in the village. But he kept your secret,
Pamela; and would not own, that you gave any encouragement to his
addresses.

Indeed, sir, said I, he could not say that I did; and I hope you
believe me. I do, I do, said he: but ’tis still my opinion, that if,
when I saw plots set up against my plots, I had not discovered the
parson as I did, the correspondence between you might have gone to a
length that would have put our present situation out of both our
powers.

Sir, said I, when you consider, that my utmost presumption could not
make me hope for the honour you now seem to design me; that I was so
hardly used, and had no prospect before me but dishonour, you will
allow that I should have seemed very little in earnest in my
professions of honesty, if I had not endeavoured to get away: but yet I
resolved not to think of marriage; for I never saw the man I could
love, till your goodness emboldened me to look up to you.

I should, my dear Pamela, said he, make a very ill compliment to my
vanity, if I did not believe you; though, at the same time, justice
calls upon me to say, that it is, some things considered, beyond my
merit.

There was a sweet, noble expression for your poor daughter, my dear
father and mother!—And from my master too!

I was glad to hear this account of the interview between Mr. Williams
and himself; but I dared not to say so. I hope in time he will be
reinstated in his good graces.

He was so good as to tell me, he had given orders for the chapel to be
cleared. O how I look forward with inward joy, yet with fear and
trembling!

Friday.

About twelve o’clock came Sir Simon, and his lady and two daughters;
and Lady Jones, and a sister-in-law of hers; and Mr. Peters, and his
spouse and niece. Mrs. Jewkes, who is more and more obliging, was much
concerned I was not dressed in some of my best clothes, and made me
many compliments.

They all went into the garden for a walk, before dinner; and, I
understood, were so impatient to see me, that my master took them into
the largest alcove, after they had walked two or three turns, and stept
himself to me. Come, my Pamela, said he, the ladies can’t be satisfied
without seeing you, and I desire you’ll come. I said, I was ashamed;
but I would obey him. Said he, The two young ladies are dressed out in
their best attire; but they make not such an appearance as my charming
girl in this ordinary garb.—Sir, said I, shan’t I follow you thither?
For I can’t bear you should do me so much honour. Well, said he, I’ll
go before you. And he bid Mrs. Jewkes bring a bottle of sack, and some
cake. So he went down to them.

This alcove fronts the longest gravel-walk in the garden, so that they
saw me all the way I came, for a good way: and my master told me
afterwards, with pleasure, all they said of me.

Will you forgive the little vain slut, your daughter, if I tell you
all, as he was pleased to tell me? He said, ‘spying me first, Look,
there, ladies, comes my pretty rustic!—They all, I saw, which dashed
me, stood at the windows, and in the door-way, looking full at me.

My master told me, that Lady Jones said, She is a charming creature, I
see that, at this distance. And Sir Simon, it seems, who has been a sad
rake in his younger days, swore he never saw so easy an air, so fine a
shape, and so graceful a presence.—The Lady Darnford said, I was a
sweet girl. And Mrs. Peters said very handsome things. Even the parson
said, I should be the pride of the county. O, dear sirs! all this was
owing to the light my good master’s favour placed me in, which made me
shine out in their eyes beyond my deserts. He said the young ladies
blushed, and envied me.

When I came near, he saw me in a little confusion, and was so kind as
to meet me: Give me your hand, said he, my poor girl; you walk too
fast, (for, indeed, I wanted to be out of their gazing). I did so, with
a courtesy, and he led me up the steps of the alcove, and, in a most
gentleman-like manner, presented me to the ladies, and they all saluted
me, and said, They hoped to be better acquainted with me: and Lady
Darnford was pleased to say, I should be the flower of their
neighbourhood. Sir Simon said, Good neighbour, by your leave; and
saluting me, added, Now will I say, that I have kissed the loveliest
maiden in England. But, for all this, methought I owed him a grudge for
a tell-tale, though all had turned out so happily. Mr. Peters very
gravely followed his example, and said, like a bishop, God bless you,
fair excellence! said Lady Jones, Pray, dear madam, sit down by me: and
they all sat down: But I said, I would stand, if they pleased. No,
Pamela, said my master: pray sit down with these good ladies, my
neighbours:—They will indulge it to you, for my sake, till they know
you better; and for your own, when they are acquainted with you. Sir,
said I, I shall be proud to deserve their indulgence.

They all so gazed at me, that I could not look up; for I think it is
one of the distinctions of persons of condition, and well-bred people,
to put bashful bodies out of countenance. Well, Sir Simon, said my
master, what say you now to my pretty rustic?—He swore a great oath,
that he should better know what to say to me if he was as young as
himself. Lady Darnford said, You will never leave, Sir Simon.

Said my master, You are a little confused, my good girl, and out of
breath; but I have told all my kind neighbours here a good deal of your
story, and your excellence. Yes, said Lady Darnford, my dear neighbour,
as I will call you; we that are here present have all heard of your
uncommon story. Madam, said I, you have then heard what must make your
kind allowance for me very necessary. No, said Mrs. Peters, we have
heard what will always make you valued as an honour to our sex, and as
a worthy pattern for all the young ladies in the county. You are very
good, madam, said I, to make me able to look up, and to be thankful for
the honour you are pleased to do me.

Mrs. Jewkes came in with the canary, brought by Nan, to the alcove, and
some cakes on a silver salver; and I said, Mrs. Jewkes, let me be your
assistant; I will serve the ladies with the cake. And so I took the
salver, and went round to the good company with it, ending with my
master. The Lady Jones said, She never was served with such a grace,
and it was giving me too much trouble. O, madam, said I, I hope my good
master’s favour will never make me forget, that it is my duty to wait
upon his friends. Master, sweet one! said Sir Simon, I hope you won’t
always call Mr. B—— by that name, for fear it should become a fashion
for all our ladies to do the like through the county. I, sir, said I,
shall have many reasons to continue this style, which cannot affect
your good ladies.

Sir Simon, said Lady Jones, you are very arch upon us but I see very
well, that it will be the interest of all the gentlemen, to bring their
ladies into an intimacy with one that can give them such a good
example. I am sure then, madam, said I, it must be after I have been
polished and improved by the honour of such an example as yours.

They all were very good and affable; and the young Lady Darnford, who
had wished to see me in this dress, said, I beg your pardon, dear miss,
as she called me; but I had heard how sweetly this garb became you, and
was told the history of it; and I begged it, as a favour, that you
might oblige us with your appearance in it. I am much obliged to your
ladyship, said I, that your kind prescription was so agreeable to my
choice. Why, said she, was it your choice then?—I am glad of that:
though I am sure your person must give, and not take, ornament from any
dress.

You are very kind, madam, said I: but there will be the less reason to
fear I should forget the high obligations I should have to the kindest
of gentlemen, when I can delight to shew the humble degree from which
his goodness had raised me.—My dear Pamela, said my master, if you
proceed at this rate, I must insist upon your first seven days. You
know what I mean. Sir, said I, you are all goodness!

They drank a glass of sack each, and Sir Simon would make me do so too,
saying, It will be a reflection, madam, upon all the ladies, if you
don’t do as they. No, Sir Simon, said I, that can’t be, because the
ladies’ journey hither makes a glass of canary a proper cordial for
them: but I won’t refuse; because I will do myself the honour of
drinking good health to you, and to all this worthy company.

Said good Lady Darnford, to my master, I hope, sir, we shall have Mrs.
Andrews’s company at table. He said, very obligingly, Madam, it is her
time now; and I will leave it to her choice. If the good ladies, then,
will forgive me, sir, said I, I had rather be excused. They all said, I
must not be excused. I begged I might. Your reason for it, my dear
Pamela? said my master: since the ladies request it, I wish you would
oblige them. Sir, replied I, your goodness will make me, every day,
worthier of the honour the ladies do me; and when I can persuade myself
that I am more worthy of it than at present, I shall with great joy
embrace all the opportunities they will be pleased to give me.

Mrs. Peters whispered Lady Jones, as my master told me afterwards; Did
you ever see such excellence, such prudence, and discretion? Never in
my life, said the other good lady. She will adorn, she was pleased to
say, her distinction. Ay, says Mrs. Peters, she would adorn any station
in life.

My good master was highly delighted, generous gentleman as he is! with
the favourable opinion of the ladies; and I took the more pleasure in
it, because their favour seemed to lessen the disgrace of his stooping
so much beneath himself.

Lady Darnford said, We will not oppress you; though we could almost
blame your too punctilious exactness: but if we excuse Miss Andrews
from dinner, we must insist upon her company at the card-table, and at
a dish of tea; for we intend to pass the whole day with you, sir, as we
told you. What say you to that, Pamela, said my master. Sir, replied I,
whatever you and the ladies please, I will cheerfully do. They said, I
was very obliging. But Sir Simon rapt out an oath, and said, That they
might dine together, if they would; but he would dine with me, and
nobody else: for, said he, I say, sir, as Parson Williams said, (by
which I found my master had told them the story,) You must not think
you have chosen one that nobody can like but yourself.

The young ladies said, If I pleased they would take a turn about the
garden with me. I answered, I would very gladly attend them; and so we
three, and Lady Jones’s sister-in-law, and Mr. Peters’s niece, walked
together. They were very affable, kind, and obliging; and we soon
entered into a good deal of familiarity; and I found Miss Darnford a
very agreeable person. Her sister was a little more on the reserve; and
I afterwards heard, that, about a year before, she would fain have had
my master make his addresses to her: but though Sir Simon is reckoned
rich, she was not thought sufficient fortune for him. And now, to have
him look down so low as me, must be a sort of mortification to a poor
young lady!—And I pitied her.—Indeed I did!—I wish all young persons of
my sex could be as happy as I am like to be.

My master told me afterwards, that I left the other ladies, and Sir
Simon and Mr. Peters, full of my praises: so that they could hardly
talk of any thing else; one launching out upon my complexion, another
upon my eyes, my hand, and, in short, for you’ll think me sadly proud,
upon my whole person and behaviour; and they all magnified my readiness
and obligingness in my answers, and the like: And I was glad of it, as
I said, for my good master’s sake, who seemed quite pleased and
rejoiced. God bless him for his goodness to me!

Dinner not being ready, the young ladies proposed a tune upon the
spinnet. I said, I believed it was not in tune. They said, they knew it
was but a few months ago. If it is, said I, I wish I had known it;
though indeed, ladies, added I, since you know my story, I must own,
that my mind has not been long in tune, to make use of it. So they
would make me play upon it, and sing to it; which I did, a song my dear
good lady made me learn, and used to be pleased with, and which she
brought with her from Bath: and the ladies were much taken with the
song, and were so kind as to approve my performance: And Miss Darnford
was pleased to compliment me, that I had all the accomplishments of my
sex. I said, I had had a good lady, in my master’s mother, who had
spared no pains nor cost to improve me. She said, she wished Mr. B——
could be prevailed upon to give a ball on an approaching happy
occasion, that we might have a dancing-match, etc.—But I can’t say I
do; though I did not say so: for these occasions, I think, are too
solemn for the principals, at least of our sex, to take part in,
especially if they have the same thoughts of that solemnity that I
have: For, indeed, though I have before me a prospect of happiness,
that may be envied by ladies of high rank, yet I must own to you, my
dear parents, that I have something very awful upon my mind, when I
think of the matter; and shall, more and more, as it draws nearer and
nearer. This is the song:


I.


    Go, happy paper, gently steal,

      And underneath her pillow lie;
    There, in soft dreams, my love reveal,
    That love which I must still conceal,

      And, wrapt in awful silence, die.




II.


    Should flames be doom’d thy hapless fate,

      To atoms thou wouldst quickly turn:
    My pains may bear a longer date;
    For should I live, and should she hate,

      In endless torments I should burn.




III.


    Tell fair AURELIA, she has charms,

      Might in a hermit stir desire.
    T’ attain the heav’n that’s in her arms,
    I’d quit the world’s alluring harms,

      And to a cell content, retire.




IV.


    Of all that pleas’d my ravish’d eye,

      Her beauty should supply the place;
    Bold Raphael’s strokes, and Titian’s dye,
    Should but in vain presume to vie

      With her inimitable face.




V.


    No more I’d wish for Phoebus’ rays,

      To gild the object of my sight;
    Much less the taper’s fainter blaze:
    Her eyes should measure out my days;

      And when she slept, it should be night.




About four o’clock.

My master just came up to me, and said, If you should see Mr. Williams
below, do you think, Pamela, you should not be surprised?—No, sir, said
I, I hope not. Why should I? Expect, said he, a stranger then, when you
come down to us in the parlour; for the ladies are preparing themselves
for the card-table, and they insist upon your company.—You have a mind,
sir, said I, I believe, to try all my courage. Why, said he, does it
want courage to see him? No, sir, said I, not at all. But I was
grievously dashed to see all those strange ladies and gentlemen; and
now to see Mr. Williams before them, as some of them refused his
application for me, when I wanted to get away, it will a little shock
me, to see them smile, in recollecting what has passed of that kind.
Well, said he, guard your heart against surprises, though you shall
see, when you come down, a man that I can allow you to love dearly;
though hardly preferably to me.

This surprises me much. I am afraid he begins to be jealous of me. What
will become of me, (for he looked very seriously,) if any turn should
happen now!—My heart aches! I know not what’s the matter. But I will go
down as brisk as I can, that nothing may be imputed to me. Yet I wish
this Mr. Williams had not been there now, when they are all there;
because of their fleers at him and me. Otherwise I should be glad to
see the poor gentleman; for, indeed, I think him a good man, and he has
suffered for my sake.

So, I am sent for down to cards. I’ll go; but wish I may continue their
good opinions of me: for I shall be very awkward. My master, by his
serious question, and bidding me guard my heart against surprises,
though I should see, when I came down, a man he can allow me to love
dearly, though hardly better than himself, has quite alarmed me, and
made me sad!—I hope he loves me!—But whether he does or not, I am in
for it now, over head and ears, I doubt, and can’t help loving him;
’tis a folly to deny it. But to be sure I can’t love any man preferably
to him. I shall soon know what he means.

Now, my dear mother, must I write to you. Well might my good master say
so mysteriously as he did, about guarding my heart against surprises. I
never was so surprised in my life; and never could see a man I loved so
dearly!—O my dear mother, it was my dear, dear father, and not Mr.
Williams, that was below ready to receive and to bless your daughter!
and both my master and he enjoined me to write how the whole matter
was, and what my thoughts were on this joyful occasion.

I will take the matter from the beginning, that Providence directed his
feet to this house, to this time, as I have had it from Mrs. Jewkes,
from my master, my father, the ladies, and my own heart and conduct, as
far as I know of both; because they command it, and you will be pleased
with my relation and so, as you know how I came by the connexion, will
make one uniform relation of it.

It seems, then, my dear father and you were so uneasy to know the truth
of the story which Thomas had told you, that fearing I was betrayed,
and quite undone, he got leave of absence, and set out the day after
Thomas was there; and so, on Friday morning, he got to the neighbouring
town; and there he heard, that the gentry in the neighbourhood were at
my master’s, at a great entertainment. He put on a clean shirt and
neckcloth (which he brought in his pocket) at an alehouse there, and
got shaved; and so, after he had eaten some bread and cheese, and drank
a can of ale, he set out for my master’s house, with a heavy heart,
dreading for me, and in much fear of being brow-beaten. He had, it
seems, asked, at the alehouse, what family the ’squire had down here,
in hopes to hear something of me: And they said, A housekeeper, two
maids, and, at present, two coachmen, and two grooms, a footman, and a
helper. Was that all? he said. They told him, there was a young
creature there, belike who was, or was to be, his mistress, or somewhat
of that nature; but had been his mother’s waiting-maid. This, he said,
grieved his heart, and confirmed his fears.

So he went on, and about three o’clock in the afternoon came to the
gate; and, ringing there, Sir Simon’s coachman went to the iron gate;
and he asked for the housekeeper; though, from what I had written, in
his heart he could not abide her. She sent for him in, little thinking
who he was, and asked him, in the little hall, what his business with
her was?—Only, madam, said he, whether I cannot speak one word with the
’squire? No, friend, said she; he is engaged with several gentlemen and
ladies. Said he, I have business with his honour of greater consequence
to me than either life or death; and tears stood in his eyes.

At that she went into the great parlour, where my master was talking
very pleasantly with the ladies; and she said, Sir, here is a good
tight old man, that wants to see you on business of life and death, he
says, and is very earnest. Ay, said he, Who can that be?—Let him stay
in the little hall, and I’ll come to him presently. They all seemed to
stare; and Sir Simon said, No more nor less, I dare say, my good
friend, but a bastard-child. If it is, said Lady Jones, bring it in to
us. I will, said he.

Mrs. Jewkes tells me, my master was much surprised, when he saw who it
was; and she much more, when my dear father said,—Good God! give me
patience! but, as great as you are, sir, I must ask for my child! and
burst out into tears. (O what trouble have I given you both!) My master
said, taking him by the hand, Don’t be uneasy, Goodman Andrews; your
daughter is in the way to be happy.

This alarmed my dear father, and he said, What! then, is she dying? And
trembled, he could scarce stand. My master made him sit down, and sat
down by him, and said, No; God be praised! she is very well: And pray
be comforted; I cannot bear to see you thus apprehensive; but she has
written you a letter to assure you, that she has reason to be well
satisfied, and happy.

Ah, sir I said he, you told me once she was in London, waiting on a
bishop’s lady, when all the time she was a severe prisoner here.—Well,
that’s all over now, Goodman Andrews, said my master: but the times are
altered; for now the sweet girl has taken me prisoner; and in a few
days I shall put on the most agreeable fetters that ever man wore.

O, sir! said, he, you are too pleasant for my griefs. My heart’s almost
broke. But may I not see my poor child? You shall presently, said he;
for she is coming down to us; and since you won’t believe me, I hope
you will her.

I will ask you, good sir, said he, but one question till then, that I
may know how to look upon her when I see her. Is she honest? Is she
virtuous?—As the new-born babe, Mr. Andrews, said my good master; and
in twelve days time, I hope, will be my wife.

O flatter me not, good your honour, said he: It cannot be! it cannot
be!—I fear you have deluded her with strange hopes; and would make me
believe impossibilities!—Mrs. Jewkes, said he, do you tell my dear
Pamela’s good father, when I go out, all you know concerning me, and
your mistress that is to be. Meantime, make much of him, and set out
what you have; and make him drink a glass of what he likes best. If
this be wine, added he, fill me a bumper.

She did so; and he took my father by the hand, and said, Believe me,
good man, and be easy; for I can’t bear to see you tortured in this
cruel suspense: Your dear daughter is the beloved of my soul. I am glad
you are come: for you’ll see us all in the same story. And here’s your
dame’s health; and God bless you both, for being the happy means of
procuring for me so great a blessing! And so he drank a bumper to this
most obliging health.

What do I hear? It cannot surely be! said my father. And your honour is
too good, I hope, to mock a poor old man—This ugly story, sir, of the
bishop, runs in my head—But you say I shall see my dear child—And I
shall see her honest.—If not, poor as I am, I would not own her.

My master bid Mrs. Jewkes not to let me know yet, that my father was
come; and went to the company, and said, I have been agreeably
surprised: Here is honest old Goodman Andrews come full of grief to see
his daughter; for he fears she is seduced; and tells me, good honest
man, that, poor as he is, he will not own her, if she be not virtuous.
O, said they all, with one voice almost, Dear sir! shall we not see the
good old man you have so praised for his plain good sense, and honest
heart? If, said he, I thought Pamela would not be too much affected
with the surprise, I would make you all witness to their first
interview; for never did daughter love a father, or a father a
daughter, as they two do one another. Miss Darnford, and all the
ladies, and the gentlemen too, begged it might be so. But was not this
very cruel, my dear mother? For well might they think I should not
support myself in such an agreeable surprise.

He said, kindly, I have but one fear, that the dear girl may be too
much affected. O, said Lady Darnford, we’ll all help to keep up her
spirits. Says he, I’ll go up, and prepare her; but won’t tell her of
it. So he came up to me, as I have said, and amused me about Mr.
Williams, to half prepare me for some surprise; though that could not
have been any thing to this: and he left me, as I said, in that
suspense, at his mystical words, saying, He would send to me, when they
were going to cards.

My master went from me to my father, and asked if he had eaten any
thing. No, said Mrs. Jewkes; the good man’s heart is so full, he cannot
eat, nor do any thing, till he has seen his dear daughter. That shall
soon be, said my master. I will have you come in with me; for she is
going to sit down with my guests, to a game at quadrille; and I will
send for her down. O, sir, said my father, don’t, don’t let me; I am
not fit to appear before your guests; let me see my daughter by myself,
I beseech you. Said he, They all know your honest character, Goodman
Andrews, and long to see you, for Pamela’s sake.

So he took my father by the hand, and led him in, against his will, to
the company. They were all very good. My master kindly said, Ladies and
gentlemen, I present to you one of the honestest men in England, my
good Pamela’s father. Mr. Peters went to him, and took him by the hand,
and said, We are all glad to see you, sir; you are the happiest man in
the world in a daughter; whom we never saw before to-day, but cannot
enough admire.

Said my master, This gentleman, Goodman Andrews, is the minister of the
parish; but is not young enough for Mr. Williams. This airy expression,
my poor father said, made him fear, for a moment, that all was a
jest.—Sir Simon also took him by the hand, and said, Ay, you have a
sweet daughter, Honesty; we are all in love with her. And the ladies
came, and said very fine things: Lady Darnford particularly, That he
might think himself the happiest man in England, in such a daughter.
If, and please you, madam, said he, she be but virtuous, ’tis all in
all: For all the rest is accident. But I doubt his honour has been too
much upon the jest with me. No, said Mrs. Peters, we are all witnesses,
that he intends very honourably by her.—It is some comfort, said he,
and wiped his eyes, that such good ladies say so—But I wish I could see
her.

They would have had him sit down by them; but he would only sit behind
the door, in the corner of the room, so that one could not soon see him
as one came in; because the door opened against him, and hid him
almost. The ladies all sat down; and my master said, Desire Mrs. Jewkes
to step up, and tell Mrs. Andrews the ladies wait for her. So down I
came.

Miss Darnford rose, and met me at the door, and said, Well, Miss
Andrews, we longed for your company. I did not see my dear father; and
it seems his heart was too full to speak; and he got up, and sat down
three or four times successively, unable to come to me, or to say any
thing. The ladies looked that way: but I would not, supposing it was
Mr. Williams. And they made me sit down between Lady Darnford and Lady
Jones; and asked me, what we should play at? I said, At what your
ladyships please. I wondered to see them smile, and look upon me, and
to that corner of the room; but I was afraid of looking that way, for
fear of seeing Mr. Williams; though my face was that way too, and the
table before me.

Said my master, Did you send your letter away to the post-house, my
good girl, for your father? To be sure, sir, said I, I did not forget
that: I took the liberty to desire Mr. Thomas to carry it. What, said
he, I wonder, will the good old couple say to it? O sir, said I, your
goodness will be a cordial to their dear honest hearts! At that, my
dear father, not able to contain himself, nor yet to stir from the
place, gushed out into a flood of tears, which he, good soul! had been
struggling with, it seems; and cried out, O my dear child!

I knew the voice, and, lifting up my eyes, and seeing my father, gave a
spring, overturned the table, without regard to the company, and threw
myself at his feet: O my father! my father! said I, can it be?—Is it
you? Yes, it is! it is!—O bless your happy daughter! I would have said,
and down I sunk.

My master seemed concerned—I feared, said he, that the surprise would
be too much for her spirits; and all the ladies ran to me, and made me
drink a glass of water; and I found myself encircled in the arms of my
dearest father.—O tell me, said I, every thing! How long have you been
here? When did you come? How does my honoured mother? And half a dozen
questions more, before he could answer one.

They permitted me to retire with my father; and then I poured forth all
my vows and thanksgivings to God for this additional blessing; and
confirmed all my master’s goodness to his scarce-believing amazement.
And we kneeled together, blessing God, and one another, for several
ecstatic minutes and my master coming in soon after, my dear father
said, O sir, what a change is this! May, God reward and bless you, both
in this world and the next!

May God bless us all! said he. But how does my sweet girl? I have been
in pain for you—I am sorry I did not apprise you beforehand.

O sir, said I, it was you; and all you do must be good—But this was a
blessing so unexpected!——

Well, said he, you have given pain to all the company. They will be
glad to see you, when you can: for you have spoiled all their
diversion; and yet painfully delighted them at the same time. Mr.
Andrews, added he, do you make this house your own; and the longer you
stay, the more welcome you’ll be. After you have a little composed
yourself, my dear girl, step in to us again. I am glad to see you so
well already. And so he left us.

See you, my dear father, said I, what goodness there is in this once
naughty master! O pray for him! and pray for me, that I may deserve it!

How long has this happy change been wrought, my dear child?—O, said I,
several happy days!—I have written down every thing; and you’ll see,
from the depth of misery, what God has done for your happy daughter!

Blessed be his name! said he. But do you say he will marry you? Can it
be, that such a brave gentleman will make a lady of the child of such a
poor man as I? O the divine goodness! How will your poor dear mother be
able to support these happy tidings? I will set out to-morrow, to
acquaint her with them: for I am but half happy, till the dear good
woman shares them with me!—To be sure, my dear child, we ought to go
into some far country to hide ourselves, that we may not disgrace you
by our poverty!

O, my dear father, said I, now you are unkind for the first time! Your
poverty has been my glory, and my riches; and I have nothing to brag
of, but that I ever thought it an honour, rather than a disgrace;
because you were always so honest, that your child might well boast of
such a parentage!

In this manner, my dear mother, did we pass the happy moments, till
Miss Darnford came to me, and said, How do you do, dear madam? I
rejoice to see you so well! Pray let us have your company. And yours
too, good Mr. Andrews, taking his hand.

This was very obliging, I told her; and we went to the great parlour;
and my master took my father by the hand, and made him sit down by him,
and drink a glass of wine with him. Mean-time, I made my excuses to the
ladies, as well as I could, which they readily granted me. But Sir
Simon, after his comical manner, put his hands on my shoulders: Let me
see, let me see, said he, where your wings grow; for I never saw any
body fly like you.—Why, said he, you have broken Lady Jones’s shins
with the table. Shew her else, madam.

His pleasantry made them laugh. And I said, I was very sorry for my
extravagancy: and if it had not been my master’s doings, I should have
said, it was a fault to permit me to be surprised, and put out of
myself, before such good company. They said, All was very excusable;
and they were glad I suffered no more by it.

They were so kind as to excuse me at cards, and played by themselves;
and I went by my master’s commands and sat on the other side, in the
happiest place I ever was blest with, between two of the dearest men in
the world to me, and each holding one of my hands:—my father, every now
and then, with tears, lifting up his eyes, and saying, Could I ever
have hoped this!

I asked him, If he had been so kind as to bring the papers with him? He
said, He had; and looked at me, as who should say, Must I give them to
you now?—I said, Be pleased to let me have them. He pulled them from
his pocket; and I stood up, and, with my best duty, gave them into my
master’s hands. He said, Thank you, Pamela. Your father shall take all
with him, so see what a sad fellow I have been, as well as the present
happier alteration. But I must have them all again, for the writer’s
sake.

The ladies and gentlemen would make me govern the tea-table, whatever I
could do; and Abraham attended me, to serve the company. My master and
my father sat together, and drank a glass or two of wine instead of
tea, and Sir Simon joked with my master, saying, I warrant you would
not be such a woman’s man, as to drink tea, for ever so much, with the
ladies. But your time’s coming, and I doubt not you’ll be made as
comfortable as I.

My master was very urgent with them to stay supper; and at last they
complied, on condition that I would grace the table, as they were
pleased to call it. I begged to be excused. My master said, Don’t be
excused, Pamela, since the ladies desire it: And besides, said he, we
won’t part with your father; and so you may as well stay with us.

I was in hopes my father and I might sup by ourselves, or only with
Mrs. Jewkes. And Miss Darnford, who is a most obliging young lady,
said, We will not part with you, indeed we won’t.

When supper was brought in, Lady Darnford took me by the hand, and said
to my master, Sir, by your leave; and would have placed me at the upper
end of the table. Pray, pray, madam, said I, excuse me; I cannot do it,
indeed I cannot. Pamela, said my master, to the great delight of my
good father, as I could see by his looks, oblige Lady Darnford, since
she desires it. It is but a little before your time, you know.

Dear, good sir, said I, pray don’t command it! Let me sit by my father,
pray! Why, said Sir Simon, here’s ado indeed! Sit down at the upper
end, as you should do; and your father shall sit by you, there. This
put my dear father upon difficulties. And my master said, Come, I’ll
place you all: and so put Lady Darnford at the upper end, Lady Jones at
her right hand, and Mrs. Peters on the other; and he placed me between
the two young ladies; but very genteelly put Miss Darnford below her
younger sister; saying, Come, miss, I put you here, because you shall
hedge in this little cuckow; for I take notice, with pleasure, of your
goodness to her; and, besides, all you very young ladies should sit
together. This seemed to please both sisters; for had the youngest miss
been put there, it might have piqued her, as matters have been
formerly, to be placed below me; whereas Miss Darnford giving place to
her youngest sister, made it less odd she should to me; especially with
that handsome turn of the dear man, as if I was a cuckow, and to be
hedged in.

My master kindly said, Come, Mr. Andrews, you and I will sit together.
And so took his place at the bottom of the table, and set my father on
his right hand; and Sir Simon would sit on his left. For, said he,
parson, I think the petticoats should sit together; and so do you sit
down by that lady (his sister). A boiled turkey standing by me, my
master said, Cut up that turkey, Pamela, if it be not too strong work
for you, that Lady Darnford may not have too much trouble. So I carved
it in a trice, and helped the ladies. Miss Darnford said, I would give
something to be so dexterous a carver. O madam, said I, my late good
lady would always make me do these things, when she entertained her
female friends, as she used to do on particular days.

Ay, said my master, I remember my poor mother would often say, if I, or
any body at table, happened to be a little out in carving, I’ll send up
for my Pamela, to shew you how to carve. Said Lady Jones, Mrs. Andrews
has every accomplishment of her sex. She is quite wonderful for her
years. Miss Darnford said, And I can tell you, madam, that she plays
sweetly upon the spinnet, and sings as sweetly to it; for she has a
fine voice. Foolish! said Sir Simon; who, that hears her speak, knows
not that? And who that sees her fingers, believes not that they were
made to touch any key? O, parson! said he, ’tis well you’re by, or I
should have had a blush from the ladies. I hope not, Sir Simon, said
Lady Jones; for a gentleman of your politeness would not say any thing
that would make ladies blush.—No, no, said he, for the world: but if I
had, it would have been, as the poet says,

‘They blush, because they understand.’

When the company went away, Lady Darnford, Lady Jones, and Mrs. Peters,
severally invited my master, and me with him, to their houses; and
begged he would permit me, at least, to come before we left those
parts. And they said, We hope, when the happy knot is tied, you will
induce Mr. B—— to reside more among us. We were always glad, said Lady
Darnford, when he was here; but now shall have double reason. O what
grateful things were these to the ears of my good father!

When the company was gone, my master asked my father, if he smoked? He
answered, No. He made us both sit down by him, and said, I have been
telling this sweet girl, that in fourteen days, and two of them are
gone, she must fix on one to make me happy. And have left it to her to
choose either one of the first or last seven. My father held up his
hands, and eyes; God bless your honour! said he, is all I can say. Now,
Pamela, said my master, taking my hand, don’t let a little wrong-timed
bashfulness take place, without any other reason, because I should be
glad to go to Bedfordshire as soon as I could; and I would not return
till I carry my servants there a mistress, who should assist me to
repair the mischiefs she has made in it.

I could not look up for confusion. And my father said, My dear child, I
need not, I am sure, prompt your obedience in whatever will most oblige
so good a gentleman. What says my Pamela? said my master: She does not
use to be at a loss for expressions. Sir, said I, were I too sudden, it
would look as if I doubted whether you would hold in your mind, and was
not willing to give you time for reflection: but otherwise, to be sure
I ought to resign myself implicitly to your will. Said he, I want not
time for reflection: for I have often told you, and that long ago, I
could not live without you: and my pride of condition made me both
tempt and terrify you to other terms; but your virtue was proof against
all temptations, and was not to be awed by terrors: Wherefore, as I
could not conquer my passion for you, I corrected myself, and resolved,
since you would not be mine upon my terms, you should upon your own:
and now I desire you not on any other, I assure you: and I think the
sooner it is done, the better. What say you, Mr. Andrews? Sir, said he,
there is so much goodness on your side, and, blessed be God! so much
prudence on my daughter’s, that I must be quite silent. But when it is
done, I and my poor wife shall have nothing to do, but to pray for you
both, and to look back, with wonder and joy, on the ways of Providence.

This, said my master, is Friday night; and suppose, my girl, it be next
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday morning?—Say, my Pamela.

Will you, sir, said I, excuse me till to-morrow for an answer? I will,
said he; and touched the bell, and called for Mrs. Jewkes. Where, said
he, does Mr. Andrews lie to-night? You’ll take care of him. He’s a very
good man; and will bring a blessing upon every house he sets his foot
in.

My dear father wept for joy; and I could not refrain keeping him
company. And my master, saluting me, bid us good night, and retired.
And I waited upon my dear father, and was so full of prattle, of my
master’s goodness, and my future prospects, that I believed afterwards
I was turned all into tongue: but he indulged me, and was transported
with joy; and went to bed, and dreamed of nothing but Jacob’s ladder,
and angels ascending and descending, to bless him and his daughter.

Saturday.

I arose early in the morning; but found my father was up before me, and
was gone to walk in the garden. I went to him: and with what delight,
with what thankfulness, did we go over every scene of it, that had
before been so dreadful to me! The fish-pond, the back-door, and every
place. O what reason had we for thankfulness and gratitude!

About seven o’clock my good master joined us, in his morning gown and
slippers; and looking a little heavy, I said, Sir, I fear you had not
good rest last night. That is your fault, Pamela, said he. After I went
from you, I must needs look into your papers, and could not leave them
till I had read them through; and so ’twas three o’clock before I went
to sleep. I wish, sir, said I, you had had better entertainment. The
worst part of it, said he, was what I had brought upon myself; and you
have not spared me. Sir, said I—He interrupting me, said, Well, I
forgive you. You had too much reason for it. But I find, plainly
enough, that if you had got away, you would soon have been Williams’s
wife: and I can’t see how it could well have been otherwise. Indeed,
sir, said I, I had no notion of it, or of being any body’s. I believe
so, said he; but it must have come as a thing of course; and I see your
father was for it. Sir, said he, I little thought of the honour your
goodness would confer upon her; and I thought that would be a match
above what we could do for her, a great deal. But when I found she was
not for it, I resolved not to urge her; but leave all to her own
prudence.

I see, said he, all was sincere, honest, and open; and I speak of it,
if it had been done, as a thing that could hardly well be avoided; and
I am quite satisfied. But, said he, I must observe, as I have a hundred
times, with admiration, what a prodigious memory, and easy and happy
manner of narration, this excellent girl has! And though she is full of
her pretty tricks and artifices, to escape the snares I had laid for
her, yet all is innocent, lovely, and uniformly beautiful. You are
exceedingly happy in a daughter; and I hope I shall be so in a wife—Or,
said my father, may she not have that honour! I fear it not, said he;
and I hope I shall deserve it of her.

But, Pamela, said my master, I am sorry to find in some parts of your
journal, that Mrs. Jewkes carried her orders a little too far: and I
the more take notice of it, because you have not complained to me of
her behaviour, as she might have expected for some parts of it; though
a good deal was occasioned by my strict orders.—But she had the
insolence to strike my girl, I find. Sir, said I, I was a little
provoking, I believe; but as we forgave one another, I was the less
entitled to complain of her.

Well, said he, you are very good; but if you have any particular
resentment, I will indulge it so far, as that she shall hereafter have
nothing to do where you are. Sir, said I, you are so kind, that I ought
to forgive every body; and when I see that my happiness is brought
about by the very means that I thought then my greatest grievance, I
ought to bless those means, and forgive all that was disagreeable to me
at the same time, for the great good that hath issued from it.—That,
said he, and kissed me, is sweetly considered! and it shall be my part
to make you amends for what you have suffered, that you may still think
lighter of the one, and have cause to rejoice in the other.

My dear father’s heart was full; and he said, with his hands folded,
and lifted up, Pray, sir, let me go—let me go—to my dear wife, and tell
her all these blessed things, while my heart holds; for it is ready to
burst with joy! Good man! said my master—I hope to hear this honest
heart of yours speaking at your lips. I enjoin you, Pamela, to continue
your relation, as you have opportunity; and though your father be here,
write to your mother, that this wondrous story be perfect, and we, your
friends, may read and admire you more and more. Ay, pray, pray do, my
child, said my father; and this is the reason that I write on, my dear
mother, when I thought not to do it, because my father could tell you
all that passed while he was here.

My master took notice of my psalm, and was pleased to commend it; and
said, That I had very charitably turned the last verses, which, in the
original, were full of heavy curses, to a wish that shewed I was not of
an implacable disposition though my then usage might have excused it,
if I had. But, said he, I think you shall sing it to me to-morrow.

After we have breakfasted, added he, if you have no objection, Pamela,
we’ll take an airing together; and it shall be in the coach, because
we’ll have your father’s company. He would have excused himself; but my
master would have it so: but he was much ashamed, because of the
meanness of his appearance.

My master would make us both breakfast with him on chocolate; and he
said, I would have you, Pamela, begin to dress as you used to do; for
now, at least, you may call your two other bundles your own; and if you
want any thing against the approaching occasion, private as I design
it, I’ll send to Lincoln for it, by a special messenger. I said, My
good lady’s bounty, and his own, had set me much above my degree, and I
had very good things of all sorts; and I did not desire any other,
because I would not excite the censure of the ladies. That would be a
different thing, he was pleased to say, when he publicly owned his
nuptials, after we came to the other house. But, at present, if I was
satisfied, he would not make words with me.

I hope, Mr. Andrews, said he, to my father, you’ll not leave us till
you see the affair over, and then you’ll be sure I mean honourably:
and, besides, Pamela will be induced to set the day sooner. O, sir,
said he, I bless God I have no reason to doubt your meaning honourably:
and I hope you’ll excuse me, if I set out on Monday morning, very
early, to my dear wife, and make her as happy as I am.

Why, Pamela, says my good master, may it not be performed on Tuesday?
And then your father, maybe, will stay.—I should have been glad to have
had it to-morrow, added he; but I have sent Monsieur Colbrand for a
license, that, you may have no scruple unanswered; and he can’t very
well be back before to-morrow night, or Monday morning.

This was most agreeable news. I said, Sir, I know my dear father will
want to be at home: and as you was so good to give me a fortnight from
last Thursday, I should be glad you would be pleased to indulge me
still to some day in the second seven.

Well, said he, I will not be too urgent; but the sooner you fix, the
better. Mr. Andrews, we must leave something to these Jephthah’s
daughters, in these cases, he was pleased to say: I suppose the little
bashful folly, which, in the happiest circumstances, may give a kind of
regret to quit the maiden state, and an awkwardness at the entrance
into a new one, is a reason with Pamela; and so she shall name her day.
Sir, said he, you are all goodness.

I went up soon after, and new dressed myself, taking possession, in a
happy moment, I hope, of my two bundles, as my good master was pleased
to call them; (alluding to my former division of those good things my
lady and himself bestowed upon me;) and so put on fine linen, silk
shoes, and fine white cotton stockings, a fine quilted coat, a delicate
green Mantea silk gown and coat, a French necklace, and a laced cambric
handkerchief, and clean gloves; and, taking my fan in my hand, I, like
a little proud hussy, looked in the glass, and thought myself a
gentlewoman once more; but I forgot not to return due thanks, for being
able to put on this dress with so much comfort.

Mrs. Jewkes would help to dress me, and complimented me highly, saying,
among other things, That now I looked like a lady indeed: and as, she
said, the little chapel was ready, and divine service would be read in
it to-morrow, she wished the happy knot might then be tied. Said she,
Have you not seen the chapel, madam, since it has been cleaned out? No,
said I; but are we to have service in it to-morrow, do you say?—I am
glad of that; for I have been a sad heathen lately, sore against my
will!—But who is to officiate?—Somebody, replied she, Mr. Peters will
send. You tell me very good news, said I, Mrs. Jewkes: I hope it will
never be a lumber-room again.—Ay, said she, I can tell you more good
news; for the two Misses Darnford, and Lady Jones, are to be here at
the opening of it; and will stay and dine with you. My master, said I,
has not told me that. You must alter your style, madam, said she: It
must not be master now, sure!—O, returned I, this is a language I shall
never forget: he shall always be my master; and I shall think myself
more and more his servant.

My poor father did not know I went up to dress myself; and he said his
heart misgave him when he saw me first, for fear I was made a fool of,
and that here was some fine lady that was to be my master’s true wife.
And he stood in admiration, and said, O, my dear child, how well will
you become your happy condition! Why you look like a lady already! I
hope, my dear father, said I, and boldly kissed him, I shall always be
your dutiful daughter, whatever my condition be.

My master sent me word he was ready; and when he saw me, said, Dress as
you will, Pamela, you’re a charming girl! and so handed me to the
coach, and would make my father and me sit both on the foreside, and
sat backwards, over against me; and bid the coachman drive to the
meadow; that is, where he once met Mr. Williams.

The conversation was most agreeable to me, and to my dear father, as we
went; and he more and more exceeded in goodness and generosity; and,
while I was gone up to dress, he had presented my father with twenty
guineas; desiring him to buy himself and my mother such apparel as they
should think proper; and lay it all out: but I knew not this till after
we came home; my father having had no opportunity to tell me of it.

He was pleased to inform me of the chapel being got in tolerable order;
and said, it looked very well; and against he came down next, it should
be all new white-washed, and painted and lined; and a new pulpit-cloth,
cushion, desk, etc. and that it should always be kept in order for the
future. He told me the two Misses Darnford, and Lady Jones, would dine
with him on Sunday: And, with their servants and mine, said he, we
shall make a tolerable congregation. And, added he, have I not well
contrived to shew you that the chapel is really a little house of God,
and has been consecrated, before we solemnize our nuptials in it?—O,
sir, replied I, your goodness to me is inexpressible! Mr. Peters, said
he, offered to come and officiate in it; but would not stay to dine
with me, because he has company at his own house: and so I intend that
divine service shall be performed in it by one to whom I shall make
some yearly allowance, as a sort of chaplain.—You look serious, Pamela,
added he: I know you think of your friend Williams. Indeed, sir, said
I, if you won’t be angry, I did. Poor man! I am sorry I have been the
cause of his disobliging you.

When we came to the meadow, where the gentry have their walk sometimes,
the coach stopt, and my master alighted, and led me to the brook-side,
and it is a very pretty summer walk. He asked my father, If he chose to
walk out, or go on in the coach to the farther end? He, poor man, chose
to go on in the coach, for fear, he said, any gentry should be walking
there; and he told me, he was most of the way upon his knees in the
coach, thanking God for his gracious mercies and goodness; and begging
a blessing upon my good master and me.

I was quite astonished, when we came into the shady walk, to see Mr.
Williams there. See there, said my master, there’s poor Williams,
taking his solitary walk again, with his book. And, it seems, it was so
contrived; for Mr. Peters had been, as I since find, desired to tell
him to be in that walk at such an hour in the morning.

So, old acquaintance, said my master, again have I met you in this
place? What book are you now reading? He said, it was Boileau’s Lutrin.
Said my master, You see I have brought with me my little fugitive, that
would have been: While you are perfecting yourself in French, I am
trying to learn English; and hope soon to be master of it.

Mine, sir, said he, is a very beautiful piece of French: but your
English has no equal.

You are very polite, Mr. Williams, said my master: And he that does not
think as you do, deserves no share in her. Why, Pamela, added he, very
generously, why so strange, where you have once been so familiar? I do
assure you both, that I mean not, by this interview, to insult Mr.
Williams, or confound you. Then I said, Mr. Williams, I am very glad to
see you well; and though the generous favour of my good master has
happily changed the scene, since you and I last saw one another, I am
nevertheless very glad of an opportunity to acknowledge, with
gratitude, your good intentions, not so much to serve me, as me, but as
a person—that then had great reason to believe herself in distress. And
I hope, sir, added I, to my master, your goodness will permit me to say
this.

You, Pamela, said he, may make what acknowledgments you please to Mr.
Williams’s good intentions; and I would have you speak as you think;
but I do not apprehend myself to be quite so much obliged to those
intentions.

Sir, said Mr. Williams, I beg leave to say, I knew well, that, by
education, you was no libertine; nor had I reason to think you so by
inclination; and, when you came to reflect, I hoped you would not be
displeased with me. And this was no small motive to me, at first, to do
as I did.

Ay, but Mr. Williams, said my master, could you think I should have had
reason to thank you, if, loving one person above all her sex, you had
robbed me of her, and married her yourself?—And then, said he, you are
to consider, that she was an old acquaintance of mine, and a quite new
one to you; that I had sent her down to my own house, for better
securing her; and that you, who had access to my house, could not
effect your purpose, without being guilty, in some sort, of a breach of
the laws of hospitality and friendship. As to my designs upon her, I
own they had not the best appearance; but still I was not answerable to
Mr. Williams for those; much less could you be excused to invade a
property so very dear to me, and to endeavour to gain an interest in
her affections, when you could not be certain that matters would not
turn out as they have actually done.

I own, said he, that some parts of my conduct seem exceptionable, as
you state it. But, sir, I am but a young man. I meant no harm. I had no
interest, I am sure, to incur your displeasure; and when you think of
every thing, and the inimitable graces of person, and perfections of
mind, that adorn this excellent lady, (so he called me,) you will,
perhaps, find your generosity allow something as an extenuation of a
fault, which your anger would not permit as an excuse.

I have done, said my master; nor did I meet you here to be angry with
you. Pamela knew not that she should see you: and now you are both
present, I would ask you, Mr. Williams, If, now you know my honourable
designs towards this good girl, you can really be almost, I will not
say quite, as well pleased with the friendship of my wife, as you could
be with the favour of Mrs. Andrews?

Sir, said he, I will answer you truly. I think I could have preferred,
with her, any condition that could have befallen me, had I considered
only myself. But, sir, I was very far from having any encouragement to
expect her favour; and I had much more reason to believe, that, if she
could have hoped for your goodness, her heart would have been too much
pre-engaged to think of any body else. And give me leave further to
say, sir, that, though I tell you sincerely my thoughts, were I only to
consider myself; yet, when I consider her good, and her merit, I should
be highly ungenerous, were it put to my choice, if I could not wish her
in a condition so much superior to what I could raise her to, and so
very answerable to her merit.

Pamela, said my master, you are obliged to Mr. Williams, and ought to
thank him: He has distinguished well. But, as for me, who had like to
have lost you by his means, I am glad the matter was not left to his
choice. Mr. Williams, added he, I give you Pamela’s hand, because I
know it will be pleasing to her, in token of her friendship and esteem
for you; and I give you mine, that I will not be your enemy: but yet I
must say, that I think I owe this proper manner of your thinking more
to your disappointment, than to the generosity you talk of.

Mr. Williams kissed my hand, as my master gave it him; and my master
said, Sir, you will go home and dine with me, and I’ll shew you my
little chapel; and do you, Pamela, look upon yourself at liberty to
number Mr. Williams in the list of your friends.

How generous, how noble, was this! Mr. Williams (and so had I) had
tears of pleasure in his eyes. I was silent: But Mr. Williams said,
Sir, I shall be taught, by your generosity, to think myself inexcusably
wrong, in every step I took, that could give you offence; and my future
life shall shew my respectful gratitude.

We walked on till we came to the coach, where was my dear father.
Pamela, said my master, tell Mr. Williams who that good man is. O, Mr.
Williams! said I, it is my dear father! and my master was pleased to
say, One of the honestest men in England: Pamela owes every thing that
she is to be, as well as her being, to him; for, I think, she would not
have brought me to this, nor made so great resistance, but for the good
lessons, and religious education, she had imbibed from him.

Mr. Williams said, taking father’s hand, You see, good Mr. Andrews,
with inexpressible pleasure, no doubt, the fruits of your pious care;
and now are in a way, with your beloved daughter, to reap the happy
effects of it.—I am overcome, said my dear father, with his honour’s
goodness: But I can only say, I bless God, and bless him.

Mr. Williams and I being nearer the coach than my master, and he
offering to draw back, to give way to him, he kindly said, Pray, Mr.
Williams, oblige Pamela with your hand; and step in yourself. He bowed,
and took my hand; and my master made him step in, and sit next me, all
that ever he could do; and sat himself over against him, next my
father, who sat against me.

And he said, Mr. Andrews, I told you yesterday that the divine you saw
was not Mr. Williams; I now tell you, this gentleman is: and though I
have been telling him, I think not myself obliged to his intentions;
yet I will own that Pamela and you are; and though I won’t promise to
love him, I would have you.

Sir, said Mr. Williams, you have a way of overcoming, that hardly all
my reading affords an instance of; and it is the more noble, as it is
on this side, as I presume, the happy ceremony, which, great as your
fortune is, will lay you under an obligation to so much virtue and
beauty, when the lady becomes yours; for you will then have a treasure
that princes might envy you.

Said my generous master, (God bless him!) Mr. Williams, it is
impossible that you and I should long live at variance, when our
sentiments agree so well together, on subjects the most material.

I was quite confounded; and my master, seeing it, took my hand, and
said, Look up, my good girl; and collect yourself.—Don’t injure Mr.
Williams and me so much, as to think we are capping compliments, as we
used to do verses at school. I dare answer for us both, that we say not
a syllable we don’t think.

O sir, said I, how unequal am I to all this goodness! Every moment that
passes adds to the weight of the obligations you oppress me with.

Think not too much of that, said he most generously. Mr. Williams’s
compliments to you have great advantage of mine: For, though equally
sincere, I have a great deal to say, and to do, to compensate the
sufferings I have made you undergo; and, at last, must sit down
dissatisfied, because those will never be balanced by all I can do for
you.

He saw my dear father quite unable to support these affecting instances
of his goodness;—and he let go my hand, and took his; and said, seeing
his tears, I wonder not, my dear Pamela’s father, that your honest
heart springs thus to your eyes, to see all her trials at an end. I
will not pretend to say, that I had formerly either power or will to
act thus: But since I began to resolve on the change you see, I have
reaped so much pleasure in it, that my own interest will keep me
steady: For, till within these few days, I knew not what it was to be
happy.

Poor Mr. Williams, with tears of joy in his eyes, said, How happily,
sir, have you been touched by the divine grace, before you have been
hurried into the commission of sins, that the deepest penitence could
hardly have atoned for!—God has enabled you to stop short of the evil;
and you have nothing to do, but to rejoice in the good, which now will
be doubly so, because you can receive it without the least inward
reproach.

You do well, said he, to remind me, that I owe all this to the grace of
God. I bless Him for it; and I thank this good man for his excellent
lessons to his daughter; I thank her for following them: and I hope,
from her good example, and your friendship, Mr. Williams, in time, to
be half as good as my tutoress: and that, said he, I believe you’ll
own, will make me, without disparagement to any man, the best
fox-hunter in England.—Mr. Williams was going to speak: and he said,
You put on so grave a look, Mr. Williams, that, I believe, what I have
said, with you practical good folks, is liable to exception: but I see
we are become quite grave; and we must not be too serious neither.

What a happy creature, my dear mother, is your Pamela!—O may my
thankful heart, and the good use I may be enabled to make of the
blessings before me, be a means to continue this delightful prospect to
a long date, for the sake of the dear good gentleman, who thus becomes
the happy instrument, in the hand of Providence, to bless all he smiles
upon! To be sure, I shall never enough acknowledge the value he is
pleased to express for my unworthiness, in that he has prevented my
wishes, and, unasked, sought the occasion of being reconciled to a good
man, who, for my sake, had incurred his displeasure; and whose name he
could not, a few days before, permit to pass through my lips! But see
the wonderful ways of Providence! The very things that I most dreaded
his seeing or knowing, the contents of my papers, have, as I hope,
satisfied all his scruples, and been a means to promote my happiness.

Henceforth let not us poor short-sighted mortals pretend to rely on our
own wisdom; or vainly think, that we are absolutely to direct for
ourselves. I have abundant reason, I am sure, to say, that, when I was
most disappointed, I was nearer my happiness: for had I made my escape,
which was so often my chief point in view, and what I had placed my
heart upon, I had escaped the blessings now before me, and fallen,
perhaps headlong, into the miseries I would have avoided. And yet,
after all, it was necessary I should take the steps I did, to bring on
this wonderful turn: O the unsearchable wisdom of God!—And how much
ought I to adore the divine goodness, and humble myself, who am made a
poor instrument, as I hope, not only to magnify his graciousness to
this fine gentleman and myself, but also to dispense benefits to
others! Which God of his mercy grant!

In the agreeable manner I have mentioned, did we pass the time in our
second happy tour; and I thought Mrs. Jewkes would have sunk into the
ground, when she saw Mr. Williams brought in the coach with us, and
treated so kindly. We dined together in a most pleasant, easy, and
frank manner; and I found I need not, from my master’s generosity, to
be under any restraint, as to my conduct to this good clergyman: For
he, so often as he fancied I was reserved, moved me to be free with
him, and to him; and several times called upon me to help my father and
Mr. Williams; and seemed to take great delight in seeing me carve, as,
indeed, he does in every thing I do.

After dinner we went and looked into the chapel, which is a very pretty
one, and very decent; and, when finished as he designs it, against his
next coming down, will be a very pretty place.

My heart, my dear mother, when I first set my foot in it, throbbed a
good deal, with awful joy, at the thoughts of the solemnity, which, I
hope, will in a few days be performed here. And when I came up towards
the little pretty altar-piece, while they were looking at a
communion-picture, and saying it was prettily done, I gently stept into
a corner, out of sight, and poured out my soul to God on my knees, in
supplication and thankfulness, that, after having been so long absent
from divine service, the first time I entered into a house dedicated to
his honour, should be with such blessed prospects before me; and
begging of God to continue me humble, and to make me not unworthy of
his mercies; and that he would be pleased to bless the next author of
my happiness, my good master.

I heard my master say, Where’s Pamela? And so I broke off sooner than I
would, and went up to him.

He said, Mr. Williams, I hope I have not so offended you by my conduct
past, (for really it is what I ought to be ashamed of,) as that you
will refuse to officiate, and to give us your instructions here
to-morrow. Mr. Peters was so kind, for the first time, to offer it; but
I knew it would be inconvenient for him; and, besides, I was willing to
make this request to you an introduction to our reconciliation.

Sir, said he, most willingly, and most gratefully, will I obey you:
Though, if you expect a discourse, I am wholly unprepared for the
occasion. I would not have it, replied he, pointed to any particular
occasion; but if you have one upon the text—There is more joy in Heaven
over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-nine just persons that
need no repentance; and if it makes me not such a sad fellow as to be
pointed at by mine and the ladies’ servants we shall have here, I shall
be well content. ’Tis a general subject, added he, makes me speak of
that; but any one you please will do; for you cannot make a bad choice,
I am sure.

Sir, said he, I have one upon that text; but I am ready to think, that
a thanksgiving one, which I made on a great mercy to myself, if I may
be permitted to make my own acknowledgments of your favour the subject
of a discourse, will be suitable to my grateful sentiments. It is on
the text;—Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace; for mine eyes
have seen thy salvation.

That text, said I, will be a very suitable one for me. Not so, Pamela,
said my master; because I don’t let you depart in peace; but I hope you
will stay here with content.

O but, sir, said I, I have seen God’s salvation!—I am sure, added I, if
any body ever had reason, I have to say, with the blessed virgin, My
soul doth magnify the Lord; for he hath regarded the low estate of his
handmaiden—and exalted one of low degree.

Said my good father, I am sure, if there were time for it, the book of
Ruth would afford a fine subject for the honour done my dear child.

Why, good Mr. Andrews, said my master, should you say so?—I know that
story, and Mr. Williams will confirm what I say, that my good girl here
will confer at least as much honour as she will receive.

Sir, said I, you are inexpressibly generous; but I shall never think
so. Why, my Pamela, said he, that’s another thing: It will be best for
me to think you will; and it will be kind in you to think you shan’t;
and then we shall always have an excellent rule to regulate our conduct
by to one another.

Was not this finely, nobly, wisely said, my dear mother?—O what a
blessed thing it is to be matched to a man of sense and generosity!—How
edifying! How!—But what shall I say?—I am at loss for words.

Mr. Williams said, when we came out of the little chapel, He would go
home, and look over his discourses, for one for the next day. My master
said, I have one thing to say before you go—When my jealousy, on
account of this good girl, put me upon such a vindictive conduct to
you, you know I took a bond for the money I had caused you to be
troubled for: I really am ashamed of the matter; because I never
intended, when I presented it to you, to have it again, you may be
sure: But I knew not what might happen between you and her, nor how far
matters might have gone between you; and so I was willing to have that
in awe over you. And I think it is no extraordinary present, therefore,
to give you up your bond again cancelled. And so he took it from his
pocket, and gave it him. I think, added he, all the charges attending
it, and the trouble you had, were defrayed by my attorney; I ordered
that they should. They were, sir, said he; and ten thousand thanks to
you for this goodness, and the kind manner in which you do it.—If you
will go, Mr. Williams, said he, shall my chariot carry you home? No,
sir, answered he, I thank you. My time will be so well employed all the
way, in thinking of your favours, that I choose to meditate upon them,
as I walk home.

My dear father was a little uneasy about his habit, for appearing at
chapel next day, because of Misses Darnford and the servants, for fear,
poor man, he should disgrace my master; and he told me, when he was
mentioning this, of my master’s kind present of twenty guineas for
clothes, for you both; which made my heart truly joyful. But oh! to be
sure, I can never deserve the hundredth part of his goodness!—It is
almost a hard thing to be under the weight of such deep obligations on
one side, and such a sense of one’s own unworthiness on the other.—O!
what a Godlike power is that of doing good!—I envy the rich and the
great for nothing else.

My master coming to us just then, I said, Oh! sir, will your bounty
know no limits? My dear father has told me what you have given him.—A
trifle, Pamela, said he, a little earnest only of my kindness.—Say no
more of it. But did I not hear the good man expressing some sort of
concern for somewhat? Hide nothing from me, Pamela. Only, sir, said I,
he knew not how to absent himself from divine service, and yet is
afraid of disgracing you by appearing.

Fie, Mr. Andrews! said he, I thought you knew that the outward
appearance was nothing. I wish I had as good a habit inwardly as you
have. But I’ll tell you, Pamela, your father is not so much thinner
than I am, nor much shorter; he and I will walk up together to my
wardrobe; though it is not so well stored here, as in Bedfordshire.

And so, said he, pleasantly, don’t you pretend to come near us, till I
call for you; for you must not yet see how men dress and undress
themselves. O sir, said my father, I beg to be excused. I am sorry you
were told. So am not I, said my master: Pray come along with me.

He carried him up stairs, and shewed him several suits, and would have
had him take his choice. My poor father was quite confounded: for my
master saw not any he thought too good, and my father none that he
thought bad enough. And my good master, at last, (he fixed his eye upon
a fine drab, which he thought looked the plainest,) would help him to
try the coat and waistcoat on himself; and, indeed, one would not have
thought it, because my master is taller, and rather plumper, as I
thought but, as I saw afterwards, they fitted him very well. And being
plain, and lined with the same colour, and made for travelling in a
coach, pleased my poor father much. He gave him the whole suit, and,
calling up Mrs. Jewkes, said, Let these clothes be well aired against
to-morrow morning. Mr. Andrews brought only with him his common
apparel, not thinking to stay Sunday with us. And pray see for some of
my stockings, and whether any of my shoes will fit him: And see also
for some of my linen; for we have put the good man quite out of his
course, by keeping him Sunday over. He was then pleased to give him the
silver buckles out of his own shoes. So, my good mother, you must
expect to see my dear father a great beau. Wig, said my master, he
wants none; for his own venerable white locks are better than all the
perukes in England.—But I am sure I have hats enough somewhere.—I’ll
take care of every thing, sir, said Mrs. Jewkes.—And my poor father,
when he came to me, could not refrain tears. I know not how, said he,
to comport myself under these great favours. O my child, it is all
owing to the divine goodness, and your virtue.

Sunday.

This blessed day all the family seemed to take delight to equip
themselves for the celebration of the Sabbath in the little chapel; and
Lady Jones and Mr. Williams came in her chariot, and the two Misses
Darnford in their own. And we breakfasted together in a most agreeable
manner. My dear father appeared quite spruce and neat, and was quite
caressed by the three ladies. As we were at breakfast, my master told
Mr. Williams, We must let the Psalms alone, he doubted, for want of a
clerk: but Mr. Williams said, No, nothing should be wanting that he
could supply. My father said, If it might be permitted him, he would,
as well as he was able, perform that office; for it was always what he
had taken delight in. And as I knew he had learnt psalmody formerly, in
his youth, and had constantly practised it in private, at home, on
Sunday evenings, (as well as endeavoured to teach it in the little
school he so unsuccessfully set up, at the beginning of his
misfortunes, before he took to hard labour,) I was in no pain for his
undertaking it in this little congregation. They seemed much pleased
with this; and so we went to chapel, and made a pretty tolerable
appearance; Mrs. Jewkes, and all the servants, attending, but the cook:
And I never saw divine service performed with more solemnity, nor
assisted at with greater devotion and decency; my master, Lady Jones,
and the two misses, setting a lovely example.

My good father performed his part with great applause, making the
responses, as if he had been a practised parish-clerk; and giving the
xxiiid psalm,


    [The Lord is only my support,

       And he that doth me feed:
     How can I then lack any thing

       Whereof I stand in need?
     In pastures green he feedeth me,

       Where I do safely lie;
     And after leads me to the streams,

       Which run most pleasantly.




     And when I find myself near lost,

       Then home he doth me take;
     Conducting me in his right paths,

       E’en for his own name’s sake.
     And tho’ I were e’en at death’s door,

       Yet would I fear no ill:
     For both thy rod and shepherd’s crook

       Afford me comfort still.




     Thou hast my table richly spread

       In presence of my foe:
     Thou hast my head with balm refresh’d,

       My cup doth overflow.
     And finally, while breath doth last,

       Thy grace shall me defend:
     And in the house of God will I

       My life for ever spend.]




which consisted of but three staves, we had it all; and he read the
line, and began the tune with a heart so entirely affected with the
duty, that he went through it distinctly, calmly, and fervently at the
same time; so that Lady Jones whispered me, That good man were fit for
all companies, and present to every laudable occasion: And Miss
Darnford said, God bless the dear good man!—You must think how I
rejoiced in my mind.

I know, my dear mother, you can say most of the shortest psalms by
heart; so I need not transcribe it, especially as your chief treasure
is a bible; and a worthy treasure it is. I know nobody makes more or
better use of it.

Mr. Williams gave us an excellent discourse on liberality and
generosity, and the blessings attending the right use of riches, from
the xith chapter of Proverbs, ver. 24, 25. There is that scattereth,
and yet increaseth; and there is that withholdeth more than is meet,
but it tendeth to poverty. The liberal soul shall be made fat: And he
that watereth, shall be watered also himself. And he treated the
subject in so handsome a manner, that my master’s delicacy, who, at
first, was afraid of some personal compliments, was not offended. Mr.
Williams judiciously keeping to generals; and it was an elegant and
sensible discourse, as my master said.

My father was in the clerk’s place, just under the desk; and Lady
Jones, by her footman, whispered him to favour us with another psalm,
when the sermon was ended. He thinking, as he said afterwards, that the
former was rather of the longest, chose the shortest in the book, which
you know is the cxviith.


    [O all ye nations of the world,

       Praise ye the Lord always:
     And all ye people every where

       Set forth his noble praise.




     For great his kindness is to us;

       His truth doth not decay:
     Wherefore praise ye the Lord our God;

       Praise ye the Lord alway.]




My master thanked Mr. Williams for his excellent discourse, and so did
the ladies; as also did I most heartily: and he was pleased to take my
dear father by the hand, as did also Mr. Williams, and thanked him. The
ladies, likewise, made him their compliments; and the servants all
looked upon him with countenances of respect and pleasure.

At dinner, do what I could, I was forced to take the upper end of the
table; and my master sat at the lower end, between Mr. Williams and my
father. And he said, Pamela, you are so dexterous, that I think you may
help the ladies yourself; and I will help my two good friends. I should
have told you, though, that I dressed myself in a flowered satin, that
was my lady’s, and looked quite fresh and good, and which was given me,
at first, by my master; and the ladies, who had not seen me out of my
homespun before, made me abundance of fine compliments, as soon as they
saw me first.

Talking of the Psalms just after dinner, my master was very naughty, if
I may so say: For he said to my father, Mr. Andrews, I think in the
afternoon, as we shall have only prayers, we may have one longer psalm;
and what think you of the cxxxviith? O, good sir! said I, pray, pray,
not a word more! Say what you will, Pamela, said he, you shall sing it
to us, according to your own version, before these good ladies go away.
My father smiled, but was half concerned for me; and said, Will it
bear, and please your honour?—O ay, said he, never fear it; so long as
Mrs. Jewkes is not in the hearing.

This excited all the ladies’ curiosity; and Lady Jones said, She would
be loath to desire to hear any thing that would give me concern; but
should be glad I would give leave for it. Indeed, madam, said I, I must
beg you won’t insist upon it. I cannot bear it.—You shall see it,
indeed, ladies, said my master; and pray, Pamela, not always as you
please, neither.—Then, pray sir, said I, not in my hearing, I
hope.—Sure, Pamela, returned he, you would not write what is not fit to
be heard!—But, sir, said I, there are particular cases, times, and
occasions, that may make a thing passable at one time, that would not
be tolerable at another. O, said he, let me judge of that, as well as
you, Pamela. These ladies know a good part of your story; and, let me
tell you, what they know is more to your credit than mine; so that if I
have no averseness to reviving the occasion, you may very well bear it.
Said he, I will put you out of your pain, Pamela: here it is: and took
it out of his pocket.

I stood up, and said, Indeed, sir, I can’t bear it; I hope you’ll allow
me to leave the room a minute, if you will read it. Indeed but I won’t,
answered he. Lady Jones said, Pray, good sir, don’t let us hear it, if
Mrs. Andrews be so unwilling. Well, Pamela, said my master, I will put
it to your choice, whether I shall read it now, or you will sing it by
and by. That’s very hard, sir, said I. It must be one, I assure you,
said he. Why then, sir, replied I, you must do as you please; for I
cannot sing it.

Well, then, said my master, I find I must read it; and yet, added he,
after all, I had as well let it alone, for it is no great reputation to
myself. O then, said Miss Darnford, pray let us hear it, to choose.

Why then, proceeded he, the case was this: Pamela, I find, when she was
in the time of her confinement, (that is, added he, when she was taken
prisoner, in order to make me one; for that is the upshot of the
matter,) in the journal she kept, which was intended for nobody’s
perusal but her parents, tells them, that she was importuned, one
Sunday, by Mrs. Jewkes, to sing a psalm; but her spirits not
permitting, she declined it: But after Mrs. Jewkes was gone down, she
says, she recollected, that the cxxxviith psalm was applicable to her
own case; Mrs. Jewkes having often, on other days, in vain, besought
her to sing a song: That thereupon she turned it more to her own
supposed case; and believing Mrs. Jewkes had a design against her
honour, and looking upon her as her gaoler, she thus gives her version
of this psalm. But pray, Mr. Williams, do you read one verse of the
common translation, and I will read one of Pamela’s. Then Mr. Williams,
pulling out his little pocket Common-Prayer-Book, read the first two
stanzas:


I.


    When we did sit in Babylon,

      The rivers round about;
    Then in remembrance of Sion,

      The tears for grief burst out.




II.


    We hang’d our harps and instruments

      The willow trees upon:
    For in that place, men, for that use,

      Had planted many a one.




My master then read:


I.


    When sad I sat in B——n-hall,

      All guarded round about,
    And thought of ev’ry absent friend,

      The tears for grief burst out.




II.


    My joys and hopes all overthrown,

      My heart-strings almost broke,
    Unfit my mind for melody,

      Much more to bear a joke.




The ladies said, It was very pretty; and Miss Darnford, That somebody
else had more need to be concerned than the versifier.

I knew, said my master, I should get no credit by shewing this. But let
us read on, Mr. Williams. So Mr. Williams read:


III.


    Then they, to whom we pris’ners were,

      Said to us, tauntingly,
    Now let us hear your Hebrew songs,

      And pleasant melody.




Now this, said my master, is very near; and read:


III.


    Then she, to whom I prisoner was,

      Said to me tauntingly,
    Now cheer your heart, and sing a song,

      And tune your mind to joy.




Mighty sweet, said Mr. Williams. But let us see how the next verse is
turned. It is this:


IV.


    Alas! said we; who can once frame

      His heavy heart to sing
    The praises of our living God,

      Thus under a strange king?




Why, said my master, it is turned with beautiful simplicity, thus:


IV.


    Alas! said I, how can I frame

      My heavy heart to sing,
    Or tune my mind, while thus enthrall’d

      By such a wicked thing?




Very pretty, said Mr. Williams. Lady Jones said, O, dear madam! could
you wish that we should be deprived of this new instance of your genius
and accomplishments?

O! said my dear father, you will make my good child proud. No, said my
master very generously, Pamela can’t be proud. For no one is proud to
hear themselves praised, but those who are not used to it.—But proceed,
Mr. Williams. He read:


V.


    But yet, if I Jerusalem

      Out of my heart let slide;
    Then let my fingers quite forget

      The warbling harp to guide.




Well, now, said my master, for Pamela’s version:


V.


    But yet, if from my innocence

      I ev’n in thought should slide,
    Then let my fingers quite forget

      The sweet spinnet to guide.




Mr. Williams read:


VI.


    And let my tongue, within my mouth,

      Be ty’d for ever fast,
    If I rejoice, before I see

      Thy full deliv’rance past.




This, also, said my master, is very near:


VI.


    And let my tongue, within my mouth,

      Be lock’d for ever fast,
    If I rejoice, before I see

      My full deliv’rance past.




Now, good sir, said I, oblige me; don’t read any further: pray don’t! O
pray, madam, said Mr. Williams, let me beg to have the rest read; for I
long to know whom you make the Sons of Edom, and how you turn the
Psalmist’s execrations against the insulting Babylonians.

Well, Mr. Williams, replied I, you should not have said so. O, said my
master, that is one of the best things of all. Poor Mrs. Jewkes stands
for Edom’s Sons; and we must not lose this, because I think it one of
my Pamela’s excellencies, that, though thus oppressed, she prays for no
harm upon the oppressor. Read, Mr. Williams, the next stanza. So he
read:


VII.


    Therefore, O Lord! remember now

      The cursed noise and cry,
    That Edom’s sons against us made,

      When they ras’d our city.




VIII.


    Remember, Lord, their cruel words,

      When, with a mighty sound,
    They cried, Down, yea down with it,

      Unto the very ground!




Well, said my master, here seems, in what I am going to read, a little
bit of a curse indeed, but I think it makes no ill figure in the
comparison.


VII.


    And thou, Almighty! recompense

      The evils I endure
    From those who seek my sad disgrace,

      So causeless, to procure.




And now, said he, for Edom’s Sons. Though a little severe in the
imputation.


VIII.


    Remember, Lord, this Mrs. Jewkes,

     When with a mighty sound,
    She cries, Down with her chastity,

      Down to the very ground!




Sure, sir, said I, this might have been spared! But the ladies and Mr.
Williams said, No, by no means! And I see the poor wicked woman has no
favourers among them.

Now, said my master, read the Psalmist’s heavy curses: and Mr. Williams
read:


IX.


    Ev’n so shalt thou, O Babylon!

      At length to dust be brought:
    And happy shall that man be call’d,

      That our revenge hath wrought.




X.


    Yea, blessed shall the man be call’d

      That takes thy little ones,
    And dasheth them in pieces small

      Against the very stones.




Thus he said, very kindly, has my Pamela turned these lines:


IX.


    Ev’n so shalt thou, O wicked one!

      At length to shame be brought;
    And happy shall all those be call’d,

      That my deliv’rance wrought.




X.


    Yea, blessed shall the man be call’d

      That shames thee of thy evil,
    And saves me from thy vile attempts,

      And thee, too, from the d—l.




I fancy this blessed man, said my master smiling, was, at that time,
hoped to be you, Mr. Williams, if the truth was known. Sir, said he,
whoever it was intended for then, it can be nobody but your good self
now.

I could hardly hold up my head for the praises the kind ladies were
pleased to heap upon me. I am sure, by this, they are very partial in
my favour; all because my master is so good to me, and loves to hear me
praised; for I see no such excellence in these lines, as they would
make me believe, besides what is borrowed from the Psalmist.

We all, as before, and the cook-maid too, attended the prayers of the
church in the afternoon; and my dear father concluded with the
following stanzas of the cxlvth psalm; suitably magnifying the holy
name of God for all mercies; but did not observe, altogether, the
method in which they stand; which was the less necessary, he thought,
as he gave out the lines.


    The Lord is just in all his ways:

      His works are holy all:
    And he is near all those that do

      In truth upon him call.


    He the desires of all them

      That fear him, will fulfil;
    And he will hear them when they cry,

      And save them all he will.


    The eyes of all do wait on thee;

      Thou dost them all relieve:
    And thou to each sufficient food,

      In season due, dost give.


    Thou openest thy plenteous hand,

      And bounteously dost fill
    All things whatever, that do live,

      With gifts of thy good will.


    My thankful mouth shall gladly speak

      The praises of the Lord:
    All flesh, to praise his holy name,

      For ever shall accord.




We walked in the garden till tea was ready; and as he went by the
back-door, my master said to me, Of all the flowers in the garden, the
sun-flower is the fairest!—O, sir, said I, let that be now forgot! Mr.
Williams heard him say so, and seemed a little out of countenance:
Whereupon my master said, I mean not to make you serious, Mr. Williams;
but we see how strangely things are brought about. I see other scenes
hereabouts, that, in my Pamela’s dangers, give me more cause of
concern, than any thing you ever did should give you. Sir, said he, you
are very generous.

My master and Mr. Williams afterwards walked together for a quarter of
an hour; and talked about general things, and some scholastic subjects;
and joined us, very well pleased with one another’s conversation.

Lady Jones said, putting herself on one side of me, as my master was on
the other, But pray, sir, when is the happy time to be? We want it
over, that we may have you with us as long afterwards as you can. Said
my master, I would have it to-morrow, or next day at farthest, if
Pamela will: for I have sent for a license, and the messenger will be
here to-night, or early in the morning, I hope. But, added he, pray,
Pamela, do not take beyond Thursday. She was pleased to say, Sure it
will not be delayed by you, madam, more than needs!—Well, said he, now
you are on my side, I will leave you with her to settle it: and, I
hope, she will not let little bashful niceties be important with her;
and so he joined the two misses.

Lady Jones told me, I was to blame, she would take upon her to say, if
I delayed it a moment; because she understood Lady Davers was very
uneasy at the prospect, that it would be so; and if any thing should
happen, it would be a sad thing!—Madam, said I, when he was pleased to
mention it to me first, he said it should be in fourteen days; and
afterwards, asked me if I would have it in the first or the second
seven? I answered—for how could I do otherwise?—In the second. He
desired it might not be the last day of the second seven. Now, madam,
said I, as he was then pleased to speak his mind, no doubt, I would
not, for any thing, seem too forward.

Well, but, said she, as he now urges you in so genteel and gentlemanly
a manner for a shorter day, I think, if I was in your place, I would
agree to it. She saw me hesitate and blush, and said, Well, you know
best; but I say only what I would do. I said, I would consider of it;
and if I saw he was very earnest, to be sure I should think I ought to
oblige him.

Misses Darnford were begging to be at the wedding, and to have a ball:
and they said, Pray, Mrs. Andrews, second our requests, and we shall be
greatly obliged to you. Indeed, ladies, said I, I cannot promise that,
if I might.—Why so? said they.—Because, answered I—I know not what! But
I think one may, with pleasure, celebrate an anniversary of one’s
nuptials; but the day itself—Indeed, ladies, I think it is too solemn a
business, for the parties of our sex to be very gay upon: it is a quite
serious and awful affair: and I am sure, in your own cases, you would
be of my mind. Why, then, said Miss Darnford, the more need one has to
be as light-hearted and merry as one can.

I told you, said my master, what sort of an answer you’d have from
Pamela. The younger miss said, She never heard of such grave folks in
her life, on such an occasion: Why, sir, said she, I hope you’ll sing
psalms all day, and miss will fast and pray! Such sackcloth and ashes
doings, for a wedding, did I never hear of!—She spoke a little
spitefully, I thought; and I returned no answer. I shall have enough to
do, I reckon, in a while, if I am to answer every one that will envy
me!

We went in to tea; and all that the ladies could prevail upon my master
for, was a dancing match before he left this county: But Miss Darnford
said, It should then be at their house; for, truly, if she might not be
at the wedding, she would be affronted, and come no more hither, till
we had been there.

When they were gone, my master would have had my father stay till the
affair was over; but he begged he might set out as soon as it was light
in the morning; for, he said, my mother would be doubly uneasy at his
stay; and he burned with impatience to let her know all the happy
things that had befallen her daughter. When my master found him so
desirous to go, he called Mr. Thomas, and ordered him to get a
particular bay horse ready betimes in the morning, for my father, and a
portmanteau, to put his things in; and to attend him a day’s journey:
And if, said he, Mr. Andrews chooses it, see him safe to his own home:
And, added he, since that horse will serve you, Mr. Andrews, to ride
backwards and forwards, to see us, when we go into Bedfordshire, I make
you a present of it, with the accoutrements. And, seeing my father
going to speak, he added, I won’t be said nay. O how good was this!

He also said a great many kind things at supper-time, and gave him all
the papers he had of mine; but desired, when he and my mother had read
them, that he would return them to him again. And then he said, So
affectionate a father and daughter may, perhaps, be glad to be alone
together; therefore remember me to your good wife, and tell her, it
will not be long, I hope, before I see you together; on a visit to your
daughter, at my other house: and so I wish you good night, and a good
journey, if you go before I see you. And then he shook hands, and left
my dear father almost unable to speak, through the sense of his favours
and goodness.

You may believe, my dear mother, how loath I was to part with my good
father; and he was also unwilling to part with me; but he was so
impatient to see you, and tell you the blessed tidings, with which his
heart overflowed, that I could hardly wish to detain him.

Mrs. Jewkes brought two bottles of cherry-brandy, and two of
cinnamon-water, and some cake; and they were put up in the portmanteau,
with my father’s newly presented clothes; for he said, He would not,
for any thing, be seen in them in his neighbourhood, till I was
actually known, by every body, to be married; nor would he lay out any
part of the twenty guineas till then neither, for fear of reflections;
and then he would consult me as to what he would buy. Well, said I, as
you please, my dear father; and I hope now we shall often have the
pleasure of hearing from one another, without needing any art or
contrivances.

He said, He would go to bed betimes, that he might be up as soon as it
was light; and so he took leave of me, and said, He would not love me,
if I got up in the morning to see him go; which would but make us both
loath to part, and grieve us both all day.

Mr. Thomas brought him a pair of boots, and told him, He would call him
up at peep of day, and put up every thing over night; and so I received
his blessing, and his prayers, and his kind promises of procuring the
same from you, my dear mother; and went up to my closet with a heavy
heart, and yet a half-pleased one, if I may so say; for that, as he
must go, he was going to the best of wives, and with the best of
tidings. But I begged he would not work so hard as he had done; for I
was sure my master would not have given him twenty guineas for clothes,
if he had not designed to do something else for him; and that he should
be the less concerned at receiving benefits, from my good master,
because he, who had so many persons to employ in his large possessions,
could make him serviceable, to a degree equivalent, without hurting any
body else.

He promised me fair; and, pray, dear mother, see he performs. I hope my
master will not see this: for I will not send it you, at present, till
I can send you the best of news; and the rather, as my dear father can
supply the greatest part of what I have written, since the papers he
carries you, by his own observation. So good night, my dear mother: And
God send my father a safe journey, and a happy meeting to you both!

Monday.

Mr. Colbrand being returned, my master came up to me to my closet, and
brought me the license. O how my heart fluttered at the sight of it!
Now, Pamela, said he, tell me, if you can oblige me with the day. Your
word is all that’s wanting. I made bold to kiss his dear hand; and,
though unable to look up, said—I know not what to say, sir, to all your
goodness: I would not, for any consideration, that you should believe
me capable of receiving negligently an honour, that all the duty of a
long life, were it to be lent me, will not be sufficient to enable me
to be grateful for. I ought to resign myself, in every thing I may or
can, implicitly to your will. But—But what? said he, with a kind
impatience.—Why, sir, said I, when from last Thursday you mentioned
four days, I had reason to think that term your choice; and my heart is
so wholly yours, that I am afraid of nothing, but that I may be
forwarder than you wish. Impossible, my dear creature! said he, and
folded me in his arms: Impossible! If this be all, it shall be set
about this moment, and this happy day shall make you mine!—I’ll send
away instantly, said the dear gentleman; and was going.

I said, No, pray, sir, pray, sir, hear me!—Indeed it cannot be
to-day!—Cannot! said he.—No, indeed, sir! said I—And was ready to sink
to see his generous impatience. Why flattered you then my fond heart,
replied he, with the hope that it might?—Sir, said I, I will tell you
what I had thought, if you’ll vouchsafe me your attention. Do then,
said he.

I have, sir, proceeded I, a great desire, that, whenever the day is, it
may be on a Thursday: On a Thursday my dear father and mother were
married; and, though poor, they are a very happy pair.—On a Thursday
your poor Pamela was born. On a Thursday my dear good lady took me from
my parents into her protection. On a Thursday, sir, you caused me to be
carried away to this place, to which I now, by God’s goodness, and your
favour, owe so amazingly all my present prospects; and on a Thursday it
was, you named to me, that fourteen days from that you would confirm my
happiness. Now, sir, if you please to indulge my superstitious folly,
you will greatly oblige me. I was sorry, sir, for this reason, when you
bid me not defer till the last day of the fourteen, that Thursday in
next week was that last day.

This, Pamela, is a little superstitious, I must needs say; and I think
you should begin now to make another day in the week a happy one; as
for example; on a Monday, may you say, my father and mother concluded
to be married on the Thursday following. On a Monday, so many years
ago, my mother was preparing all her matters to be brought to bed on
the Thursday following. On a Monday, several weeks ago, it was that you
had but two days more to stay, till you was carried away on Thursday.
On a Monday, I myself, said he, well remember, it was that I wrote you
the letter, that prevailed on you so kindly to return to me; and on the
same day you did return to my house here; which I hope, my girl, will
be as propitious an era as any you have named: And now, lastly, will
you say, which will crown the work; And, on a Monday I was
married.—Come, come, my dear, added he, Thursday has reigned long
enough o’conscience; let us now set Monday in its place, or at least on
an equality with it, since you see it has a very good title, and as we
now stand in the week before us, claims priority: And then, I hope, we
shall make Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, as happy
days as Monday and Thursday; and so, by God’s blessing, move round, as
the days move, in a delightful circle, till we are at a loss what day
to prefer to the rest.

O how charmingly was this said!—And how sweetly kind!

Indeed, sir, said I, you rally my folly very agreeably; but don’t let a
little matter stand in the way, when you are so generously obliging in
a greater: Indeed I like Thursday best, if I may choose.

Well, then, said he, if you can say you have a better reason than this,
I will oblige you; else I’ll send away for the parson this moment.

And so, I protest, he was going!—Dear sirs, how I trembled! Stay, stay,
sir, said I: we have a great deal to say first; I have a deal of silly
prate to trouble you with!—Well, say then, in a minute, replied he, the
most material: for all we have to say may be talked of while the parson
is coming.—O, but indeed, and indeed, said I, it cannot be
to-day!—Well, then, shall it be to-morrow? said he.—Why, sir, if it
must not be on a Thursday, you have given so many pleasant distinctions
for a Monday, that let it then be next Monday.—What! a week still? said
he. Sir, answered I, if you please; for that will be, as you enjoined,
within the second seven days. Why, girl, said he, ’twill be seven
months till next Monday. Let it, said he, if not to-morrow, be on
Wednesday; I protest I will stay no longer.

Then, sir, returned I, please to defer it, however, for one day more,
and it will be my beloved Thursday! If I consent to defer it till then,
may I hope, my Pamela, said he, that next Thursday shall certainly be
the happy day?—Yes, sir, said I and I am sure I looked very foolishly!

And yet, my dear father and mother, why should I, with such a fine
gentleman? And whom I so dearly love? And so much to my honour too? But
there is something greatly awful upon my mind, in the solemn
circumstance, and a change of condition never to be recalled, though
all the prospects are so desirable. And I can but wonder at the
thoughtless precipitancy with which most young folks run into this
important change of life!

So now, my dear parents, have I been brought to fix so near a day as
next Thursday; and this is Monday. O dear, it makes one out of breath
almost to think of it! This, though, was a great cut off; a whole week
out of ten days. I hope I am not too forward! I’m sure, if it obliges
my dear master, I am justified; for he deserves of me all things in my
poor power.

After this, he rode out on horseback, attended by Abraham, and did not
return till night. How by degrees things steal upon one! I thought even
this small absence tedious; and the more, as we expected him home to
dinner.—I wish I may not be too fond, and make him indifferent: But
yet, my dear father and mother, you were always fond of one another,
and never indifferent, let the world run as it would.

When he returned, he said, He had had a pleasant ride, and was led out
to a greater distance than he intended. At supper he told me, that he
had a great mind Mr. Williams should marry us; because, he said, it
would shew a thorough reconciliation on his part. But, said he, most
generously, I am apprehensive, from what passed between you, that the
poor man will take it hardly, and as a sort of insult, which I am not
capable of. What says my girl?—Do you think he would? I hope not, sir,
said I: As to what he may think, I can’t answer; but as to any reason
for his thoughts, I can: For indeed, sir, said I, you have been already
so generous, that he cannot, I think, mistake your goodness.

He then spoke with some resentment of Lady Davers’s behaviour, and I
asked, if any thing new had occurred? Yes, said he; I have had a letter
delivered me from her impertinent husband, professedly at her
instigation, that amounted to little less than a piece of insolent
bravery, on supposing I was about to marry you. I was so provoked,
added he, that after I had read it, I tore it in a hundred pieces, and
scattered them in the air, and bid the man who brought it let his
master know what I had done with his letter; and so would not permit
him to speak to me, as he would fain have done,—I think the fellow
talked somewhat of his lady coming hither; but she shall not set her
foot within my doors; and I suppose this treatment will hinder her.

I was much concerned at this: And he said, Had I a hundred sisters,
Pamela, their opposition should have no weight with me: and I did not
intend you should know it; but you can’t but expect a little difficulty
from the pride of my sister, who have suffered so much from that of her
brother; and we are too nearly allied in mind, as well as blood, I
find.—But this is not her business: And if she would have made it so,
she should have done it with more decency. Little occasion had she to
boast of her birth, that knows not what belongs to good manners.

I said, I am very sorry, sir, to be the unhappy occasion of a
misunderstanding between so good a brother and so worthy a sister.
Don’t say so, Pamela, because this is an unavoidable consequence of the
happy prospect before us. Only bear it well yourself, because she is my
sister; and leave it to me to make her sensible of her own rashness.

If, sir, said I, the most lowly behaviour, and humble deportment, and
in every thing shewing a dutiful regard to good Lady Davers, will have
any weight with her ladyship, assure yourself of all in my power to
mollify her. No, Pamela, returned he; don’t imagine, when you are my
wife, I will suffer you to do any thing unworthy of that character. I
know the duty of a husband, and will protect your gentleness to the
utmost, as much as if you were a princess by descent.

You are inexpressibly good, sir, said I; but I am far from taking a
gentle disposition to shew a meanness of spirit: And this is a trial I
ought to expect; and well I may bear it, that have so many benefits to
set against it, which all spring from the same cause.

Well, said he, all the matter shall be this: We will talk of our
marriage as a thing to be done next week. I find I have spies upon me
wherever I go, and whatever I do: But now, I am on so laudable a
pursuit, that I value them not, nor those who employ them. I have
already ordered my servants to have no conference with any body for ten
or twelve days to come. And Mrs. Jewkes tells me every one names
Thursday come se’nnight for our nuptials. So I will get Mr. Peters, who
wants to see my little chapel, to assist Mr. Williams, under the notion
of breakfasting with me next Thursday morning, since you won’t have it
sooner; and there will nobody else be wanting; and I will beg of Mr.
Peters to keep it private, even from his own family, for a few days.
Has my girl any objection?

O, sir, answered I, you are so generous in all your ways, I can have no
objections!—But I hope Lady Davers and you will not proceed to
irreconcilable lengths; and when her ladyship comes to see you, and to
tarry with you, two or three weeks, as she used to do, I will keep
close up, so as not to disgust her with the sight of me.

Well, Pamela, said he, we will talk of that afterwards. You must do
then as I shall think fit: And I shall be able to judge what both you
and I ought to do. But what still aggravates the matter is, that she
should instigate the titled ape her husband to write to me, after she
had so little succeeded herself. I wish I had kept his letter, that I
might have shewn you how a man, that generally acts like a fool, can
take upon him to write like a lord. But I suppose it is of my sister’s
penning, and he, poor man! is the humble copier.

Tuesday.

Mr. Thomas is returned from you, my dear father, with the good news of
your health, and your proceeding in your journey to my dear mother,
where I hope to hear soon you are arrived. My master has just now been
making me play upon the spinnet, and sing to it; and was pleased to
commend me for both. But he does so for every thing I do, so partial
does his goodness make him to me.

One o’clock.

We are just returned from an airing in the chariot; and I have been
delighted with his conversation upon English authors, poets
particularly. He entertained me also with a description of some of the
curiosities he had seen in Italy and France, when he made what the
polite world call the grand tour. He said he wanted to be at his other
seat, for he knew not well how to employ himself here, having not
proposed to stay half the time: And when I get there, Pamela, said he,
you will hardly be troubled with so much of my company, after we have
settled; for I have a great many things to adjust: And I must go to
London; for I have accounts that have run on longer than ordinary with
my banker there. And I don’t know, added he, but the ensuing winter I
may give you a little taste of the diversions of the town for a month
or so. I said, His will and pleasure should determine mine; and I never
would, as near as I could, have a desire after those, or any other
entertainments that were not in his own choice.

He was pleased to say, I make no doubt but that I shall be very happy
in you; and hope you will be so in me: For, said he, I have no very
enormous vices to gratify; though I pretend not to the greatest purity,
neither, my girl. Sir, said I, if you can account to your own mind, I
shall always be easy in whatever you do. But our greatest happiness
here, sir, continued I, is of very short duration; and this life, at
the longest, is a poor transitory one; and I hope we shall be so happy
as to be enabled to look forward, with comfort, to another, where our
pleasures will be everlasting.

You say well, Pamela; and I shall, by degrees, be more habituated to
this way of thinking, as I more and more converse with you; but, at
present, you must not be over serious with me all at once: though I
charge you never forbear to mingle your sweet divinity in our
conversation, whenever it can be brought in a propos, and with such a
cheerfulness of temper, as shall not throw a gloomy cloud over our
innocent enjoyments.

I was abashed at this, and silent, fearing I had offended: But he said,
If you attend rightly to what I said, I need not tell you again,
Pamela, not to be discouraged from suggesting to me, on every proper
occasion, the pious impulses of your own amiable mind. Sir, said I, you
will be always indulgent, I make no doubt, to my imperfections, so long
as I mean well.

My master made me dine with him, and would eat nothing but what I
helped him to; and my heart is, every hour, more and more enlarged with
his goodness and condescension. But still, what ails me, I wonder! A
strange sort of weight hangs upon my mind, as Thursday draws on, which
makes me often sigh involuntarily, and damps, at times, the pleasures
of my delightful prospects!—I hope this is not ominous; but only the
foolish weakness of an over-thoughtful mind, on an occasion the most
solemn and important of one’s life, next to the last scene, which shuts
up all.

I could be very serious: But I will commit all my ways to that blessed
Providence, which hitherto has so wonderfully conducted me through real
evils to this hopeful situation.

I only fear, and surely I have great reason, that I shall be too
unworthy to hold the affections of so dear a gentleman!—God teach me
humility, and to know my own demerit! And this will be, next to his
grace, my surest guard, in the state of life to which, though most
unworthy, I am going to be exalted. And don’t cease your prayers for
me, my dear parents; for, perhaps, this new condition may be subject to
still worse hazards than those I have escaped; as would be the case,
were conceitedness, vanity, and pride, to take hold of my frail heart;
and if I was, for my sins, to be left to my own conduct, a frail bark
in a tempestuous ocean, without ballast, or other pilot than my own
inconsiderate will. But my master said, on another occasion, That those
who doubted most, always erred least; and I hope I shall always doubt
my own strength, my own worthiness.

I will not trouble you with twenty sweet agreeable things that passed
in conversation with my excellent benefactor; nor with the civilities
of M. Colbrand, Mrs. Jewkes, and all the servants, who seem to be
highly pleased with me, and with my conduct to them: And as my master,
hitherto, finds no fault that I go too low, nor they that I carry it
too high, I hope I shall continue to have every body’s good-will: But
yet will I not seek to gain any one’s by little meannesses or
debasements! but aim at an uniform and regular conduct, willing to
conceal involuntary errors, as I would have my own forgiven; and not
too industrious to discover real ones, or to hide such, if any such
should appear, as might encourage bad hearts, or unclean hands, in
material cases, where my master should receive damage, or where the
morals of the transgressors should appear wilfully and habitually
corrupt. In short, I will endeavour, as much as I can, that good
servants shall find in me a kind encourager; indifferent ones be made
better, by inspiring them with a laudable emulation; and bad ones, if
not too bad in nature, and quite irreclaimable, reformed by kindness,
expostulation, and even proper menaces, if necessary; but most by a
good example: All this if God pleases.

Wednesday.

Now, my dear parents, I have but this one day between me and the most
solemn rite that can be performed. My heart cannot yet shake off this
heavy weight. Sure I am ungrateful to the divine goodness, and the
favour of the best of benefactors!—Yet I hope I am not!—For, at times,
my mind is all exultation, with the prospect of what good to-morrow’s
happy solemnity may possibly, by the leave of my generous master, put
it in my power to do. O how shall I find words to express, as I ought,
my thankfulness, for all the mercies before me!

Wednesday evening.

My dear master is all love and tenderness. He sees my weakness, and
generously pities and comforts me! I begged to be excused supper; but
he brought me down himself from my closet, and placed me by him,
bidding Abraham not wait. I could not eat, and yet I tried, for fear he
should be angry. He kindly forbore to hint any thing of the dreadful,
yet delightful to-morrow! and put, now and then, a little bit on my
plate, and guided it to my mouth. I was concerned to receive his
goodness with so ill a grace. Well, said he, if you won’t eat with me,
drink at least with me: I drank two glasses by his over-persuasions,
and said, I am really ashamed of myself. Why, indeed, said he, my dear
girl, I am not a very dreadful enemy, I hope! I cannot bear any thing
that is the least concerning to you. Oh, sir! said I, all is owing to
the sense I have of my own unworthiness!—To be sure, it cannot be any
thing else.

He rung for the things to be taken away; and then reached a chair, and
sat down by me, and put his kind arms about me, and said the most
generous and affecting things that ever dropt from the honey-flowing
mouth of love. All I have not time to repeat: some I will. And oh!
indulge your foolish daughter, who troubles you with her weak nonsense;
because what she has to say, is so affecting to her; and because, if
she went to bed, instead of scribbling, she could not sleep.

This sweet confusion and thoughtfulness in my beloved Pamela, said the
kind man, on the near approach of our happy union, when I hope all
doubts are cleared up, and nothing of dishonour is apprehended, shew me
most abundantly, what a wretch I was to attempt such purity with a
worse intention—No wonder, that one so virtuous should find herself
deserted of life itself on a violence so dreadful to her honour, and
seek a refuge in the shadow of death.—But now, my dearest Pamela, that
you have seen a purity on my side, as nearly imitating your own, as our
sex can shew to yours; and since I have, all the day long, suppressed
even the least intimation of the coming days, that I might not alarm
your tender mind; why all this concern, why all this affecting, yet
sweet confusion? You have a generous friend, my dear girl, in me; a
protector now, not a violator of your innocence: Why then, once more I
ask, this strange perplexity, this sweet confusion?

O sir, said I, and hid my face on his arm; expect not reason from a
foolish creature: You should have still indulged me in my closet: I am
ready to beat myself for this ungrateful return to your goodness. But I
know not what!—I am, to be sure, a silly creature! O had you but
suffered me to stay by myself above, I should have made myself ashamed
of so culpable a behaviour!—But goodness added to goodness every
moment, and the sense of my own unworthiness, quite overcome my
spirits.

Now, said the generous man, will I, though reluctantly, make a proposal
to my sweet girl.—If I have been too pressing for the day: If another
day will still be more obliging: If you have fears you will not then
have; you shall say but the word, and I’ll submit. Yes, my Pamela; for
though I have, these three days past, thought every tedious hour a day,
till Thursday comes, if you earnestly desire it, I will postpone it.
Say, my dear girl, freely say; but accept not my proposal, without
great reason, which yet I will not ask for.

Sir, said I, I can expect nothing but superlative goodness, I have been
so long used to it from you. This is a most generous instance of it;
but I fear—yes, I fear it will be too much the same thing, some days
hence, when the happy, yet, fool that I am! dreaded time, shall be
equally near!

Kind, lovely charmer! said he, now do I see you are to be trusted with
power, from the generous use you make of it!—Not one offensive word or
look, from me, shall wound your nicest thoughts; but pray try to subdue
this over-scrupulousness, and unseasonable timidity. I persuade myself
you will if you can.

Indeed, sir, I will, said I; for I am quite ashamed of myself, with all
these lovely views before me!—The honours you do me, the kindness you
shew me!—I cannot forgive myself! For, oh! if I know the least of this
idle foolish heart of mine, it has not a misgiving thought of your
goodness; and I should abhor it, if it were capable of the least
affectation.—But, dear good sir, leave me a little to myself, and I
will take myself to a severer task than your goodness will let you do
and I will present my heart before you, a worthier offering to you,
than at present its wayward follies will let it seem to be.—But one
thing is, one has no kind friend of one’s own sex, to communicate one’s
foolish thoughts to, and to be strengthened by their comfortings! But I
am left to myself; and, oh! what a weak silly thing I am!

He kindly withdrew, to give me time to recollect myself; and in about
half an hour returned: and then, that he might not begin at once upon
the subject, and say, at the same time, something agreeable to me,
said, Your father and mother have had a great deal of talk by this time
about you, Pamela. O, sir, returned I, your goodness has made them
quite happy! But I can’t help being concerned about Lady Davers.

He said, I am vexed I did not hear the footman out; because it runs in
my head he talked somewhat about her coming hither. She will meet with
but an indifferent reception from me, unless she comes resolved to
behave better than she writes.

Pray, sir, said I, be pleased to bear with my good lady, for two
reasons. What are they? said he. Why, first, sir, answered I, because
she is your sister; and, to be sure, may very well think, what all the
world will, that you have much undervalued yourself in making me happy.
And next, because, if her ladyship finds you out of temper with her, it
will still aggravate her more against me; and every time that any warm
words you may have between you, come into her mind, she will disdain me
more.

Don’t concern yourself about it, said he; for we have more proud ladies
than she in our other neighbourhood, who, perhaps, have still less
reason to be punctilious about their descent, and yet will form
themselves upon her example, and say, Why, his own sister will not
forgive him, nor visit him! And so, if I can subdue her spirit, which
is more than her husband ever could, or indeed any body else, it is a
great point gained: And, if she gives me reason, I’ll try for it, I
assure you.

Well, but, my dear girl, continued he, since the subject is so
important, may I not say one word about to-morrow?—Sir, said I, I hope
I shall be less a fool: I have talked as harshly to my heart, as Lady
Davers can do; and the naughty thing suggests to me a better, and more
grateful behaviour.

He smiled, and, kissing me, said, I took notice, Pamela, of what you
observed, that you have none of your own sex with you; I think it is a
little hard upon you; and I should have liked you should have had Miss
Darnford; but then her sister must have been asked; and I might as well
make a public wedding: which, you know, would have required clothes and
other preparations. Besides, added he, a foolish proposal was once made
me of that second sister, who has two or three thousand pounds more
than the other, left her by a godmother, and she can’t help being a
little piqued; though, said he, it was a proposal they could not expect
should succeed; for there is nothing in her person nor mind; and her
fortune, as that must have been the only inducement, would not do by
any means; and so I discouraged it at once.

I am thinking, sir, said I, of another mortifying thing too; that were
you to marry a lady of birth and fortune answerable to your own, all
the eve to the day would be taken up in reading, signing, and sealing
of settlements, and portion, and such like: But now the poor Pamela
brings you nothing at all: And the very clothes she wears, so very low
is she, are entirely the effects of your bounty, and that of your good
mother: This makes me a little sad: For, alas! sir, I am so much
oppressed by your favours, and the sense of the obligations I lie
under, that I cannot look up with the confidence that I otherwise
should, on this awful occasion.

There is, my dear Pamela, said he, where the power is wanting, as much
generosity in the will as in the action. To all that know your story,
and your merit, it will appear that I cannot recompense you for what I
have made you suffer. You have had too many hard struggles and
exercises; and have nobly overcome: and who shall grudge you the reward
of the hard-bought victory?—This affair is so much the act of my own
will, that I glory in being capable of distinguishing so much
excellence; and my fortune is the more pleasurable to me, as it gives
me hope, that I may make you some part of satisfaction for what you
have undergone.

This, sir, said I, is all goodness, unmerited on my side; and makes my
obligations the greater. I can only wish for more worthiness.—But how
poor is it to offer nothing but words for such generous deeds!—And to
say, I wish!—For what is a wish, but the acknowledged want of power to
oblige, and a demonstration of one’s poverty in every thing but will?

And that, my dear girl, said he, is every thing: ’Tis all I want: ’Tis
all that Heaven itself requires of us: But no more of these little
doubts, though they are the natural impulses of a generous and grateful
heart: I want not to be employed in settlements. Those are for such to
regard, who make convenience and fortune the prime considerations. I
have possessions ample enough for us both; and you deserve to share
them with me; and you shall do it, with as little reserve, as if you
had brought me what the world reckons an equivalent: for, as to my own
opinion, you bring me what is infinitely more valuable, an experienced
truth, a well-tried virtue, and a wit and behaviour more than equal to
the station you will be placed in: To say nothing of this sweet person,
that itself might captivate a monarch; and of the meekness of temper,
and sweetness of disposition, which make you superior to all the women
I ever saw.

Thus kind and soothing, and honourably affectionate, was the dear
gentleman, to the unworthy, doubting, yet assured Pamela; and thus
patiently did he indulge, and generously pardon, my impertinent
weakness. He offered to go himself to Lady Jones, in the morning, and
reveal the matter to her, and desire her secrecy and presence; but I
said, That would disoblige the young Ladies Darnford. No, sir, said I,
I will cast myself upon your generous kindness; for why should I fear
the kind protector of my weakness, and the guide and director of my
future steps?

You cannot, said he, forgive Mrs. Jewkes; for she must know it; and
suffer her to be with you? Yes, sir, said I, I can. She is very civil
to me now: and her former wickedness I will forgive, for the sake of
the happy fruits that have attended it; and because you mention her.

Well, said he, I will call her in, if you please.—As you please, sir,
said I. And he rung for her; and when she came in, he said, Mrs.
Jewkes, I am going to entrust you with a secret. Sir, answered she, I
will be sure to keep it as such. Why, said he, we intend to-morrow,
privately as possible, for our wedding-day; and Mr. Peters and Mr.
Williams are to be here, as to breakfast with me, and to shew Mr.
Peters my little chapel. As soon as the ceremony is over, we will take
a little airing in the chariot, as we have done at other times; and so
it will not be wondered that we are dressed. And the two parsons have
promised secrecy, and will go home. I believe you can’t well avoid
letting one of the maids into the secret; but that I’ll leave to you.

Sir, replied she, we all concluded it would be in a few days! and I
doubt it won’t be long a secret. No, said he, I don’t desire it should;
but you know we are not provided for a public wedding, and I shall
declare it when we go to Bedfordshire, which won’t be long. But the
men, who lie in the outhouses, need not know it; for, by some means or
other, my sister Davers knows all that passes.

Do you know, sir, said she, that her ladyship intends to be down here
with you in a few days? Her servant told me so, who brought you the
letter you were angry at.

I hope, said he, we shall be set out for t’other house first; and shall
be pleased she loses her labour. Sir, continued she, her ladyship,
proposes to be here time enough to hinder your nuptials, which she
takes, as we did, will be the latter end of next week. Well, said he,
let her come: but yet I desire not to see her.

Mrs. Jewkes said to me, Give me leave, madam, to wish you all manner of
happiness: But I am afraid I have too well obeyed his honour, to be
forgiven by you. Indeed, Mrs. Jewkes, returned I, you will be more your
own enemy than I will be. I will look all forward: and shall not
presume, so much as by a whisper, to set my good master against any one
he pleases to approve of: And as to his old servants, I shall always
value them, and never offer to dictate to his choice, or influence it
by my own caprices.

Mrs. Jewkes, said my master, you find you have no cause to apprehend
any thing. My Pamela is very placable; and as we have both been sinners
together, we must both be included in one act of grace.

Such an example of condescension, as I have before me, Mrs. Jewkes,
said I, may make you very easy; for I must be highly unworthy, if I did
not forego all my little resentments, if I had any, for the sake of so
much goodness to myself.

You are very kind, madam, said she; and you may depend upon it, I will
atone for all my faults, by my future duty and respect to you, as well
as to my master.

That’s well said on both sides, said he: but, Mrs. Jewkes, to assure
you, that my good girl here has no malice, she chooses you to attend
her in the morning at the ceremony, and you must keep up her spirits.—I
shall, replied she, be very proud of the honour: But I cannot, madam,
but wonder to see you so very low-spirited, as you have been these two
or three days past, with so much happiness before you.

Why, Mrs. Jewkes, answered I, there can be but one reason given; and
that is, that I am a sad fool!—But, indeed, I am not ungrateful
neither; nor would I put on a foolish affectation: But my heart, at
times, sinks within me; I know not why, except at my own unworthiness,
and because the honour done me is too high for me to support myself
under, as I should do. It is an honour, Mrs. Jewkes, added I, I was not
born to; and no wonder, then, I behave so awkwardly. She made me a fine
compliment upon it, and withdrew, repeating her promises of care,
secrecy, etc.

He parted from me with very great tenderness; and I came up and set to
writing, to amuse my thoughts, and wrote thus far. And Mrs. Jewkes
being come up, and it being past twelve, I will go to bed; but not one
wink, I fear, shall I get this night.—I could beat myself for anger.
Sure there is nothing ominous in this strange folly!—But I suppose all
young maidens are the same, so near so great a change of condition,
though they carry it off more discreetly than I.

Thursday, six o’clock in the morning.

I might as well have not gone to bed last night, for what sleep I had.
Mrs. Jewkes often was talking to me, and said several things that would
have been well enough from any body else of our sex; but the poor woman
has so little purity of heart, that it is all say from her, and goes no
farther than the ear.

I fancy my master has not slept much neither; for I heard him up, and
walking about his chamber, ever since break of day. To be sure, good
gentleman! he must have some concern, as well as I; for here he is
going to marry a poor foolish unworthy girl, brought up on the charity,
as one may say, (at least bounty,) of his worthy family! And this
foolish girl must be, to all intents and purposes, after twelve o’clock
this day, as much his wife, as if he were to marry a duchess!—And here
he must stand the shocks of common reflection! The great Mr. B—— has
done finely! he has married his poor servant wench! will some say. The
ridicule and rude jests of his equals, and companions too, he must
stand: And the disdain of his relations, and indignation of Lady
Davers, his lofty sister! Dear good gentleman! he will have enough to
do, to be sure! O how shall I merit all these things at his hand! I can
only do the best I can; and pray to God to reward him; and resolve to
love him with a pure heart, and serve him with a sincere obedience. I
hope the dear gentleman will continue to love me for this; for, alas! I
have nothing else to offer! But, as I can hardly expect so great a
blessing, if I can be secure from his contempt, I shall not be
unfortunate; and must bear his indifference, if his rich friends should
inspire him with it, and proceed with doing my duty with cheerfulness.

Half an hour past eight o’clock.

My good dear master, my kind friend, my generous benefactor, my worthy
protector, and, oh! all the good words in one, my affectionate husband,
that is soon to be—(be curbed in, my proud heart, know thy self, and be
conscious of thy unworthiness!)—has just left me, with the kindest,
tenderest expressions, and gentlest behaviour, that ever blest a happy
maiden. He approached me with a sort of reined-in rapture. My Pamela!
said he, May I just ask after your employment? Don’t let me chide my
dear girl this day, however. The two parsons will be here to breakfast
with us at nine; and yet you are not a bit dressed! Why this absence of
mind, and sweet irresolution?

Why, indeed, sir, said I, I will set about a reformation this instant.
He saw the common-prayer book lying in the window. I hope, said he, my
lovely maiden has been conning the lesson she is by-and-by to repeat.
Have you not, Pamela? and clasped his arms about me, and kissed me.
Indeed, sir, said I, I have been reading over the solemn service.—And
what thinks my fairest (for so he called me) of it?—O sir, ’tis very
awful, and makes one shudder, to reflect upon it!—No wonder, said he,
it should affect my sweet Pamela: I have been looking into it this
morning, and I can’t say but I think it a solemn, but very suitable
service. But this I tell my dear love, continued he, and again clasped
me to him, there is not a tittle in it that I cannot joyfully subscribe
to: And that, my dear Pamela, should make you easy, and join cheerfully
in it with me. I kissed his dear hand: O my generous, kind protector,
said I, how gracious is it to confirm thus the doubting mind of your
poor servant! which apprehends nothing so much as her own unworthiness
of the honour and blessing that await her!—He was pleased to say, I
know well, my dearest creature, that, according to the liberties we
people of fortune generally give ourselves, I have promised a great
deal, when I say so. But I would not have said it, if, deliberately, I
could not with all my heart. So banish from your mind all doubt and
uneasiness; let a generous confidence in me take place; and let me see
it does, by your cheerfulness in this day’s solemn business; and then I
will love you for ever!

May God Almighty, sir, said I, reward all your goodness to me!—That is
all I can say. But, oh! how kind it is in you, to supply the want of
the presence and comfortings of a dear mother, of a loving sister, or
of the kind companions of my own sex, which most maidens have, to
soothe their anxieties on the so near approach of so awful a
solemnity!—You, sir, are all these tender relations in one to me! Your
condescensions and kindness shall, if possible, embolden me to look up
to you without that sweet terror, that must confound poor bashful
maidens, on such an occasion, when they are surrendered up to a more
doubtful happiness, and to half-strange men, whose good faith, and good
usage of them, must be less experienced, and is all involved in the
dark bosom of futurity, and only to be proved by the event.

This, my dear Pamela, said he, is most kindly said! It shews me that
you enter gratefully into my intention. For I would, by my conduct,
supply all these dear relations to you; and I voluntarily promise, from
my heart, to you, what I think I could not, with such assured
resolutions of performance, to the highest-born lady in the kingdom.
For let me tell my sweet girl, that, after having been long tossed by
the boisterous winds of a more culpable passion, I have now conquered
it, and am not so much the victim of your beauty, all charming as you
are, as of your virtue; and therefore may more boldly promise for
myself, having so stable a foundation for my affection; which, should
this outward beauty fail, will increase with your virtue, and shine
forth the brighter, as that is more illustriously displayed by the
augmented opportunities which the condition you are now entering into
will afford you.—O the dear charming man! how nobly, how encouragingly
kind, was all this!

I could not suitably express myself: And he said, I see my girl is at a
loss for words! I doubt not your kind acceptance of my declarations.
And when I have acted too much the part of a libertine formerly, for
you to look back without some anxiety, I ought not, being now happily
convicted, to say less.—But why loses my girl her time? I will now only
add, that I hope for many happy years to make good, by my conduct, what
so willingly flows from my lips.

He kissed me again, and said, But, whatever you do, Pamela, be
cheerful; for else, may be, of the small company we shall have, some
one, not knowing how to account for your too nice modesty, will think
there is some other person in the world, whose addresses would be still
more agreeable to you.

This he said with an air of sweetness and pleasantry; but it alarmed me
exceedingly, and made me resolve to appear as calm and cheerful as
possible. For this was, indeed, a most affecting expression, and enough
to make me, if any thing can, behave as I ought, and to force my idle
fears to give way to hopes so much better grounded.—And I began almost,
on this occasion, to wish Mr. Williams were not to marry me, lest I
should behave like a fool; and so be liable to an imputation, which I
should be most unworthy, if I deserved.

So I set about dressing me instantly; and he sent Mrs. Jewkes to assist
me. But I am never long a dressing, when I set about it; and my master
has now given me a hint, that will, for half an hour more, at least,
keep my spirits in a brisk circulation. Yet it concerns me a little
too, lest he should have any the least shadow of a doubt, that I am
not, mind and person, entirely his.

And so being now ready, and not called to breakfast, I sat down and
wrote thus far.

I might have mentioned, that I dressed myself in a rich white satin
night-gown, that had been my good lady’s, and my best head-clothes,
etc. I have got such a knack of writing, that when I am by myself, I
cannot sit without a pen in my hand.—But I am now called to breakfast.
I suppose the gentlemen are come.—Now, courage, Pamela! Remember thou
art upon thy good behaviour!—Fie upon it! my heart begins to flutter
again!—Foolish heart! be still! Never, sure, was any maiden’s perverse
heart under so little command as mine!—It gave itself away, at first,
without my leave; it has been, for weeks, pressing me with its wishes;
and yet now, when it should be happy itself, and make me so, it is
throb, throb, throb, like a little fool! and filling me with such
unseasonable misgivings, as abate the rising comforts of all my better
prospects.

Thursday, near three o’clock.

I thought I should have found no time nor heart to write again this
day. But here are three gentlemen come, unexpectedly, to dine with my
master; and so I shall not appear. He has done all he could, civilly,
to send them away; but they will stay, though I believe he had rather
they would not. And so I have nothing to do but to write till I go to
dinner myself with Mrs. Jewkes: for my master was not prepared for this
company; and it will be a little latish to-day. So I will begin with my
happy story where I left off.

When I came down to breakfast, Mr. Peters and Mr. Williams were both
there. And as soon as my master heard me coming down, he met me at the
door, and led me in with great tenderness. He had kindly spoken to
them, as he told me afterwards, to mention no more of the matter to me,
than needs must. I paid my respects to them, I believe a little
awkwardly, and was almost out of breath: but said, I had come down a
little too fast.

When Abraham came in to wait, my master said, (that the servants should
not mistrust,) ’Tis well, gentlemen, you came as you did; for my good
girl and I were going to take an airing till dinner-time. I hope you’ll
stay and dine with me. Sir, said Mr. Peters, we won’t hinder your
airing. I only came, having a little time upon my hands, to see your
chapel; but must be at home at dinner; and Mr. Williams will dine with
me. Well then, said my master, we will pursue our intention, and ride
out for an hour or two, as soon as I have shewn Mr. Peters my little
chapel. Will you, Pamela, after breakfast, walk with us to it? If, if,
said I, and had like to have stammered, foolish that I was! if you
please, sir. I could look none of them in the face. Abraham looking at
me; Why, child, said my master, you have hardly recovered your fright
yet: how came your foot to slip? ’Tis well you did not hurt yourself.
Said Mr. Peters, improving the hint, You ha’n’t sprained your ancle,
madam, I hope. No, sir, said I, I believe not; but ’tis a little
painful to me. And so it was; for I meant my foolishness! Abraham, said
my master, bid Robin put the horses to the coach, instead of the
chariot; and if these gentlemen will go, we can set them down. No
matter, sir, said Mr. Peters: I had as lieve walk, if Mr. Williams
chooses it. Well then, said my master, let it be the chariot, as I told
him.

I could eat nothing, though I attempted it; and my hand shook so, I
spilled some of my chocolate, and so put it down again; and they were
all very good, and looked another way. My master said, when Abraham was
out, I have a quite plain ring here, Mr. Peters: And I hope the
ceremony will dignify the ring; and that I shall give my girl reason to
think it, for that cause, the most valuable one that can be presented
her. Mr. Peters said, He was sure I should value it more than the
richest diamond in the world.

I had bid Mrs. Jewkes not to dress herself, lest she should give cause
of mistrust; and she took my advice.

When breakfast was over, my master said, before Abraham, Well,
gentlemen, we will step into the chapel; and you must give me your
advice, as to the alterations I design. I am in the more haste, because
the survey you are going to take of it, for the alterations, will take
up a little time; and we shall have but a small space between that and
dinner, for the little tour I design to make.—Pamela, you’ll give us
your opinion, won’t you? Yes, sir, said I; I’ll come after you.

So they went out, and I sat down in the chair again, and fanned myself:
I am sick at heart, said I, I think, Mrs. Jewkes. Said she, Shall I
fetch you a little cordial?—No, said I, I am a sad fool! I want
spirits, that’s all. She took her smelling-bottle, and would have given
it me: but I said, Keep it in your hand; may be I shall want it: but I
hope not.

She gave me very good words, and begged me to go: And I got up; but my
knees beat so against one another, I was forced to sit down again. But,
at last, I held by her arm, and passing by Abraham, I said, This ugly
slip, coming down stairs, has made me limp, though; so I must hold by
you, Mrs. Jewkes. Do you know what alterations there are to be in the
chapel, that we must all give our opinions of them?

Nan, she told me, was let into the secret; and she had ordered her to
stay at the chapel door, to see that nobody came in. My dear master
came to me, at entering the chapel, and took my hand, and led me up to
the altar. Remember, my dear girl, whispered he, and be cheerful. I am,
I will, sir, said I; but I hardly knew what I said; and so you may
believe, when I said to Mrs. Jewkes, Don’t leave me; pray, Mrs. Jewkes,
don’t leave me; as if I had all confidence in her, and none where it
was most due. So she kept close to me. God forgive me! but I never was
so absent in my life, as at first; even till Mr. Williams had gone on
in the service, so far as to the awful words about requiring us, as we
should answer at the dreadful day of judgment; and then the solemn
words, and my master’s whispering, Mind this, my dear, made me start.
Said he, still whispering, Know you any impediment? I blushed, and said
softly, None, sir, but my great unworthiness.

Then followed the sweet words, Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded
wife? etc. and I began to take heart a little, when my dearest master
answered, audibly, to this question, I will. But I could only make a
courtesy, when they asked me; though, I am sure, my heart was readier
than my speech, and answered to every article of obey, serve, love, and
honour.

Mr. Peters gave me away; and I said, after Mr. Williams, as well as I
could, as my dear master did with a much better grace, the words of
betrothment; and the ceremony of the ring passing next, I received the
dear favour at his worthy hands with a most grateful heart; and he was
pleased to say afterwards in the chariot, that when he had done saying,
With this ring I thee wed, etc. I made a courtesy, and said, Thank you,
sir. May be I did; for I am sure it was a most grateful part of the
service, and my heart was overwhelmed with his goodness, and the tender
grace wherewith he performed it. I was very glad, that the next part
was the prayer, and kneeling; for I trembled so, I could hardly stand,
betwixt fear and joy.

The joining of our hands afterwards, the declaration of our being
married to the few witnesses present; for, reckoning Nan, whose
curiosity would not let her stay at the door, there were but Mr.
Peters, Mrs. Jewkes, and she; the blessing, the psalm, and the
subsequent prayers, and the concluding exhortation; were so many
beautiful, welcome, and lovely parts of this divine office, that my
heart began to be delighted with them; and my spirits to be a little
freer.

And thus, my dearest, dear parents, is your happy, happy, thrice happy
Pamela, at last married; and to whom?—Why, to her beloved, gracious
master! the lord of her wishes! And thus the dear, once naughty
assailer of her innocence, by a blessed turn of Providence, is become
the kind, the generous protector and rewarder of it. God be evermore
blessed and praised! and make me not wholly unworthy of such a
transcendent honour!—And bless and reward the dear, dear, good
gentleman, who has thus exalted his unworthy servant, and given her a
place, which the greatest ladies would think themselves happy in!

My master saluted me most ardently, and said, God give you, my dear
love, as much joy on this occasion, as I have! And he presented me to
Mr. Peters, who saluted me; and said, You may excuse me, dear madam,
for I gave you away, and you are my daughter. And Mr. Williams modestly
withdrawing a little way; Mr. Williams, said my master, pray accept my
thanks, and wish your sister joy. So he saluted me too; and said, Most
heartily, madam, I do. And I will say, that to see so much innocence
and virtue so eminently rewarded, is one of the greatest pleasures I
have ever known. This my master took very kindly.

Mrs. Jewkes would have kissed my hand at the chapel-door; but I put my
arms about her neck, for I had got a new recruit of spirits just then;
and kissed her, and said, Thank you, Mrs. Jewkes, for accompanying me.
I have behaved sadly. No, madam, said she, pretty well, pretty well!

Mr. Peters walked out with me; and Mr. Williams and my master came out
after us, talking together.

Mr. Peters, when we came into the parlour, said, I once more, madam,
must wish you joy on this happy occasion. I wish every day may add to
your comforts; and may you very long rejoice in one another! for you
are the loveliest couple I ever saw joined. I told him, I was highly
obliged to his kind opinion, and good wishes; and hoped my future
conduct would not make me unworthy of them.

My good benefactor came in with Mr. Williams: So, my dear life, said
he, how do you do? A little more composed, I hope. Well, you see this
is not so dreadful an affair as you apprehended.

Sir, said Mr. Peters, very kindly, it is a very solemn circumstance;
and I love to see it so reverently and awfully entered upon. It is a
most excellent sign; for the most thoughtful beginnings make the most
prudent proceedings.

Mrs. Jewkes, of her own accord, came in with a large silver tumbler,
filled with sack, and a toast, and nutmeg, and sugar; and my master
said, That’s well thought of, Mrs. Jewkes; for we have made but sorry
breakfasting. And he would make me, take some of the toast; as they all
did, and drank pretty heartily: and I drank a little, and it cheered my
heart, I thought, for an hour after.

My master took a fine diamond ring from his finger, and presented it to
Mr. Peters, who received it very kindly. And to Mr. Williams he said,
My old acquaintance, I have reserved for you, against a variety of
solicitations, the living I always designed for you; and I beg you’ll
prepare to take possession of it; and as the doing it may be attended
with some expense, pray accept of this towards it; and so he gave him
(as he told me afterwards it was) a bank note of 50l.

So did this generous good gentleman bless us all, and me in particular;
for whose sake he was as bounteous as if he had married one of the
noblest fortunes.

So he took his leave of the gentlemen, recommending secrecy again, for
a few days, and they left him; and none of the servants suspected any
thing, as Mrs. Jewkes believes. And then I threw myself at his feet,
blessed God, and blessed him for his goodness; and he overwhelmed me
with kindness, calling me his sweet bride, and twenty lovely epithets,
that swell my grateful heart beyond the power of utterance.

He afterwards led me to the chariot; and we took a delightful tour
round the neighbouring villages; and he did all he could to dissipate
those still perverse anxieties that dwell upon my mind, and, do what I
can, spread too thoughtful an air, as he tells me, over my countenance.

We came home again by half an hour after one; and he was pleasing
himself with thinking, not to be an hour out of my company this blessed
day, that (as he was so good as to say) he might inspire me with a
familiarity that should improve my confidence in him, when he was told,
that a footman of Sir Charles Hargrave had been here, to let him know,
that his master, and two other gentlemen, were on the road to take a
dinner with him, in their way to Nottingham.

He was heartily vexed at this, and said to me, He should have been glad
of their companies at any other time; but that it was a barbarous
intrusion now; and he wished they had been told he would not be at home
at dinner: And besides, said he, they are horrid drinkers; and I shan’t
be able to get them away to-night, perhaps; for they have nothing to
do, but to travel round the country, and beat up their friends’
quarters all the way; and it is all one to them, whether they stay a
night or a month at a place. But, added he, I’ll find some way, if I
can, to turn them off, after dinner.—Confound them, said he, in a
violent pet, that they should come this day, of all the days in the
year!

We had hardly alighted, and got in, before they came: Three mad rakes
they seemed to be, as I looked through the window, setting up a hunting
note, as soon as they came to the gate, that made the court-yard echo
again; and smacking their whips in concert.

So I went up to my chamber, and saw (what made my heart throb) Mrs.
Jewkes’s officious pains to put the room in order for a guest, that,
however welcome, as now my duty teaches me to say, is yet dreadful to
me to think of. So I took refuge in my closet, and had recourse to pen
and ink, for my amusement, and to divert my anxiety of mind.—If one’s
heart is so sad, and one’s apprehension so great, where one so
extremely loves, and is so extremely obliged; what must be the case of
those poor maidens, who are forced, for sordid views, by their
tyrannical parents or guardians, to marry the man they almost hate,
and, perhaps, to the loss of the man they most love! O that is a sad
thing, indeed!—And what have not such cruel parents to answer for! And
what do not such poor innocent victims suffer!—But, blessed be God,
this lot is far from being mine!

My good master (for I cannot yet have the presumption to call him by a
more tender name) came up to me, and said, Well, I just come to ask my
dear bride (O the charming, charming word!) how she does? I see you are
writing, my dear, said he. These confounded rakes are half mad, I
think, and will make me so! However, said he, I have ordered my chariot
to be got ready, as if I was under an engagement five miles off, and
will set them out of the house, if possible; and then ride round, and
come back, as soon as I can get rid of them. I find, said he, Lady
Davers is full of our affairs. She has taken great freedoms with me
before Sir Charles; and they have all been at me, without mercy; and I
was forced to be very serious with them, or else they would have come
up to have seen you, since I would not call you down.—He kissed me, and
said, I shall quarrel with them, if I can’t get them away; for I have
lost two or three precious hours with my soul’s delight: And so he went
down.

Mrs. Jewkes asked me to walk down to dinner in the little parlour. I
went down, and she was so complaisant as to offer to wait upon me at
table; and would not be persuaded, without difficulty, to sit down with
me. But I insisted she should: For, said I, it would be very
extraordinary, if one should so soon go into such distance, Mrs.
Jewkes.—Whatever my new station may require of me, added I, I hope I
shall always conduct myself in such a manner, that pride and insolence
shall bear no part in my character.

You are very good, madam, said she; but I will always know my duty to
my master’s lady.—Why then, replied I, if I must take state upon me so
early, Mrs. Jewkes, let me exact from you what you call your duty; and
sit down with me when I desire you.

This prevailed upon her; and I made shift to get down a bit of
apple-pye, and a little custard; but that was all.

My good master came in again, and said, Well, thank my stars! these
rakes are going now; but I must set out with them, and I choose my
chariot; for if I took horse, I should have difficulty to part with
them; for they are like a snowball, and intend to gather company as
they go, to make a merry tour of it for some days together.

We both got up, when he came in: Fie, Pamela! said he; why this
ceremony now?—Sit still, Mrs. Jewkes.—Nay, sir, said she, I was loath
to sit down; but my lady would have me.—She is very right, Mrs. Jewkes,
said my master, and tapped me on the cheek; for we are but yet half
married; and so she is not above half your lady yet!—Don’t look so
down, don’t be so silent, my dearest, said he; why, you hardly spoke
twenty words to me all the time we were out together. Something I will
allow for your bashful sweetness; but not too much.—Mrs. Jewkes, have
you no pleasant tales to tell my Pamela, to make her smile, till I
return?—Yes, sir, said she, I could tell twenty pleasant stories; but
my lady is too nice to hear them; and yet, I hope, I should not be
shocking neither. Ah! poor woman! thought I; thy chastest stories will
make a modest person blush, if I know thee! and I desire to hear none
of them.

My master said, Tell her one of the shortest you have, in my hearing.
Why, sir, said she, I knew a bashful young lady, as madam may be,
married to—Dear Mrs. Jewkes, interrupted I, no more of your story, I
beseech you; I don’t like the beginning of it. Go on, Mrs. Jewkes, said
my master. No, pray, sir, don’t require it, said I, pray don’t. Well,
said he, then we’ll have it another time, Mrs. Jewkes.

Abraham coming in to tell him the gentlemen were going, and that his
chariot was ready; I am glad of that, said he; and went to them, and
set out with them.

I took a turn in the garden with Mrs. Jewkes, after they were gone: And
having walked a while, I said, I should be glad of her company down the
elm-walk, to meet the chariot: For, O! I know not how to look up at
him, when he is with me; nor how to bear his absence, when I have
reason to expect him: What a strange contradiction there is in this
unaccountable passion.

What a different aspect every thing in and about this house bears now,
to my thinking, to what it once had! The garden, the pond, the alcove,
the elm-walk. But, oh! my prison is become my palace; and no wonder
every thing wears another face!

We sat down upon the broad stile, leading towards the road; and Mrs.
Jewkes was quite another person to me, to what she was the last time I
sat there.

At last my best beloved returned, and alighted there. What, my Pamela!
(and Mrs. Jewkes then left me,) What (said he, and kissed me) brings
you this way? I hope to meet me.—Yes, sir, said I. That’s kind, indeed,
said he; but why that averted eye?—that downcast countenance, as if you
was afraid of me? You must not think so, sir, said I. Revive my heart
then, said he, with a more cheerful aspect; and let that over-anxious
solicitude, which appears in the most charming face in the world, be
chased from it.—Have you, my dear girl any fears that I can dissipate;
any doubts that I can obviate; any hopes that I can encourage; any
request that I can gratify?—Speak, my dear Pamela; and if I have power,
but speak, and to purchase one smile, it shall be done!

I cannot, sir, said I, have any fears, any doubts, but that I shall
never be able to deserve all your goodness. I have no hopes, but that
my future conduct may be agreeable to you, and my determined duty well
accepted. Nor have I any request to make, but that you will forgive all
my imperfections and, among the rest, this foolish weakness, that makes
me seem to you, after all the generous things that have passed, to want
this further condescension, and these kind assurances. But indeed, sir,
I am oppressed by your bounty; my spirits sink under the weight of it;
and the oppression is still the greater, as I see not how, possibly, in
my whole future life, by all I can do, to merit the least of your
favours.

I know your grateful heart, said he; but remember, my dear, what the
lawyers tell us, That marriage is the highest consideration which the
law knows. And this, my sweet bride, has made you mine, and me yours;
and you have the best claim in the world to share my fortune with me.
But, set that consideration aside, what is the obligation you have to
me? Your mind is pure as that of an angel, and as much transcends mine.
Your wit, and your judgment, to make you no compliment, are more than
equal to mine: You have all the graces that education can give a woman,
improved by a genius which makes those graces natural to you. You have
a sweetness of temper, and a noble sincerity, beyond all comparison;
and in the beauty of your person, you excel all the ladies I ever saw.
Where then, my dearest, is the obligation, if not on my side to
you?—But, to avoid these comparisons, let us talk of nothing henceforth
but equality; although, if the riches of your mind, and your
unblemished virtue, be set against my fortune, (which is but an
accidental good, as I may call it, and all I have to boast of,) the
condescension will be yours; and I shall not think I can possibly
deserve you, till, after your sweet example, my future life shall
become nearly as blameless as yours.

O, sir, said I, what comfort do you give me, that, instead of my being
in danger of being ensnared by the high condition to which your
goodness has exalted me, you make me hope, that I shall be confirmed
and approved by you; and that we may have a prospect of perpetuating
each other’s happiness, till time shall be no more!—But, sir, I will
not, as you once cautioned me, be too serious. I will resolve, with
these sweet encouragements, to be, in every thing, what you would have
me be: And I hope I shall, more and more, shew you that I have no will
but yours. He kissed me very tenderly, and thanked me for this kind
assurance, as he called it.

And so we entered the house together.

Eight o’clock at night.

Now these sweet assurances, my dear father and mother, you will say,
must be very consolatory to me; and being voluntary on his side, were
all that could be wished for on mine; and I was resolved, if possible,
to subdue my idle fears and apprehensions.

Ten o’clock at night.

As we sat at supper, he was generously kind to me, as well in his
actions, as expressions. He took notice, in the most delicate manner,
of my endeavour to conquer my foibles; and said, I see, with pleasure,
my dear girl strives to comport herself in a manner suitable to my
wishes: I see, even through the sweet tender struggles of your
over-nice modesty, how much I owe to your intentions of obliging me. As
I have once told you, that I am the conquest more of your virtue than
your beauty; so not one alarming word or look shall my beloved Pamela
hear or see, to give her reason to suspect the truth of what I aver.
You may the rather believe me, continued he, as you may see the pain I
have to behold any thing that concerns you, even though your concern be
causeless. And yet I will indulge my dear girl’s bashful weakness so
far, as to own, that so pure a mind may suffer from apprehension, on so
important a change as this; and I can therefore be only displeased with
such part of your conduct, as may make your sufferings greater than my
own; when I am resolved, through every stage of my future life, in all
events, to study to make them less.

After supper, of which, with all his sweet persuasions, I could hardly
taste, he made me drink two glasses of champaign, and, afterwards, a
glass of sack; which he kindly forced upon me, by naming your healths:
and as the time of retiring drew on, he took notice, but in a very
delicate manner, how my colour went and came, and how foolishly I
trembled. Nobody, surely, in such delightful circumstances, ever
behaved so silly!—And he said, My dearest girl, I fear you have had too
much of my company for so many hours together; and would better
recollect yourself, if you retired for half an hour to your closet.

I wished for this, but durst not say so much, lest he should be angry;
for, as the hours grew on, I found my apprehensions increase, and my
silly heart was the unquieter, every time I could lift up my eyes to
his dear face; so sweetly terrible did he appear to my apprehensions. I
said, You are all goodness, dear sir; and I boldly kissed his dear
hand, and pressed it to my lips with both mine. And saluting me very
fervently, he gave me his hand, seeing me hardly able to stand, and led
me to my chamber-door, and then most generously withdrew.

I went to my closet; and the first thing I did, on my knees, again
thanked God for the blessing of the day; and besought his divine
goodness to conduct my future life in such a manner, as should make me
a happy instrument of his glory. After this, being now left to my own
recollection, I grew a little more assured and lightsome; and the pen
and paper being before me, I amused myself with writing thus far.

Eleven o’clock Thursday night.

Mrs. Jewkes being come up with a message, desiring to know, whether her
master may attend upon me in my closet; and hinting to me, that,
however, she believed he did not expect to find me there; I have sent
word, that I beg he would indulge me one quarter of an hour.—So,
committing myself to the mercies of the Almighty, who has led me
through so many strange scenes of terror and affrightment, to this
happy, yet awful moment, I will wish you, my dear parents, a good
night; and though you will not see this in time, yet I know I have your
hourly prayers, and therefore cannot fail of them now. So, good night,
good night! God bless you, and God bless me! Amen, amen, if it be his
blessed will, subscribes

Your ever-dutiful DAUGHTER!

Friday evening.

O how this dear excellent man indulges me in every thing! Every hour he
makes me happier, by his sweet condescension, than the former. He
pities my weakness of mind, allows for all my little foibles,
endeavours to dissipate my fears; his words are so pure, his ideas so
chaste, and his whole behaviour so sweetly decent, that never, surely,
was so happy a creature as your Pamela! I never could have hoped such a
husband could have fallen to my lot: and much less, that a gentleman,
who had allowed himself in attempts, that now I will endeavour to
forget for ever, should have behaved with so very delicate and
unexceptionable a demeanour. No light frothy jests drop from his lips;
no alarming railleries; no offensive expressions, nor insulting airs,
reproach or wound the ears of your happy, thrice happy daughter. In
short, he says every thing that may embolden me to look up, with
pleasure, upon the generous author of my happiness.

At breakfast, when I knew not how to see him, he emboldened me by
talking of you, my dear parents; a subject, he generously knew, I could
talk of: and gave me assurances, that he would make you both happy. He
said, He would have me send you a letter to acquaint you with my
nuptials; and, as he could make business that way, Thomas should carry
it purposely, as to-morrow. Nor will I, said he, my dear Pamela, desire
to see your writings, because I told you I would not; for now I will,
in every thing, religiously keep my word with my dear spouse: (O the
dear delightful word!) and you may send all your papers to them, from
those they have, down to this happy moment; only let me beg they will
preserve them, and let me have them when they have read them; as also
those I have not seen; which, however, I desire not to see till then;
but then shall take it for a favour, if you will grant it.

It will be my pleasure, as well as my duty, sir, said I, to obey you in
every thing: and I will write up to the conclusion of this day, that
they may see how happy you have made me.

I know you will both join with me to bless God for his wonderful
mercies and goodness to you, as well as to me: For he was pleased to
ask me particularly after your circumstances, and said, He had taken
notice, that I had hinted, in some of my first letters, that you owed
money in the world; and he gave me fifty guineas, and bid me send them
to you in my packet, to pay your debts, as far as they would go; and
that you would quit your present business, and put yourself, and my
dear mother, into a creditable appearance; and he would find a better
place of abode for you than that you had, when he returned to
Bedfordshire. O how shall I bear all these exceeding great and generous
favours!—I send them wrapt up, five guineas in a parcel, in double
papers.

To me he gave no less than one hundred guineas more; and said, I would
have you, my dear, give Mrs. Jewkes, when you go away from hence, what
you think fit out of these, as from yourself.—Nay, good dear sir, said
I, let that be what you please. Give her, then, said he, twenty
guineas, as a compliment on your nuptials. Give Colbrand ten guineas:
give the two coachmen five guineas each; to the two maids at this house
five guineas each; give Abraham five guineas; give Thomas five guineas;
and give the gardeners, grooms, and helpers, twenty guineas among them.
And when, said he, I return with you to the other house, I will make
you a suitable present, to buy you such ornaments as are fit for my
beloved wife to appear in. For now, my Pamela, continued he, you are
not to mind, as you once proposed, what other ladies will say; but to
appear as my wife ought to do. Else it would look as if what you
thought of, as a means to avoid the envy of others of your sex, was a
wilful slight in me, which, I hope, I never shall be guilty of; and I
will shew the world, that I value you as I ought, and as if I had
married the first fortune in the kingdom: And why should it not be so,
when I know none of the first quality that matches you in excellence?

He saw I was at a loss for words, and said, I see, my dearest bride! my
spouse! my wife! my Pamela! your grateful confusion. And kissing me, as
I was going to speak, I will stop your dear mouth, said he: You shall
not so much as thank me; for when I have done ten times more than this,
I shall but poorly express my love for so much beauty of mind, and
loveliness of person; which thus, said he, and clasped me to his
generous bosom, I can proudly now call my own!—O how, my dear parents,
can I think of any thing, but redoubled love, joy, and gratitude!

And thus generously did he banish from my mind those painful
reflections, and bashful apprehensions, that made me dread to see him
for the first time this day, when I was called to attend him at
breakfast; and made me all ease, composure, and tranquillity.

He then, thinking I seemed somewhat thoughtful, proposed a little turn
in the chariot till dinner-time: And this was another sweet relief to
me; and he diverted me with twenty agreeable relations, of what
observations he had made in his travels; and gave me the characters of
the ladies and gentlemen in his other neighbourhood; telling me whose
acquaintance he would have me most cultivate. And when I mentioned Lady
Davers with apprehension, he said, To be sure I love my sister dearly,
notwithstanding her violent spirit; and I know she loves me; and I can
allow a little for her pride, because I know what my own so lately was;
and because she knows not my Pamela, and her excellencies, as I do. But
you must not, my dear, forget what belongs to your character, as my
wife, nor meanly stoop to her; though I know you will choose, by
softness, to try to move her to a proper behaviour. But it shall be my
part to see, that you do not yield too much.

However, continued he, as I would not publicly declare my marriage
here, I hope she won’t come near us till we are in Bedfordshire; and
then, when she knows we are married, she will keep away, if she is not
willing to be reconciled; for she dares not, surely, come to quarrel
with me, when she knows it is done; for that would have a hateful and
wicked appearance, as if she would try to make differences between man
and wife.—But we will have no more of this subject, nor talk of any
thing, added he, that shall give concern to my dearest. And so he
changed the talk to a more pleasing subject, and said the kindest and
most soothing things in the world.

When we came home, which was about dinner-time, he was the same
obliging, kind gentleman; and, in short, is studious to shew, on every
occasion, his generous affection to me. And, after dinner, he told me,
he had already written to his draper, in town, to provide him new
liveries; and to his late mother’s mercer, to send him down patterns of
the most fashionable silks, for my choice. I told him, I was unable to
express my gratitude for his favours and generosity: And as he knew
best what befitted his own rank and condition, I would wholly remit
myself to his good pleasure. But, by all his repeated bounties to me,
of so extraordinary a nature, I could not but look forward with awe
upon the condition to which he had exalted me; and now I feared I
should hardly be able to act up to it in such a manner as should
justify the choice he had condescended to make: But that, I hoped, I
should have not only his generous allowance for my imperfections, which
I could only assure him should not be wilful ones, but his kind
instructions; and that as often as he observed any part of my conduct
such as he could not entirely approve, he would let me know it; and I
would think his reproofs of beginning faults the kindest and most
affectionate things in the world because they would keep me from
committing greater; and be a means to continue to me the blessing of
his good opinion.

He answered me in the kindest manner; and assured me, That nothing
should ever lie upon his mind which he would not reveal, and give me an
opportunity either of convincing him, or being convinced myself.

He then asked me, When I should be willing to go to the Bedfordshire
house? I said, whenever he pleased. We will come down hither again
before the winter, said he, if you please, in order to cultivate the
acquaintance you have begun with Lady Jones, and Sir Simon’s family;
and, if it please God to spare us to one another, in the winter I will
give you, as I promised for two or three months, the diversions of
London. And I think, added he, if my dear pleases, we will set out next
week, about Tuesday, for t’other house. I can have no objection, sir,
said I, to any thing you propose; but how will you avoid Miss
Darnford’s solicitation for an evening to dance? Why, said he, we can
make Monday evening do for that purpose, if they won’t excuse us. But,
if you please, said he, I will invite Lady Jones, Mr. Peters and his
family, and Sir Simon and his family, to my little chapel, on Sunday
morning, and to stay dinner with me; and then I will declare my
marriage to them, because my dear life shall not leave this country
with the least reason for a possibility of any body’s doubting that it
is so. O! how good was this! But, indeed, his conduct is all of a
piece, noble, kind, and considerate! What a happy creature am I!—And
then, may be, said he, they will excuse us till we return into this
country again, as to the ball. Is there any thing, added he, that my
beloved Pamela has still to wish? If you have, freely speak.

Hitherto, my dearest sir, replied I, you have not only prevented my
wishes, but my hopes, and even my thoughts. And yet I must own, since
your kind command of speaking my mind seems to shew, that you expect
from me I should say something; that I have only one or two things to
wish more, and then I shall be too happy. Say, said he, what they are.
Sir, proceeded I, I am, indeed, ashamed to ask any thing, lest it
should not be agreeable to you; and lest it should look as if I was
taking advantage of your kind condescensions to me, and knew not when
to be satisfied!

I will only tell you, Pamela, said he, that you are not to imagine,
that these things, which I have done, in hopes of obliging you, are the
sudden impulses of a new passion for you. But, if I can answer for my
own mind, they proceed from a regular and uniform desire of obliging
you: which, I hope, will last as long as your merit lasts; and that, I
make no doubt, will be as long as I live. And I can the rather answer
for this, because I really find so much delight in myself in my present
way of thinking and acting, as infinitely overpays me; and which, for
that reason, I am likely to continue, for both our sakes. My beloved
wife, therefore, said he, for methinks I am grown fond of a name I once
despised, may venture to speak her mind; and I will promise, that, so
far as it is agreeable to me, and I cheerfully can, I will comply; and
you will not insist upon it, if that should not be the case.

To be sure, sir, said I, I ought not, neither will I. And now you
embolden me to become an humble petitioner, and that, as I ought, upon
my knees, for the reinstating such of your servants, as I have been the
unhappy occasion of their disobliging you. He raised me up, and said,
My beloved Pamela has too often been in this suppliant posture to me,
to permit it any more. Rise, my fairest, and let me know whom, in
particular, you would reinstate; and he kindly held me in his arms, and
pressed me to his beloved bosom. Mrs. Jervis, sir, said I, in the first
place; for she is a good woman; and the misfortunes she has had in the
world, must make your displeasure most heavy to her.

Well, said he, who next? Mr. Longman, sir, said I; and I am sure, kind
as they have been to me, yet would I not ask it, if I could not vouch
for their integrity, and if I did not think it was my dear master’s
interest to have such good servants.

Have you any thing further? said he.—Sir, said I, your good old butler,
who has so long been in your family before the day of your happy birth,
I would, if I might, become an advocate for!

Well, said he, I have only to say, That had not Mr. Longman and Mrs.
Jervis, and Jonathan too, joined in a body, in a bold appeal to Lady
Davers, which has given her the insolent handle she has taken to
intermeddle in my affairs, I could easily have forgiven all the rest of
their conduct; though they have given their tongues no little license
about me: But I could have forgiven them, because I desire every body
should admire you; and it is with pride that I observe not only their
opinion and love, but that of every body else that knows you, justify
my own.—But yet, I will forgive even this, because my Pamela desires
it; and I will send a letter myself, to tell Longman what he owes to
your interposition, if the estate he has made in my family does not set
him above the acceptance of it. And, as to Mrs. Jervis, do you, my
dear, write a letter to her, and give her your commands, instantly, on,
the receipt of it, to go and take possession of her former charge; for
now, my dearest girl, she will be more immediately your servant; and I
know you love her so well, that you’ll go thither with the more
pleasure to find her there.—But don’t think, added he, that all this
compliance is to be for nothing. Ah, sir! said I, tell me but what I
can do, poor as I am in power, but rich in will; and I will not
hesitate one moment. Why then, said he, of your own accord, reward me
for my cheerful compliance, with one sweet kiss—I instantly said, Thus,
then, dear sir, will I obey; and, oh! you have the sweetest and most
generous way in the world, to make that a condition, which gives me
double honour, and adds to my obligations. And so I clasped my arms
about his neck, and was not ashamed to kiss him once and twice, and
three times; once for every forgiven person.

Now, my dearest Pamela, said he, what other things have you to ask? Mr.
Williams is already taken care of; and, I hope, will be happy.—Have you
nothing to say for John Arnold?

Why, dear sir, said I, you have seen the poor fellow’s penitence in my
letters.—Yes, my dear, so I have; but that is his penitence for his
having served me against you; and, I think, when he would have betrayed
me afterwards, he deserves nothing to be said or done for him by
either.

But, dear sir, said I, this is a day of jubilee; and the less he
deserves, poor fellow, the more will be your goodness. And let me add
one word; That as he was divided in his inclinations between his duty
to you and good wishes to me, and knew not how to distinguish between
the one and the other, when he finds us so happily united by your great
goodness to me, he will have no more puzzles in his duty; for he has
not failed in any other part of it; but, I hope, will serve you
faithfully for the future.

Well, then, suppose I put Mrs. Jewkes in a good way of business, in
some inn, and give her John for a husband? And then your gipsy story
will be made out, that she will have a husband younger than herself.

You are all goodness, sir, said I. I can freely forgive poor Mrs.
Jewkes, and wish her happy. But permit me, sir, to ask, Would not this
look like a very heavy punishment to poor John? and as if you could not
forgive him, when you are so generous to every body else?

He smiled and said, O my Pamela, this, for a forgiving spirit, is very
severe upon poor Jewkes: But I shall never, by the grace of God, have
any more such trying services, to put him or the rest upon; and if you
can forgive him, I think I may: and so John shall be at your disposal.
And now let me know what my Pamela has further to wish?

O, my dearest sir, said I, not a single wish more has your grateful
Pamela! My heart is overwhelmed with your goodness! Forgive these tears
of joy, added I: You have left me nothing to pray for, but that God
will bless you with life, and health, and honour, and continue to me
the blessing of your esteem; and I shall then be the happiest creature
in the world.

He clasped me in his arms, and said, You cannot, my dear life, be so
happy in me, as I am in you. O how heartily I despise all my former
pursuits, and headstrong appetites! What joys, what true joys, flow
from virtuous love! joys which the narrow soul of the libertine cannot
take in, nor his thoughts conceive! And which I myself, whilst a
libertine, had not the least notion of!

But, said he, I expected my dear spouse, my Pamela, had something to
ask for herself. But since all her own good is absorbed in the delight
her generous heart takes in promoting that of others, it shall be my
study to prevent her wishes, and to make her care for herself
unnecessary, by my anticipating kindness.

In this manner, my dear parents, is your happy daughter blessed in a
husband! O how my exulting heart leaps at the dear, dear word!—And I
have nothing to do, but to be humble, and to look up with gratitude to
the all-gracious dispenser of these blessings.

So, with a thousand thanks, I afterwards retired to my closet, to write
you thus far. And having completed what I purpose for this packet, and
put up the kind obliging present, I have nothing more to say, but that
I hope soon to see you both, and receive your blessings on this happy,
thrice happy occasion. And so, hoping for your prayers, that I may
preserve an humble and upright mind to my gracious God, a dutiful
gratitude to my dear master and husband—that I may long rejoice in the
continuance of these blessings and favours, and that I may preserve, at
the same time, an obliging deportment to every one else, I conclude
myself, Your ever-dutiful and most happy daughter,

PAMELA B——

O think it not my pride, my dear parents, that sets me on glorying in
my change of name! Yours will be always dear to me, and what I shall
never be ashamed of, I’m sure: But yet—for such a husband!—What shall I
say, since words are too faint to express my gratitude and my joy!

I have taken copies of my master’s letter to Mr. Longman, and mine to
Mrs. Jervis, which I will send with the further occurrences, when I go
to the other dear house, or give you when I see you, as I now hope soon
to do.

Saturday morning, the third of my happy nuptials.

I must still write on, till I come to be settled in the duty of the
station to which I am so generously exalted, and to let you participate
with me the transporting pleasures that rise from my new condition, and
the favours that are hourly heaped upon me by the best of husbands.
When I had got my packet for you finished, I then set about writing, as
he had kindly directed me, to Mrs. Jervis; and had no difficulty till I
came to sign my name; and so I brought it down with me, when I was
called to supper, unsigned.

My good master (for I delight, and always shall, to call him by that
name) had been writing to Mr. Longman; and he said, pleasantly, See,
here, my dearest, what I have written to your Somebody. I read as
follows:

‘Mr. LONGMAN,

‘I have the pleasure to acquaint you, that last Thursday I was married
to my beloved Pamela. I have had reason to be disobliged with you, and
Mrs. Jervis and Jonathan, not for your kindness to, and regard for, my
dear spouse, that now is, but for the manner, in which you appealed to
my sister Davers; which has made a very wide breach between her and me.
But as it was one of her first requests, that I would overlook what had
passed, and reinstate you in all your former charges, I think myself
obliged, without the least hesitation, to comply with it. So, if you
please, you may enter again upon an office which you have always
executed with unquestionable integrity, and to the satisfaction of
‘Yours etc.’

‘Friday afternoon.’

‘I shall set out next Tuesday or Wednesday for Bedfordshire; and desire
to find Jonathan, as well as you, in your former offices; in which, I
dare say, you’ll have the more pleasure, as you have such an early
instance of the sentiments of my dear wife, from whose goodness you may
expect every agreeable thing. She writes herself to Mrs. Jervis.’

I thanked him most gratefully for his goodness; and afterwards took the
above copy of it; and shewed him my letter to Mrs. Jervis, as follows:

‘My DEAR MRS. JERVIS,

‘I have joyful tidings to communicate to you. For yesterday I was
happily married to the best of gentlemen, yours and my beloved master.
I have only now to tell you, that I am inexpressibly happy: that my
generous benefactor denies me nothing, and even anticipates my wishes.
You may be sure I could not forget my dear Mrs. Jervis; and I made it
my request, and had it granted, as soon as asked, that you might return
to the kind charge, which you executed with so much advantage to our
master’s interest, and so much pleasure to all under your direction.
All the power that is put into my hands, by the most generous of men,
shall be exerted to make every thing easy and agreeable to you: And as
I shall soon have the honour of attending my beloved to Bedfordshire,
it will be a very considerable addition to my delight, and to my
unspeakable obligations to the best of men, to see my dear Mrs. Jervis,
and to be received by her with that pleasure, which I promise myself
from her affection. For I am, my dear good friend, and always will be,

‘Yours, very affectionately, and gratefully, PAMELA ——.’

He read this letter, and said, ’Tis yours, my dear, and must be good:
But don’t you put your name to it? Sir, said I, your goodness has given
me a right to a very honourable one but as this is the first occasion
of the kind, except that to my dear father and mother, I think I ought
to shew it you unsigned, that I may not seem over-forward to take
advantage of the honour you have done me.

However sweetly humble and requisite, said he, this may appear to my
dear Pamela’s niceness, it befits me to tell you, that I am every
moment more and more pleased with the right you have to my name: and,
my dear life, added he, I have only to wish I may be half as worthy as
you are of the happy knot so lately knit. He then took a pen himself,
and wrote, after Pamela, his most worthy sirname; and I under-wrote
thus: ‘O rejoice with me, my dear Mrs. Jervis, that I am enabled, by
God’s graciousness, and my dear master’s goodness, thus to write
myself!’

These letters, and the packet to you, were sent away by Mr. Thomas
early this morning.

My dearest master is just gone to take a ride out, and intends to call
upon Lady Jones, Mr. Peters, and Sir Simon Darnford, to invite them to
chapel and dinner to-morrow; and says, he chooses to do it himself,
because the time is so short, they will, perhaps, deny a servant.

I forgot to mention, that Mr. Williams was here yesterday, to ask leave
to go to see his new living, and to provide for taking possession of
it; and seemed so pleased with my master’s kindness and fondness for
me, as well as his generous deportment to himself, that he left us in
such a disposition, as shewed he was quite happy. I am very glad of it;
for it would rejoice me to be an humble means of making all mankind so:
And oh! what returns ought I not to make to the divine goodness! and
how ought I to strive to diffuse the blessings I experience, to all in
my knowledge!—For else, what is it for such a worm as I to be exalted!
What is my single happiness, if I suffer it, niggard-like, to extend no
farther than to myself?—But then, indeed, do God Almighty’s creatures
act worthy of the blessings they receive, when they make, or endeavour
to make, the whole creation, so far as is in the circle of their power,
happy!

Great and good God! as thou hast enlarged my opportunities, enlarge
also my will, and make me delight in dispensing to others a portion of
that happiness, which I have myself so plentifully received at the hand
of thy gracious Providence! Then shall I not be useless in my
generation!—Then shall I not stand a single mark of thy goodness to a
poor worthless creature, that in herself is of so small account in the
scale of beings, a mere cipher on the wrong side of a figure; but shall
be placed on the right side; and, though nothing worth in myself, shall
give signification by my place, and multiply the blessings I owe to thy
goodness, which has distinguished me by so fair a lot!

This, as I conceive, is the indispensable duty of a high condition; and
how great must be the condemnation of poor creatures, at the great day
of account, when they shall be asked, What uses they have made of the
opportunities put into their hands? and are able only to say, We have
lived but to ourselves: We have circumscribed all the power thou hast
given us into one narrow, selfish, compass: We have heaped up treasures
for those who came after us, though we knew not whether they would not
make a still worse use of them than we ourselves did! And how can such
poor selfish pleaders expect any other sentence, than the dreadful,
Depart, ye cursed!

But sure, my dear father and mother, such persons can have no notion of
the exalted pleasures that flow from doing good, were there to be no
after-account at all!

There is something so satisfactory and pleasing to reflect on the being
able to administer comfort and relief to those who stand in need of it,
as infinitely, of itself, rewards the beneficent mind. And how often
have I experienced this in my good lady’s time, though but the
second-hand dispenser of her benefits to the poor and sickly, when she
made me her almoner!—How have I been affected with the blessings which
the miserable have heaped upon her for her goodness, and upon me for
being but the humble conveyer of her bounty to them!—And how delighted
have I been, when the moving report I have made of a particular
distress, has augmented my good lady’s first intentions in relief of
it!

This I recall with pleasure, because it is now, by the divine goodness,
become my part to do those good things she was wont to do: And oh! let
me watch myself, that my prosperous state do not make me forget to look
up, with due thankfulness, to the Providence which has entrusted me
with the power, that so I may not incur a terrible woe by the abuse or
neglect of it!

Forgive me these reflections, my dear parents; and let me have your
prayers, that I may not find my present happiness a snare to me; but
that I may consider, that more and more will be expected from me, in
proportion to the power given me; and that I may not so unworthily act,
as if I believed I ought to set up my rest in my mean self, and think
nothing further to be done, with the opportunities put into my hand, by
the divine favour, and the best of men!

Saturday, seven o’clock in the evening.

My master returned home to dinner, in compliment to me, though much
pressed to dine with Lady Jones, as he was, also, by Sir Simon, to dine
with him. But Mr. Peters could not conveniently provide a preacher for
his own church to-morrow morning, at so short a notice; Mr. Williams
being gone, as I said, to his new living; but believed he could for the
afternoon; and so he promised to give us his company to dinner, and to
read afternoon service: and this made my master invite all the rest, as
well as him, to dinner, and not to church; and he made them promise to
come; and told Mr. Peters, he would send his coach for him and his
family.

Miss Darnford told him pleasantly, She would not come, unless he would
promise to let her be at his wedding; by which I find Mr. Peters has
kept the secret, as my master desired.

He was pleased to give me an airing after dinner in the chariot, and
renewed his kind assurances to me, and, if possible, is kinder than
ever. This is sweetly comfortable to me, because it shews me he does
not repent of his condescensions to me; and it encourages me to look up
to him with more satisfaction of mind, and less doubtfulness.

I begged leave to send a guinea to a poor body in the town, that I
heard, by Mrs. Jewkes, lay very ill, and was very destitute. He said,
Send two, my dear, if you please. Said I, Sir, I will never do any
thing of this kind without letting you know what I do. He most
generously answered, I shall then, perhaps, have you do less good than
you would otherwise do, from a doubt of me; though, I hope, your
discretion, and my own temper, which is not avaricious, will make such
doubt causeless.

Now, my dear, continued he, I’ll tell you how we will order this point,
to avoid even the shadow of uneasiness on one side, or doubt on the
other.

As to your father and mother, in the first place, they shall be quite
out of the question; for I have already determined in my mind about
them; and it is thus: They shall go down, if they and you think well of
it, to my little Kentish estate; which I once mentioned to you in such
a manner, as made you reject it with a nobleness of mind, that gave me
pain then, but pleasure since. There is a pretty little farm, and
house, untenanted, upon that estate, and tolerably well stocked, and I
will further stock it for them; for such industrious folks won’t know
how to live without some employment; And it shall be theirs for both
their lives, without paying any rent; and I will allow them 50l. per
annum besides, that they may keep up the stock, and be kind to any
other of their relations, without being beholden to you or me for small
matters; and for greater, where needful, you shall always have it in
your power to accommodate them; for I shall never question your
prudence. And we will, so long as God spares our lives, go down, once a
year, to see them; and they shall come up, as often as they please, it
cannot be too often, to see us: for I mean not this, my dear, to send
them from us.—Before I proceed, does my Pamela like this?

O, sir, said I, the English tongue affords not words, or, at least, I
have them not, to express sufficiently my gratitude! Teach me, dear
sir, continued I, and pressed his dear hand to my lips, teach me some
other language, if there be any, that abounds with more grateful terms;
that I may not thus be choked with meanings, for which I can find no
utterance.

My charmer! says he, your language is all wonderful, as your
sentiments; and you most abound, when you seem most to want!—All that I
wish, is to find my proposals agreeable to you; and if my first are
not, my second shall be, if I can but know what you wish.

Did I say too much, my dearest parents, when I said, He was, if
possible, kinder and kinder?—O the blessed man! how my heart is
overwhelmed with his goodness!

Well, said he, my dearest, let me desire you to mention this to them,
to see if they approve it. But, if it be your choice, and theirs, to
have them nearer to you, or even under the same roof with you, I will
freely consent to it.

O no, sir, said I, (and I fear almost sinned in my grateful flight,) I
am sure they would not choose that; they could not, perhaps, serve God
so well if they were to live with you: For, so constantly seeing the
hand that blesses them, they would, it may be, as must be my care to
avoid, be tempted to look no further in their gratitude, than to the
dear dispenser of such innumerable benefits.

Excellent creature! said he: My beloved wants no language, nor
sentiments neither; and her charming thoughts, so sweetly expressed,
would grace any language; and this is a blessing almost peculiar to my
fairest.—Your so kind acceptance, my Pamela, added he, repays the
benefit with interest, and leaves me under obligation to your goodness.

But now, my dearest, I will tell you what we will do, with regard to
points of your own private charity; for far be it from me, to put under
that name the subject we have been mentioning; because that, and more
than that, is duty to persons so worthy, and so nearly related to my
Pamela, and, as such, to myself.—O how the sweet man outdoes me, in
thoughts, words, power, and every thing!

And this, said he, lies in very small compass; for I will allow you two
hundred pounds a year, which Longman shall constantly pay you, at fifty
pounds a quarter, for your own use, and of which I expect no account;
to commence from the day you enter into my other house: I mean, said
he, that the first fifty pounds shall then be due; because you shall
have something to begin with. And, added the dear generous man, if this
be pleasing to you, let it, since you say you want words, be signified
by such a sweet kiss as you gave me yesterday. I hesitated not a moment
to comply with these obliging terms, and threw my arms about his dear
neck, though in the chariot, and blessed his goodness to me. But,
indeed, sir, said I, I cannot bear this generous treatment! He was
pleased to say, Don’t be uneasy, my dear, about these trifles: God has
blessed me with a very good estate, and all of it in a prosperous
condition, and generally well tenanted. I lay up money every year, and
have, besides, large sums in government and other securities; so that
you will find, what I have hitherto promised, is very short of that
proportion of my substance, which, as my dearest wife, you have a right
to.

In this sweet manner did we pass our time till evening, when the
chariot brought us home; and then our supper succeeded in the same
agreeable manner. And thus, in a rapturous circle, the time moves on;
every hour bringing with it something more delightful than the
past!—Sure nobody was ever so blest as I!

Sunday, the fourth day of my happiness.

Not going to chapel this morning, the reason of which I told you, I
bestowed the time, from the hour of my beloved’s rising, to breakfast,
in prayer and thanksgiving, in my closet; and now I begin to be quite
easy, cheerful, and free in my spirits; and the rather, as I find
myself encouraged by the tranquillity, and pleasing vivacity, in the
temper and behaviour of my beloved, who thereby shews he does not
repent of his goodness to me.

I attended him to breakfast with great pleasure and freedom, and he
seemed quite pleased with me, and said, Now does my dearest begin to
look upon me with an air of serenity and satisfaction: it shall be
always, added he, my delight to give you occasion for this sweet
becoming aspect of confidence and pleasure in me.—My heart, dear sir,
said I, is quite easy, and has lost all its foolish tumults, which,
combating with my gratitude, might give an unacceptable appearance to
my behaviour: but now your goodness, sir, has enabled it to get the
better of its uneasy apprehensions, and my heart is all of one piece,
and devoted to you, and grateful tranquillity. And could I be so happy
as to see you and my good Lady Davers reconciled, I have nothing in
this world to wish for more, but the continuance of your favour. He
said, I wish this reconciliation, my dearest, as well as you: and I do
assure you, more for your sake than my own; and if she would behave
tolerably, I would make the terms easier to her, for that reason.

He said, I will lay down one rule for you, my Pamela, to observe in
your dress; and I will tell you every thing I like or dislike, as it
occurs to me: and I would have you do the same, on your part; that
nothing may be upon either of our minds that may occasion the least
reservedness.

I have often observed, in married folks, that, in a little while, the
lady grows careless in her dress; which, to me, looks as if she would
take no pains to secure the affection she had gained; and shews a
slight to her husband, that she had not to her lover. Now, you must
know, this has always given me great offence; and I should not forgive
it, even in my Pamela: though she would have this excuse for herself,
that thousands could not make, That she looks lovely in every thing.
So, my dear, I shall expect of you always to be dressed by dinner-time,
except something extraordinary happens; and this, whether you are to go
abroad, or stay at home. For this, my love, will continue to you that
sweet ease in your dress and behaviour, which you are so happy a
mistress of; and whomsoever I bring home with me to my table, you’ll be
in readiness to receive them; and will not want to make those foolish
apologies to unexpected visitors, that carry with them a reflection on
the conduct of those who make them; and, besides, will convince me,
that you think yourself obliged to appear as graceful to your husband,
as you would to persons less familiar to your sight.

This, dear sir, said I, is a most obliging injunction; and I most
heartily thank you for it, and will always take care to obey it.—Why,
my dear, said he, you may better do this than half your sex; because
they too generally act in such a manner, as if they seemed to think it
the privilege of birth and fortune, to turn day into night, and night
into day, and are seldom stirring till it is time to sit down to
dinner; and so all the good old family rules are reversed: For they
breakfast, when they should dine; dine, when they should sup; and sup,
when they should go to bed; and, by the help of dear quadrille,
sometimes go to bed when they should rise.—In all things but these, my
dear, continued he, I expect you to be a lady. And my good mother was
one of this oldfashioned cut, and, in all other respects, as worthy a
lady as any in the kingdom. And so you have not been used to the new
way, and may the easier practise the other.

Dear sir, said I, pray give me more of your sweet injunctions. Why
then, continued he, I shall, in the usual course, and generally, if not
hindered by company, like to go to bed with my dearest by eleven; and,
if I don’t, shan’t hinder you. I ordinarily now rise by six in summer.
I will allow you to be half an hour after me, or so.

Then you’ll have some time you may call your own, till you give me your
company to breakfast; which may be always so, as that we may have done
at a little after nine.

Then will you have several hours again at your disposal, till two
o’clock, when I shall like to sit down at table.

You will then have several useful hours more to employ yourself in, as
you shall best like; and I would generally go to supper by eight; and
when we are resolved to stick to these oldfashioned rules, as near as
we can, we shall have our visitors conform to them too, and expect them
from us, and suit themselves accordingly: For I have always observed,
that it is in every one’s power to prescribe rules to himself. It is
only standing a few ridiculous jests at first, and that too from such,
generally, as are not the most worthy to be minded; and, after a while,
they will say, It signifies nothing to ask him: he will have his own
way. There is no putting him out of his bias. He is a regular piece of
clock-work, they will joke, and all that: And why, my dear, should we
not be so? For man is as frail a piece of machinery as any clock-work
whatever; and, by irregularity, is as subject to be disordered.

Then, my dear, continued the charming man, when they see they are
received, at my own times, with an open countenance and cheerful heart;
when they see plenty and variety at my board, and meet a kind and
hearty welcome from us both; they will not offer to break in upon my
conditions, nor grudge me my regular hours: And as most of these people
have nothing to do, except to rise in a morning, they may as well come
to breakfast with us at half an hour after eight, in summer, as at ten
or eleven; to dinner at two, as at four, five, or six; and to supper at
eight, as at ten or eleven. And then our servants, too, will know,
generally, the times of their business, and the hours of their leisure
or recess; and we, as well as they, shall reap the benefits of this
regularity. And who knows, my dear, but we may revive the good
oldfashion in our neighbourhood, by this means?—At least it will be
doing our parts towards it; and answering the good lesson I learned at
school, Every one mend one. And the worst that will happen will be,
that when some of my brother rakes, such as those who broke in upon us,
so unwelcomely, last Thursday, are got out of the way, if that can ever
be, and begin to consider who they shall go to dine with in their
rambles, they will only say, We must not go to him, for his dinner-time
is over; and so they’ll reserve me for another time, when they happen
to suit it better; or, perhaps, they will take a supper and a bed with
me instead of it.

Now, my dearest, continued the kind man, you see here are more of my
injunctions, as you call them; and though I will not be so set, as to
quarrel, if they are not always exactly complied with; yet, as I know
you won’t think them unreasonable, I shall be glad they may, as often
as they can; and you will give your orders accordingly to your Mrs.
Jervis, who is a good woman, and will take pleasure in obeying you.

O dearest, dear sir, said I, have you nothing more to honour me with?
You oblige and improve me at the same time.—What a happy lot is mine!

Why, let me see, my dearest, said he—But I think of no more at present:
For it would be needless to say how much I value you for your natural
sweetness of temper, and that open cheerfulness of countenance, which
adorns you, when nothing has given my fairest apprehensions for her
virtue: A sweetness, and a cheerfulness, that prepossesses in your
favour, at first sight, the mind of every one that beholds you.—I need
not, I hope, say, that I would have you diligently preserve this sweet
appearance: Let no thwarting accident, no cross fortune, (for we must
not expect to be exempt from such, happy as we now are in each other!)
deprive this sweet face of this its principal grace: And when any thing
unpleasing happens, in a quarter of an hour, at farthest, begin to
mistrust yourself, and apply to your glass; and if you see a gloom
arising, or arisen, banish it instantly; smooth your dear countenance;
resume your former composure; and then, my dearest, whose heart must
always be seen in her face, and cannot be a hypocrite, will find this a
means to smooth her passions also: And if the occasion be too strong
for so sudden a conquest, she will know how to do it more effectually,
by repairing to her closet, and begging that gracious assistance, which
has never yet failed her: And so shall I, my dear, who, as you once but
too justly observed, have been too much indulged by my good mother,
have an example from you, as well as a pleasure in you, which will
never be palled.

One thing, continued he, I have frequently observed at the house of
many a gentleman, That when we have unexpectedly visited, or broken in
upon the family order laid down by the lady; and especially if any of
us have lain under the suspicion of having occasionally seduced our
married companion into bad hours, or given indifferent examples, the
poor gentleman has been oddly affected at our coming; though the good
breeding of the lady has made her just keep up appearances. He has
looked so conscious; has been so afraid, as it were, to disoblige; has
made so many excuses for some of us, before we had been accused, as
have always shewn me how unwelcome we have been; and how much he is
obliged to compound with his lady for a tolerable reception of us; and,
perhaps, she too, in proportion to the honest man’s concern to court
her smiles, has been more reserved, stiff, and formal; and has behaved
with an indifference and slight that has often made me wish myself out
of her house; for too plainly have I seen that it was not his.

This, my dear, you will judge, by my description, has afforded me
subject for animadversion upon the married life; for a man may not
(though, in the main, he is willing to flatter himself that he is
master of his house, and will assert his prerogative upon great
occasions, when it is strongly invaded) be always willing to contend;
and such women as those I have described, are always ready to take the
field, and are worse enemies than the old Parthians, who annoy most
when they seem to retreat; and never fail to return to the charge
again, and carry on the offensive war, till they have tired out
resistance, and made the husband willing, like a vanquished enemy, to
compound for small matters, in order to preserve something. At least
the poor man does not care to let his friends see his case; and so will
not provoke a fire to break out, that he sees (and so do his friends
too) the meek lady has much ado to smother; and which, very possibly,
burns with a most comfortable ardour, after we are gone.

You smile, my Pamela, said he, at this whimsical picture; and, I am
sure, I never shall have reason to include you in these disagreeable
outlines; but yet I will say, that I expect from you, whoever comes to
my house, that you accustom yourself to one even, uniform complaisance:
That no frown take place on your brow: That however ill or well
provided we may be for their reception, you shew no flutter or
discomposure: That whoever you may have in your company at the time,
you signify not, by the least reserved look, that the stranger is come
upon you unseasonably, or at a time you wished he had not. But be
facetious, kind, obliging to all; and, if to one more than another, to
such as have the least reason to expect it from you, or who are most
inferior at the table; for thus will you, my Pamela, cheer the doubting
mind, quiet the uneasy heart, and diffuse ease, pleasure, and
tranquillity, around my board.

And be sure, my dear, continued he, let no little accidents ruffle your
temper. I shall never forget once that I was at Lady Arthur’s; and a
footman happened to stumble, and let fall a fine china dish, and broke
it all to pieces: It was grievous to see the uneasiness it gave the
poor lady: And she was so sincere in it, that she suffered it to spread
all over the company; and it was a pretty large one too; and not a
person in it but turned either her consoler, or fell into stories of
the like misfortunes; and so we all became, for the rest of the
evening, nothing but blundering footmen, and careless servants, or were
turned into broken jars, plates, glasses, tea-cups, and such like
brittle substances. And it affected me so much, that, when I came home,
I went to bed, and dreamt, that Robin, with the handle of his whip,
broke the fore glass of my chariot; and I was so solicitous, methought,
to keep the good lady in countenance for her anger, that I broke his
head in revenge, and stabbed one of my coach-horses. And all the
comfort I had when it was done, methought, was, that I had not exposed
myself before company; and there were no sufferers, but guilty Robin,
and one innocent coach-horse.

I was exceedingly diverted with the facetious hints, and the pleasant
manner in which he gave them; and I promised to improve by the
excellent lessons contained in them.

I then went up and dressed myself, as like a bride as I could, in my
best clothes; and, on inquiry, hearing my dearest master was gone to
walk in the garden, I went to find him out. He was reading in the
little alcove; and I said, Sir, am I licensed to intrude upon you?—No,
my dear, said he, because you cannot intrude. I am so wholly yours,
that, wherever I am, you have not only a right to join me, but you do
me a very acceptable favour at the same time.

I have, sir, said I, obeyed your first kind injunction, as to dressing
myself before dinner; but may be you are busy, sir. He put up the
papers he was reading, and said, I can have no business or pleasure of
equal value to your company, my dear. What were you going to say?—Only,
sir, to know if you have any more kind injunctions to give me?—I could
hear you talk a whole day together.—You are very obliging, Pamela, said
he; but you are so perfectly what I wish, that I might have spared
those I gave you; but I was willing you should have a taste of my
freedom with you, to put you upon the like with me: For I am confident
there can be no friendship lasting, without freedom, and without
communicating to one another even the little caprices, if my Pamela can
have any such, which may occasion uneasiness to either.

Now, my dear, said he, be so kind as to find some fault with me, and
tell me what you would wish me to do, to appear more agreeable to you.
O sir, said I, and I could have kissed him, but for shame, (To be sure
I shall grow a sad fond hussy,) I have not one single thing to wish
for; no, not one!—He saluted me very kindly, and said, He should be
sorry if I had, and forbore to speak it. Do you think, my dear sir,
said I, that your Pamela has no conscience? Do you think, that because
you so kindly oblige her, and delight in obliging her, that she must
rack her invention for trials of your goodness, and knows not when
she’s happy?—O my dearest sir, added I, less than one half of the
favours you have so generously conferred upon me, would have exceeded
my utmost wishes!

My dear angel, said he, and kissed me again, I shall be troublesome to
you with my kisses, if you continue thus sweetly obliging in your
actions and expressions. O sir, said I, I have been thinking, as I was
dressing myself, what excellent lessons you teach me!

When you commanded me, at your table to cheer the doubting mind and
comfort the uneasy heart, and to behave most kindly to those who have
least reason to expect it, and are most inferior; how sweetly, in every
instance that could possibly occur, have you done this yourself by your
poor, unworthy Pamela, till you have diffused, in your own dear words,
ease, pleasure, and tranquillity, around my glad heart!

Then again, sir, when you bid me not be disturbed by little accidents,
or by strangers coming in upon me unexpectedly, how noble an instance
did you give me of this, when, on our happy wedding-day, the coming of
Sir Charles Hargrave, and the other two gentlemen, (for which you were
quite unprovided, and which hindered our happiness of dining together
on that chosen day,) did not so disturb you, but that you entertained
the gentlemen pleasantly, and parted with them civilly and kindly! What
charming instances are these, I have been recollecting with pleasure,
of your pursuing the doctrine you deliver.

My dear, said he, these observations are very kind in you, and much to
my advantage: But if I do not always (for I fear these were too much
accidents) so well pursue the doctrines I lay down, my Pamela must not
expect that my imperfections will be a plea for her nonobservance of my
lessons, as you call them; for, I doubt I shall never be half so
perfect as you; and so I cannot permit you to recede in your goodness,
though I may find myself unable to advance as I ought in my duty.

I hope, sir, said I, by God’s grace, I never shall. I believe it, said
he; but I only mention this, knowing my own defects, lest my future
lessons should not be so well warranted by my practice, as in the
instances you have kindly recollected.

He was pleased to take notice of my dress; and spanning my waist with
his hands, said, What a sweet shape is here! It would make one regret
to lose it; and yet, my beloved Pamela, I shall think nothing but that
loss wanting, to complete my happiness.—I put my bold hand before his
mouth, and said, Hush, hush! O fie, sir!—The freest thing you have ever
yet said, since I have been yours!—He kissed my hand, and said, Such an
innocent wish, my dearest, may be permitted me, because it is the end
of the institution.—But say, Would such a case be unwelcome to my
Pamela?—I will say, sir, said I, and hid my blushing face on his bosom,
that your wishes, in every thing, shall be mine; but, pray, sir, say no
more. He kindly saluted me, and thanked me, and changed the subject.—I
was not too free, I hope.

Thus we talked, till we heard the coaches; and then he said, Stay here,
in the garden, my dear, and I’ll bring the company to you. And when he
was gone, I passed by the back-door, kneeled down against it, and
blessed God for not permitting my then so much desired escape. I went
to the pond, and kneeled down on the mossy bank, and again blessed God
there, for his mercy in my escape from myself, my then worst enemy,
though I thought I had none but enemies, and no friend near me. And so
I ought to do in almost every step of this garden, and every room in
this house!—And I was bending my steps to the dear little chapel, to
make my acknowledgment there; but I saw the company coming towards me.

Miss Darnford said, So, Miss Andrews, how do you do now? O, you look so
easy, so sweetly, so pleased, that I know you’ll let me dance at your
wedding, for I shall long to be there! Lady Jones was pleased to say I
looked like an angel: And Mrs. Peters said, I improved upon them every
time they saw me. Lady Darnford was also pleased to make me a fine
compliment, and said, I looked freer and easier every time she saw me.
Dear heart! I wish, thought I, you would spare these compliments; for I
shall have some joke, I doubt, passed on me by-and-by, that will make
me suffer for all these fine things.

Mr. Peters said, softly, God bless you, dear daughter!—But not so much
as my wife knows it.—Sir Simon came in last, and took me by the hand,
and said, Mr. B——, by your leave; and kissed my hand five or six times,
as if he was mad; and held it with both his, and made a very free jest,
by way of compliment, in his way. Well, I think a young rake is hardly
tolerable; but an old rake, and an old beau, are two very sad
things!—And all this before daughters, women-grown!—I whispered my
dearest, a little after, and said, I fear I shall suffer much from Sir
Simon’s rude jokes, by-and-by, when you reveal the matter.—’Tis his
way, my dear, said he; you must now grow above these things.—Miss Nanny
Darnford said to me, with a sort of half grave, ironical air,—Well,
Miss Andrews, if I may judge by your easy deportment now, to what it
was when I saw you last, I hope you will let my sister, if you won’t
me, see the happy knot tied! For she is quite wild about it.—I
courtesied, and only said, You are all very good to me, ladies.—Mr.
Peters’s niece said, Well, Miss Andrews, I hope, before we part, we
shall be told the happy day. My good master heard her, and said, You
shall, you shall, madam.—That’s pure, said Miss Darnford.

He took me aside, and said softly, Shall I lead them to the alcove, and
tell them there, or stay till we go in to dinner?—Neither, sir, I
think, said I, I fear I shan’t stand it.—Nay, said he, they must know
it; I would not have invited them else.—Why then, sir, said I, let it
alone till they are going away.—Then, replied he, you must pull off
your ring. No, no, sir, said I, that I must not.—Well, said he, do you
tell Miss Darnford of it yourself.—Indeed, sir, answered I, I cannot.

Mrs. Jewkes came officiously to ask my master, just then, if she should
bring a glass of rhenish and sugar before dinner, for the gentlemen and
ladies: And he said, That’s well thought of; bring it, Mrs. Jewkes.

And she came, with Nan attending her, with two bottles and glasses, and
a salver; and must needs, making a low courtesy, offered first to me;
saying, Will your ladyship begin? I coloured like scarlet, and said,
No;—my master, to be sure!

But they all took the hint; and Miss Darnford said, I’ll be hanged if
they have not stolen a wedding! said Mrs. Peters, It must certainly be
so! Ah! Mr. Peters.

I’ll assure you, said he, I have not married them. Where were you, said
she, and Mr. Williams, last Thursday morning? said Sir Simon, Let me
alone, let me alone; if any thing has been stolen, I’ll find it out!
I’m a justice of the peace, you know. And so he took me by the hand,
and said, Come, madam, answer me, by the oath you have taken: Are you
married or not?

My master smiled, to see me look so like a fool; and I said, Pray, Sir
Simon!—Ay, ay, said he; I thought you did not look so smirking upon us
for nothing.—Well, then, Pamela, said my master, since your blushes
discover you, don’t be ashamed, but confess the truth!

Now, said Miss Darnford, I am quite angry; and, said Lady Darnford, I
am quite pleased; let me give you joy, dear madam, if it be so. And so
they all said, and saluted me all round.—I was vexed it was before Mrs.
Jewkes; for she shook her fat sides, and seemed highly pleased to be a
means of discovering it.

Nobody, said my master, wishes me joy. No, said Lady Jones, very
obligingly, nobody need; for, with such a peerless spouse, you want no
good wishes:—And he saluted them; and when he came last to me, said,
before them all, Now, my sweet bride, my Pamela, let me conclude with
you; for here I began to love, and here I desire to end loving, but not
till my life ends.

This was sweetly said, and taken great notice of; and it was doing
credit to his own generous choice, and vastly more than I merited.

But I was forced to stand many more jokes afterwards: For Sir Simon
said, several times, Come, come, madam, now you are become one of us, I
shall be a little less scrupulous than I have been, I’ll assure you.

When we came in to dinner, I made no difficulty of what all offered me,
the upper end of the table; and performed the honours of it with pretty
tolerable presence of mind, considering. And, with much ado, my good
benefactor promising to be down again before winter, we got off the
ball; but appointed Tuesday evening, at Lady Darnford’s, to take leave
of all this good company, who promised to be there, my master designing
to set out on Wednesday morning for Bedfordshire.

We had prayers in the little chapel, in the afternoon; but they all
wished for the good clerk again, with great encomiums upon you, my dear
father; and the company staid supper also, and departed exceeding well
satisfied, and with abundance of wishes for the continuance of our
mutual happiness; and my master desired Mr. Peters to answer for him to
the ringers at the town, if they should hear of it; till our return
into this country; and that then he would be bountiful to them, because
he would not publicly declare it till he had first done so in
Bedfordshire.

Monday, the fifth day.

I have had very little of my dear friend’s company this day; for he
only staid breakfast with me, and rode out to see a sick gentleman
about eighteen miles off, who begged (by a man and horse on purpose) to
speak with him, believing he should not recover, and upon part of whose
estate my master has a mortgage. He said, My dearest, I shall be very
uneasy, if I am obliged to tarry all night from you; but, lest you
should be alarmed, if I don’t come home by ten, don’t expect me: For
poor Mr. Carlton and I have pretty large concerns together; and if he
should be very ill, and would be comforted by my presence, (as I know
he loves me, and his family will be more in my power, if he dies, than
I wish for,) charity will not let me refuse.

It is now ten o’clock at night, and I fear he will not return. I fear,
for the sake of his poor sick friend, who, I doubt, is worse. Though I
know not the gentleman, I am sorry for his own sake, for his family’s
sake, and for my dear master’s sake, who, by his kind expressions, I
find, loves him: And, methinks, I should be sorry any grief should
touch his generous heart; though yet there is no living in this world,
without too many occasions for concern, even in the most prosperous
state. And it is fit it should be so; or else, poor wretches, as we
are! we should look no farther, but be like sensual travellers on a
journey homeward, who, meeting with good entertainment at some inn on
the way, put up their rest there, and never think of pursuing their
journey to their proper home.—This, I remember, was often a reflection
of my good lady’s, to whom I owe it.

Eleven o’clock.

Mrs. Jewkes has been with me, and asked if I will have her for a
bed-fellow, in want of a better? I thanked her; but I said, I would see
how it was to be by myself one night.

I might have mentioned, that I made Mrs. Jewkes dine and sup with me;
and she was much pleased with it, and my behaviour to her. And I could
see, by her manner, that she was a little struck inwardly at some of
her former conduct to me. But, poor wretch! it is much, I fear, because
I am what I am; for she has otherwise very little remorse I doubt. Her
talk and actions are entirely different from what they used to be,
quite circumspect and decent; and I should have thought her virtuous,
and even pious, had I never known her in another light.

By this we may see, my dear father and mother, of what force example
is, and what is in the power of the heads of families to do: And this
shews, that evil examples, in superiors, are doubly pernicious, and
doubly culpable, because such persons are bad themselves, and not only
do no good, but much harm to others; and the condemnation of such must,
to be sure, be so much the greater!—And how much the greater still must
my condemnation be, who have had such a religious education under you,
and been so well nurtured by my good lady, if I should forget, with all
these mercies heaped upon me, what belongs to the station I am
preferred to!—O how I long to be doing some good! For all that is past
yet, is my dear, dear master’s, God bless him! and return him safe to
my wishes! for methinks, already, ’tis a week since I saw him. If my
love would not be troublesome and impertinent, I should be nothing
else; for I have a true grateful spirit; and I had need to have such a
one, for I am poor in every thing but will.

Tuesday morning, eleven o’clock.

My dear, dear—master (I’m sure I should still say; but I will learn to
rise to a softer epithet, now-and-then) is not yet come. I hope he is
safe and well!—So Mrs. Jewkes and I went to breakfast. But I can do
nothing but talk and think of him, and all his kindness to me, and to
you, which is still me, more intimately!—I have just received a letter
from him, which he wrote overnight, as I find by it, and sent early
this morning. This is a copy of it.

TO MRS. ANDREWS

‘MY DEAREST PAMELA, Monday night.

‘I hope my not coming home this night will not frighten you. You may
believe I can’t help it. My poor friend is so very ill, that I doubt he
can’t recover. His desires to have me stay with him are so strong, that
I shall sit up all night with him, as it is now near one o’clock in the
morning; for he can’t bear me out of his sight: And I have made him and
his distressed wife and children so easy, in the kindest assurances I
could give him of my consideration for him and them, that I am looked
upon (as the poor disconsolate widow, as she, I doubt, will soon be,
tells me,) as their good angel. I could have wished we had not engaged
to the good neighbourhood at Sir Simon’s for to-morrow night; but I am
so desirous to set out on Wednesday for the other house, that, as well
as in return for the civilities of so many good friends, who will be
there on purpose, I would not put it off. What I beg of you, therefore,
my dear, is, that you would go in the chariot to Sir Simon’s, the
sooner in the day the better, because you will be diverted with the
company, who all so much admire you; and I hope to join you there by
your tea-time in the afternoon, which will be better than going home,
and returning with you, as it will be six miles difference to me; and I
know the good company will excuse my dress, on the occasion. I count
every hour of this little absence for a day: for I am, with the utmost
sincerity,

‘My dearest love, for ever yours, etc.’

‘If you could go to dine with them, it will be a freedom that would be
very pleasing to them; and the more, as they don’t expect it.’

I begin to have a little concern, lest his fatigue should be too great,
and for the poor sick gentleman and family; but told Mrs. Jewkes, that
the least intimation of his choice should be a command to me, and so I
would go to dinner there; and ordered the chariot to be got ready to
carry me: when a messenger came up, just as I was dressed, to tell her
she must come down immediately. I see at the window, that visitors are
come; for there is a chariot and six horses, the company gone out of
it, and three footmen on horseback; and I think the chariot has
coronets. Who can it be, I wonder?—But here I will stop, for I suppose
I shall soon know.

Good sirs! how unlucky this is! What shall I do!—Here is Lady Davers
come, her own self! and my kind protector a great, great many miles
off!—Mrs. Jewkes, out of breath, comes and tells me this, and says, she
is inquiring for my master and me. She asked her, it seemed, naughty
lady as she is, if I was whored yet! There’s a word for a lady’s mouth!
Mrs. Jewkes says, she knew not what to answer. And my lady said, She is
not married, I hope? And said she, I said, No: because you have not
owned it yet publicly. My lady said, That was well enough. Said I, I
will run away, Mrs. Jewkes; and let the chariot go to the bottom of the
elm-walk, and I will steal out of the door unperceived: But she is
inquiring for you, madam, replied she, and I said you was within, but
going out; and she said, she would see you presently, as soon as she
could have patience. What did she call me? said I. The creature, madam;
I will see the creature, said she, as soon as I can have patience. Ay,
but, said I, the creature won’t let her, if she can help it.

Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, favour my escape, for this once; for I am sadly
frighted.—Said she, I’ll bid the chariot go down, as you order, and
wait till you come; and I’ll step down and shut the hall door, that you
may pass unobserved; for she sits cooling herself in the parlour, over
against the staircase. That’s a good Mrs. Jewkes! said I: But who has
she with her? Her woman, answered she, and her nephew; but he came on
horseback, and is going into the stables; and they have three
footmen.—And I wish, said I, they were all three hundred miles
off!—What shall I do?—So I wrote thus far, and wait impatiently to hear
the coast is clear.

Mrs. Jewkes tells me I must come down, or she will come up. What does
she call me now? said I. Wench, madam, Bid the wench come down to me.
And her nephew and her woman are with her.

Said I, I can’t go, and that’s enough!—You might contrive it that I
might get out, if you would.—Indeed, madam, said she, I cannot; for I
went to shut the door, and she bid me let it stand open; and there she
sits over against the staircase. Then, said I, I’ll get out of the
window, I think!—(And fanned myself;) for I am sadly frightened. Laud,
madam, said she, I wonder you so much disturb yourself!—You’re on the
right side the hedge, I’m sure; and I would not be so discomposed for
any body. Ay, said I, but who can help constitution? I dare say you
would no more be so discomposed, that I can help it.—Said she, Indeed,
madam, if it was to me, I would put on an air as mistress of the house,
as you are, and go and salute her ladyship, and bid her welcome. Ay,
ay, replied I, fine talking!—But how unlucky this is, your good master
is not at home!

What answer shall I give her, said she, to her desiring to see
you?—Tell her, said I, I am sick a-bed; I’m dying, and must not be
disturbed; I’m gone out—or any thing.

But her woman came up to me just as I had uttered this, and said, How
do you do, Mrs. Pamela? My lady desires to speak to you. So I must
go.—Sure she won’t beat me!—Oh that my dear protector was at home!

Well, now I will tell you all that happened in this frightful
interview.—And very bad it was.

I went down, dressed as I was, and my gloves on, and my fan in my hand,
to be just ready to step into the chariot, when I could get away; and I
thought all my trembling fits had been over now; but I was mistaken;
for I trembled sadly. Yet resolved to put on as good an air as I could.

So I went to the parlour, and said, making a very low courtesy, Your
servant, my good lady! And your servant again, said she, my lady, for I
think you are dressed out like one.

A charming girl, though! said her rakish nephew, and swore a great
oath: Dear aunt, forgive me, but I must kiss her; and was coming to me.
And I said, Forbear, uncivil gentleman! I won’t be used freely. Jackey,
said my lady, sit down, and don’t touch the creature—She’s proud enough
already. There’s a great difference in her air, I’ll assure you, since
I saw her last.

Well, child, said she, sneeringly, how dost find thyself? Thou’rt
mightily come on, of late!—I hear strange reports about thee!—Thou’rt
almost got into fool’s paradise, I doubt!—And wilt find thyself
terribly mistaken in a little while, if thou thinkest my brother will
disgrace his family, to humour thy baby-face!

I see, said I, sadly vexed, (her woman and nephew smiling by,) your
ladyship has no very important commands for me; and I beg leave to
withdraw. Beck, said she to her woman, shut the door, my young lady and
I must not have done so soon.

Where’s your well-mannered deceiver gone, child?—says she.—Said I, When
your ladyship is pleased to speak intelligibly, I shall know how to
answer.

Well, but my dear child, said she, in drollery, don’t be too pert
neither, I beseech thee. Thou wilt not find thy master’s sister half so
ready to take thy freedoms, as thy mannerly master is!—So, a little of
that modesty and humility that my mother’s waiting-maid used to shew,
will become thee better than the airs thou givest thyself, since my
mother’s son has taught thee to forget thyself.

I would beg, said I, one favour of your ladyship, That if you would
have me keep my distance, you will not forget your own degree.—Why,
suppose, Miss Pert, I should forget my degree, wouldst thou not keep
thy distance then?

If you, madam, said I, lessen the distance yourself, you will descend
to my level, and make an equality, which I don’t presume to think of;
for I can’t descend lower than I am—at least in your ladyship’s esteem!

Did I not tell you, Jackey, said she, that I should have a wit to talk
to?—He, who swears like a fine gentleman at every word, rapped out an
oath, and said, drolling, I think, Mrs. Pamela, if I may be so bold as
to say so, you should know you are speaking to Lady Davers!—Sir, said
I, I hope there was no need of your information, and so I can’t thank
you for it; and am sorry you seem to think it wants an oath to convince
me of the truth of it.

He looked more foolish than I, at this, if possible, not expecting such
a reprimand.—And said, at last, Why, Mrs. Pamela, you put me half out
of countenance with your witty reproof!—Sir, said I, you seem quite a
fine gentleman; and it will not be easily done, I dare say.

How now, pert one, said my lady, do you know whom you talk to?—I think
I do not, madam, replied I: and for fear I should forget myself more,
I’ll withdraw. Your ladyship’s servant, said I; and was going: but she
rose, and gave me a push, and pulled a chair, and, setting the back
against the door, sat down in it.

Well, said I, I can bear anything at your ladyship’s hands; but I was
ready to cry though. And I went, and sat down, and fanned myself, at
the other end of the room.

Her woman, who stood all the time, said softly, Mrs. Pamela, you should
not sit in my lady’s presence. And my lady, though she did not hear
her, said, You shall sit down, child, in the room where I am, when I
give you leave.

So I stood up, and said, When your ladyship will hardly permit me to
stand, one might be indulged to sit down. But I ask you, said she,
Whither your master is gone? To one Mr. Carlton, madam, about eighteen
miles off, who is very sick. And when does he come home?—This evening,
madam. And where are you going? To a gentleman’s house in the town,
madam.—And how was you to go? In the chariot, madam.—Why, you must be a
lady in time, to be sure!—I believe you’d become a chariot mighty well,
child!—Was you ever out in it with your master?

Pray, your ladyship, said I, a little too pertly, perhaps, be pleased
to ask half a dozen such questions together; because one answer may do
for all!—Why, bold-face, said she, you’ll forget your distance, and
bring me to your level before my time.

I could no longer refrain tears, but said, Pray your ladyship, let me
ask what I have done, to be thus severely treated? I never did your
ladyship any harm. And if you think I am deceived, as you was pleased
to hint, I should be more entitled to your pity, than your anger.

She rose, and took me by the hand, and led me to her chair; and then
sat down; and still holding my hand, said, Why Pamela, I did indeed
pity you while I thought you innocent; and when my brother seized you,
and brought you down hither, without your consent, I was concerned for
you; and I was still more concerned for you, and loved you, when I
heard of your virtue and resistance, and your laudable efforts to get
away from him. But when, as I fear, you have suffered yourself to be
prevailed upon, and have lost your innocence, and added another to the
number of the fools he has ruined, (This shocked me a little,) I cannot
help shewing my displeasure to you.

Madam, replied I, I must beg no hasty judgment; I have not lost my
innocence.—Take care, take care, Pamela! said she: don’t lose your
veracity, as well as your honour!—Why are you here, when you are at
full liberty to go whither you please?—I will make one proposal to you,
and if you are innocent, I am sure you’ll accept it. Will you go and
live with me?—I will instantly set out with you in my chariot, and not
stay half an hour longer in this house, if you’ll go with me.—Now, if
you are innocent, and willing to keep so, deny me, if you can.

I am innocent, madam, replied I, and willing to keep so; and yet I
cannot consent to this. Then, said she, very mannerly, Thou liest,
child, that’s all: and I give thee up!

And so she arose, and walked about the room in great wrath. Her nephew
and her woman said, Your ladyship’s very good; ’tis a plain case; a
very plain case!

I would have removed the chair, to have gone out; but her nephew came
and sat in it. This provoked me; for I thought I should be unworthy of
the honour I was raised to, though I was afraid to own it, if I did not
shew some spirit; and I said, What, sir, is your pretence in this
house, to keep me a prisoner here? Because, said he—I like it.—Do you
so, sir? replied I: if that is the answer of a gentleman to such an one
as I, it would not, I dare say, be the answer of a gentleman to a
gentleman.—My lady! my lady! said he, a challenge, a challenge, by gad!
No, sir, said I, I am of a sex that gives no challenges; and you think
so too, or you would not give this occasion for the word.

Said my lady, Don’t be surprised, nephew; the wench could not talk
thus, if she had not been her master’s bed-fellow.—Pamela, Pamela, said
she, and tapped me upon the shoulder two or three times, in anger, thou
hast lost thy innocence, girl; and thou hast got some of thy bold
master’s assurance, and art fit to go any where.—Then, and please your
ladyship, said I, I am unworthy of your presence, and desire I may quit
it.

No, replied she, I will know first what reason you can give for not
accepting my proposal, if you are innocent? I can give, said I, a very
good one: but I beg to be excused. I will hear it, said she. Why, then,
answered I, I should perhaps have less reason to like this gentleman,
than where I am.

Well then, said she, I’ll put you to another trial. I’ll set out this
moment with you to your father and mother, and give you up safe to
them. What do you say to that?—Ay, Mrs. Pamela, said her nephew, now
what does your innocence say to that?—’Fore gad, madam, you have
puzzled her now.

Be pleased, madam, said I, to call off this fine gentleman. Your
kindness in these proposals makes me think you would not have me
baited. I’ll be d——d, said he, if she does not make me a bull-dog! Why
she’ll toss us all by and by! Sir, said I, you indeed behave as if you
were in a bear-garden.

Jackey, be quiet, said my lady. You only give her a pretence to evade
my questions. Come, answer me, Pamela. I will, madam, said I, and it is
thus: I have no occasion to be beholden to your ladyship for this
honour; for I am to set out to-morrow morning on the way to my
parents.—Now again thou liest, wench!—I am not of quality, said I, to
answer such language.—Once again, said she, provoke me not, by these
reflections, and this pertness; if thou dost, I shall do something by
thee unworthy of myself. That, thought I, you have done already; but I
ventured not to say so. But who is to carry you, said she, to your
father and mother? Who my master pleases, madam, said I. Ay, said she,
I doubt not thou wilt do every thing he pleases, if thou hast not
already. Why now tell me, Pamela, from thy heart, hast thou not been in
bed with thy master? Ha, wench!—I was quite shocked at this, and said,
I wonder how your ladyship can use me thus!—I am sure you can expect no
answer; and my sex, and my tender years, might exempt me from such
treatment, from a person of your ladyship’s birth and quality, and who,
be the distance ever so great, is of the same sex with me.

Thou art a confident wench, said she, I see!—Pray, madam, said I, let
me beg you to permit me to go. I am waited for in the town, to dinner.
No, replied she, I can’t spare you; and whomsoever you are to go to,
will excuse you, when they are told ’tis I that command you not to
go;—and you may excuse it too, young Lady Would-be, if you consider,
that it is the unexpected coming of your late lady’s daughter, and your
master’s sister, that commands your stay.

But a pre-engagement, your ladyship will consider, is something.—Ay, so
it is; but I know not what reason waiting-maids have to assume these
airs of pre-engagements! Oh, Pamela, Pamela, I am sorry for thy thus
aping thy betters, and giving thyself such airs: I see thou’rt quite
spoiled! Of a modest, innocent girl, that thou wast, and humble too,
thou art now fit for nothing in the world, but what I fear thou art.

Why, please your ladyship, said her kinsman, what signifies all you
say? The matter’s over with her, no doubt; and she likes it; and she is
in a fairy-dream, and ’tis pity to awaken her before her dream’s
out.—Bad as you take me to be, madam, said I, I am not used to such
language or reflections as this gentleman bestows upon me; and I won’t
bear it.

Well, Jackey, said she, be silent; and, shaking her head, Poor
girl!—said she—what a sweet innocence is here destroyed!—A thousand
pities!—I could cry over her, if that would do her good! But she is
quite lost, quite undone; and then has assumed a carriage upon it, that
all those creatures are distinguished by!

I cried sadly for vexation; and said, Say what you please, madam; if I
can help it, I will not answer another word.

Mrs. Jewkes came in, and asked if her ladyship was ready for dinner?
She said, Yes. I would have gone out with her but my lady said, taking
my hand, she could not spare me. And, miss, said she, you may pull off
your gloves, and lay your fan by, for you shan’t go; and, if you behave
well, you shall wait upon me at dinner, and then I shall have a little
further talk with you.

Mrs. Jewkes said to me, Madam, may I speak one word with you?—I can’t
tell, Mrs. Jewkes, said I; for my lady holds my hand, and you see I am
a kind of prisoner.

What you have to say, Mrs. Jewkes, said she, you may speak before me.
But she went out, and seemed vexed for me; and she says, I looked like
the very scarlet.

The cloth was laid in another parlour, and for three persons, and she
led me in: Come, my little dear, said she, with a sneer, I’ll hand you
in; and I would have you think it as well as if it was my brother.

What a sad case, thought I, should I be in, if I were as naughty as she
thinks me! It was bad enough as it was.

Jackey, said my lady, come, let us go to dinner. She said to her woman,
Do you, Beck, help Pamela to ’tend us; we will have no
men-fellows.—Come, my young lady, shall I help you off with your white
gloves? I have not, madam, said I, deserved this at your ladyship’s
hands.

Mrs. Jewkes, coming in with the first dish, she said, Do you expect any
body else, Mrs. Jewkes, that you lay the cloth for three? said she, I
hoped your ladyship and madam would have been so well reconciled, that
she would have sat down too.—What means the clownish woman? said my
lady, in great disdain: Could you think the creature should sit down
with me? She does, madam, and please your ladyship, with my master.—I
doubt it not, good woman, said she, and lies with him too, does she
not? Answer me, fat-face!—How these ladies are privileged.

If she does, madam, said she, there may be a reason for it, perhaps!
and went out.—So! said she, has the wench got thee over too? Come, my
little dear, pull off thy gloves, I say; and off she pulled my left
glove herself, and spied my ring. O my dear God! said she, if the wench
has not got a ring!—Well, this is a pretty piece of foolery, indeed!
Dost know, my friend, that thou art miserably tricked? And so, poor
innocent, thou hast made a fine exchange, hast thou not? Thy honesty
for this bauble? And, I’ll warrant, my little dear has topped her part,
and paraded it like any real wife; and so mimics still the
condition!—Why, said she, and turned me round, thou art as mincing as
any bride! No wonder thou art thus tricked out, and talkest of thy
pre-engagements! Pr’ythee, child, walk before me to that glass; survey
thyself, and come back to me, that I may see how finely thou can’st act
the theatrical part given thee!

I was then resolved to try to be silent, although most sadly vexed.—So
I went and sat me down in the window, and she took her place at the
upper end of the table; and her saucy Jackey, fleering at me most
provokingly, sat down by her. Said he, Shall not the bride sit down by
us, madam? Ay, well thought of! said my lady: Pray, Mrs. Bride, your
pardon for sitting down in your place!—I said nothing.

Said she, with a poor pun, Thou hast some modesty, however, child! for
thou can’st not stand it, so must sit down, though in my presence!—I
still kept my seat, and said nothing.—Thought I, this is a sad thing,
that I am hindered too from shewing my duty where it is most due, and
shall have anger there too, may be, if my dear master should be there
before me!—So she ate some soup, as did her kinsman; and then, as she
was cutting up a fowl, said, If thou longest, my little dear, I will
help thee to a pinion, or breast, or any thing. But may be, child, said
he, thou likest the rump; shall I bring it thee? And then laughed like
an idiot, for all he is a lord’s son, and may be a lord himself.—For he
is the son of Lord ——; and his mother, who was Lord Davers’s sister,
being dead, he has received what education he has, from Lord Davers’s
direction. Poor wretch! for all his greatness! he’ll ne’er die for a
plot—at least of his own hatching. If I could then have gone up, I
would have given you his picture. But, for one of 25 or 26 years of
age, much about the age of my dear master, he is a most odd mortal.

Pamela, said my lady, help me to a glass of wine. No, Beck, said she,
you shan’t; for she was offering to do it. I will have my lady bride
confer that honour upon me; and then I shall see if she can stand up. I
was silent, and never stirred.

Dost hear, chastity? said she, help me to a glass of wine, when I bid
thee.—What! not stir? Then I’ll come and help thee to one. Still I
stirred not, and, fanning myself, continued silent. Said she, When I
have asked thee, meek-one, half a dozen questions together, I suppose
thou wilt answer them all at once! Pretty creature, is not that it?

I was so vexed, I bit a piece of my fan out, not knowing what I did;
but still I said nothing, and did nothing but flutter it, and fan
myself.

I believe, said she, my next question will make up half a dozen; and
then, modest one, I shall be entitled to an answer.

He rose and brought the bottle and glass; Come, said he, Mrs. Bride, be
pleased to help my lady, and I will be your deputy. Sir, replied I, it
is in a good hand; help my lady yourself.—Why, creature, said she, dost
thou think thyself above it?—And then flew into a passion:—Insolence!
continued she, this moment, when I bid you, know your duty, and give me
a glass of wine; or—

So I took a little spirit then—Thought I, I can but be beat.—If, said
I, to attend your ladyship at table, or even kneel at your feet, was
required of me, I would most gladly do it, were I only the person you
think me; but, if it be to triumph over one who has received honours,
that she thinks require her to act another part, not to be utterly
unworthy of them, I must say, I cannot do it.

She seemed quite surprised, and looked now upon her kinsman, and then
upon her woman—I’m astonished—quite astonished!—Well, then, I suppose
you would have me conclude you my brother’s wife; could you not?

Your ladyship, said I, compels me to say this!—Well, returned she, but
dost thou thyself think thou art so?—Silence, said her kinsman, gives
consent. ’Tis plain enough she does. Shall I rise, madam, and pay my
duty to my new aunt?

Tell me, said my lady, what, in the name of impudence, possesses thee
to dare to look upon thyself as my sister?—Madam, replied I, that is a
question will better become your most worthy brother to answer, than
me.

She was rising in great wrath: but her woman said, Good your ladyship,
you’ll do yourself more harm than her; and if the poor girl has been
deluded so, as you have heard, with the sham marriage, she’ll be more
deserving of your ladyship’s pity than anger. True, Beck, very true,
said my lady; but there’s no bearing the impudence of the creature in
the mean time.

I would have gone out at the door, but her kinsman ran and set his back
against it. I expected bad treatment from her pride, and violent
temper; but this was worse than I could have thought of. And I said to
him, Sir, when my master comes to know your rude behaviour, you will,
may be, have cause to repent it: and went and sat down in the window
again.

Another challenge, by gad! said he; but I am glad she says her
master!—You see, madam, she herself does not believe she is married,
and so has not been so much deluded as you think for: And, coming to me
with a most barbarous air of insult, he said, kneeling on one knee
before me, My new aunt, your blessing or your curse, I care not which;
but quickly give me one or other, that I may not lose my dinner!

I gave him a most contemptuous look: Tinselled toy, said I, (for he was
laced all over), twenty or thirty years hence, when you are at age, I
shall know how to answer you better; mean time, sport with your
footman, and not with me! and so I removed to another window nearer the
door, and he looked like a sad fool, as he is.

Beck, Beck, said my lady, this is not to be borne! Was ever the like
heard! Is my kinsman and Lord Davers’s to be thus used by such a slut?
And was coming to me: And indeed I began to be afraid; for I have but a
poor heart, after all. But Mrs. Jewkes hearing high words, came in
again, with the second course, and said, Pray your ladyship, don’t so
discompose yourself. I am afraid this day’s business will make matters
wider than ever between your good ladyship and your brother: For my
master doats upon madam.

Woman, said she, do thou be silent! Sure, I that was born in this
house, may have some privilege in it, without being talked to by the
saucy servants in it!

I beg pardon, madam, replied Mrs. Jewkes; and, turning to me, said,
Madam, my master will take it very ill if you make him wait for you
thus. So I rose to go out; but my lady said, If it was only for that
reason she shan’t go.—And went to the door and shut it, and said to
Mrs. Jewkes, Woman, don’t come again till I call you; and coming to me,
took my hand, and said, Find your legs, miss, if you please.

I stood up, and she tapped my cheek! Oh, says she, that scarlet glow
shews what a rancorous little heart thou hast, if thou durst shew it!
but come this way; and so led me to her chair: Stand there, said she,
and answer me a few questions while I dine, and I’ll dismiss thee, till
I call thy impudent master to account; and then I’ll have you face to
face, and all this mystery of iniquity shall be unravelled; for,
between you, I will come to the bottom of it.

When she had sat down, I moved to the window on the other side of the
parlour, looking into the private garden; and her woman said, Mrs.
Pamela, don’t make my lady angry. Stand by her ladyship, as she bids
you. Said I, Pray, good now, let it suffice you to attend your lady’s
commands, and don’t lay yours upon me.—Your pardon, sweet Mrs. Pamela,
said she. Times are much altered with you, I’ll assure you! said I, Her
ladyship has a very good plea to be free in the house that she was born
in; but you may as well confine your freedoms to the house in which you
had your breedings. Why, how now, Mrs. Pamela, said she; since you
provoke me to it, I’ll tell you a piece of my mind. Hush, hush, good
woman, said I, alluding to my lady’s language to Mrs. Jewkes, my lady
wants not your assistance:—Besides, I can’t scold!

The woman was ready to flutter with vexation; and Lord Jackey laughed
as if he would burst his sides: G—d d—n me, Beck, said he, you’d better
let her alone to my lady here for she’ll be too many for twenty such as
you and I!—And then he laughed again, and repeated—I can’t scold,
quoth-a! but, by gad, miss, you can speak d——d spiteful words, I can
tell you that!—Poor Beck, poor Beck!—‘Fore gad, she’s quite
dumbfoundered!

Well, but Pamela, said my lady, come hither, and tell me truly, Dost
thou think thyself really married?—Said I, and approached her chair, My
good lady, I’ll answer all your commands, if you’ll have patience with
me, and not be so angry as you are: But I can’t bear to be used thus by
this gentleman, and your ladyship’s woman. Child, said she, thou art
very impertinent to my kinsman; thou can’st not be civil to me; and my
ladyship’s woman is much thy betters. But that’s not the thing!—Dost
thou think thou art really married?

I see, madam, said I, you are resolved not to be pleased with any
answer I shall return: If I should say, I am not, then your ladyship
will call me hard names, and, perhaps, I should tell a fib. If I should
say, I am, your ladyship will ask, how I have the impudence to be
so?—and will call it a sham-marriage. I will, said she, be answered
more directly. Why, what, madam, does it signify what I think? Your
ladyship will believe as you please.

But can’st thou have the vanity, the pride, the folly, said she, to
think thyself actually married to my brother? He is no fool, child; and
libertine enough of conscience; and thou art not the first in the list
of his credulous harlots.—Well, well, said I, (and was in a sad
flutter,) as I am easy, and pleased with my lot, pray, madam, let me
continue so, as long as I can. It will be time enough for me to know
the worst, when the worst comes. And if it should be so bad, your
ladyship should pity me, rather than thus torment me before my time.

Well, said she, but dost not think I am concerned, that a young wench,
whom my poor dear mother loved so well, should thus cast herself away,
and suffer herself to be deluded and undone, after such a noble stand
as thou madst for so long a time?

I think myself far from being deluded and undone, and am as innocent
and virtuous as ever I was in my life. Thou liest, child, said she.

So your ladyship told me twice before.

She gave me a slap on the hand for this; and I made a low courtesy, and
said, I humbly thank your ladyship! but I could not refrain tears: And
added, Your dear brother, madam, however, won’t thank your ladyship for
this usage of me, though I do. Come a little nearer me, my dear, said
she, and thou shalt have a little more than that to tell him of, if
thou think’st thou hast not made mischief enough already between a
sister and brother. But, child, if he was here, I would serve thee
worse, and him too. I wish he was, said I.—Dost thou threaten me,
mischief-maker, and insolent as thou art?

Now, pray, madam, said I, (but got to a little distance,) be pleased to
reflect upon all that you have said to me, since I have had the honour,
or rather misfortune, to come into your presence; whether you have said
one thing befitting your ladyship’s degree to me, even supposing I was
the wench and the creature you imagine me to be?—Come hither, my pert
dear, replied she, come but within my reach for one moment, and I’ll
answer thee as thou deservest.

To be sure she meant to box my ears. But I should not be worthy my
happy lot if I could not shew some spirit.

When the cloth was taken away, I said, I suppose I may now depart your
presence, madam? I suppose not, said she. Why, I’ll lay thee a wager,
child, thy stomach’s too full to eat, and so thou may’st fast till thy
mannerly master comes home.

Pray your ladyship, said her woman, let the poor girl sit down at table
with Mrs. Jewkes and me.—Said I, You are very kind, Mrs. Worden; but
times, as you said, are much altered with me; and I have been of late
so much honoured with better company, that I can’t stoop to yours.

Was ever such confidence! said my lady.—Poor Beck! poor Beck! said her
kinsman; why she beats you quite out of the pit!—Will your ladyship,
said I, be so good as to tell me how long I am to tarry? For you’ll
please to see by that letter, that I am obliged to attend my master’s
commands. And so I gave her the dear gentleman’s letter from Mr.
Carlton’s, which I thought would make her use me better, as she might
judge by it of the honour done me by him. Ay, said she, this is my
worthy brother’s hand. It is directed to Mrs. Andrews. That’s to you, I
suppose, child? And so she ran on, making remarks as she went along, in
this manner:

My dearest PAMELA,—‘Mighty well!’—I hope my not coming home this night,
will not frighten you!—‘Vastly tender, indeed!—And did it frighten you,
child?’—You may believe I can’t help it. ‘No, to be sure!—A person in
thy way of life, is more tenderly used than an honest wife. But mark
the end of it!’—I could have wished—‘Pr’ythee, Jackey, mind
this,’—we—‘mind the significant we,’—had not engaged to the good
neighbourhood, at Sir Simon’s, for to-morrow night.—‘Why, does the good
neighbourhood, and does Sir Simon, permit thy visits, child? They shall
have none of mine, then, I’ll assure them!’—But I am so desirous to set
out on Wednesday for the other house—‘So, Jackey, but we just nicked
it, I find:’—that, as well as in return for the civilities of so many
good friends, who will be there on purpose, I would not put it
off.—‘Now mind, Jackey.’—What I beg of you—‘Mind the wretch, that could
use me and your uncle as he has done; he is turned beggar to this
creature!’—I beg of you, therefore, my dear—‘My dear! there’s for
you!—I wish I may not be quite sick before I get through.’—What I beg
of you, therefore, my dear, [and then she looked me full in the face,]
is, that you will go in the chariot to Sir Simon’s, the sooner in the
day the better;—‘Dear heart! and why so, when WE were not expected till
night? Why, pray observe the reason—Hem!’ [said she]—Because you will
be diverted with the company;—‘Mighty kind, indeed!’—who all—‘Jackey,
Jackey, mind this,’—who all so much admire you. ‘Now he’d ha’ been
hanged before he would have said so complaisant a thing, had he been
married, I’m sure!’—Very true, aunt, said he: A plain case
that!—[Thought I, that’s hard upon poor matrimony, though I hope my
lady don’t find it so. But I durst not speak out.]—Who all so much
admire you, [said she,] ‘I must repeat that—Pretty miss!—I wish thou
wast as admirable for thy virtue, as for that baby-face of thine!’—And
I hope to join you there by your tea-time in the afternoon!—‘So, you’re
in very good time, child, an hour or two hence, to answer all your
important pre-engagements!’—which will be better than going home, and
returning with you; as it will be six miles difference to me; and I
know the good company will excuse my dress on this occasion.—‘Very
true; any dress is good enough, I’m sure, for such company as admire
thee, child, for a companion, in thy ruined state!—Jackey, Jackey,
mind, mind, again! more fine things still!’—I count every hour of this
little absence for a day!—‘There’s for you! Let me repeat it’—I count
every hour of this little absence for a day!—‘Mind, too, the wit of the
good man! One may see love is a new thing to him. Here is a very
tedious time gone since he saw his deary; no less than, according to
his amorous calculation, a dozen days and nights, at least! and yet,
TEDIOUS as it is, it is but a LITTLE ABSENCE. Well said, my good,
accurate, and consistent brother!—But wise men in love are always the
greatest simpletons!—But now cones the reason why this LITTLE ABSENCE,
which, at the same time, is SO GREAT an ABSENCE, is so tedious:’—FOR I
am—‘Ay, now for it!’—with the UTMOST sincerity, my dearest love—‘Out
upon DEAREST love! I shall never love the word again! Pray bid your
uncle never call me dearest love, Jackey!’—For ever yours!—‘But,
brother, thou liest!—Thou knowest thou dost.—And so, my good Lady
Andrews, or what shall I call you? Your dearest love will be for ever
yours! And hast thou the vanity to believe this?—But stay, here is a
postscript. The poor man knew not when to have done to his dearest
love.—He’s sadly in for’t, truly! Why, his dearest love, you are mighty
happy in such a lover!’—If you could go to dine with them—‘Cry you
mercy, my dearest love, now comes the pre-engagement!’—it will be a
freedom that will be very pleasing to them, and the more, as they don’t
expect it.

Well, so much for this kind letter! But you see you cannot honour this
admiring company with this little expected, and, but in complaisance to
his folly, I dare say, little desired freedom. And I cannot forbear
admiring you so much myself, my dearest love, that I will not spare you
at all, this whole evening: For ’tis a little hard, if thy master’s
sister may not be blest a little bit with thy charming company.

So I found I had shewn her my letter to very little purpose, and
repented it several times, as she read on.—Well, then, said I, I hope
your ladyship will give me leave to send my excuses to your good
brother, and say, that your ladyship is come, and is so fond of me,
that you will not let me leave you.—Pretty creature, said she; and
wantest thou thy good master to come, and quarrel with his sister on
thy account?—But thou shalt not stir from my presence; and I would now
ask thee, What it is thou meanest by shewing me this letter?—Why,
madam, said I, to shew your ladyship how I was engaged for this day and
evening.—And for nothing else? said she. Why, I can’t tell, madam, said
I: But if you can collect from it any other circumstances, I might hope
I should not be the worse treated.

I saw her eyes began to sparkle with passion: and she took my hand, and
said, grasping it very hard, I know, confident creature, that thou
shewedst it me to insult me!—You shewed it me, to let me see, that he
could be civiller to a beggar born, than to me, or to my good Lord
Davers!—You shewed it me, as if you’d have me to be as credulous a fool
as yourself, to believe your marriage true, when I know the whole trick
of it, and have reason to believe you do too; and you shewed it me, to
upbraid me with his stooping to such painted dirt, to the disgrace of a
family, ancient and untainted beyond most in the kingdom. And now will
I give thee one hundred guineas for one bold word, that I may fell thee
at my foot!

Was not this very dreadful! To be sure, I had better have kept the
letter from her. I was quite frightened!—And this fearful menace, and
her fiery eyes, and rageful countenance, made me lose all my
courage.—So I said, weeping, Good your ladyship, pity me!—Indeed I am
honest; indeed I am virtuous; indeed I would not do a bad thing for the
world!

Though I know, said she, the whole trick of thy pretended marriage, and
thy foolish ring here, and all the rest of the wicked nonsense, yet I
should not have patience with thee, if thou shouldst but offer to let
me know thy vanity prompts thee to believe thou art married to my
brother!—I could not bear the thought!—So take care, Pamela; take care,
beggarly brat; take care.

Good madam, said I, spare my dear parents. They are honest and
industrious: they were once in a very creditable way, and never were
beggars. Misfortunes may attend any body: And I can bear the cruellest
imputations on myself, because I know my innocence; but upon such
honest, industrious parents, who went through the greatest trials,
without being beholden to any thing but God’s blessing, and their own
hard labour; I cannot bear reflection.

What! art thou setting up for a family, creature as thou art! God give
me patience with thee! I suppose my brother’s folly, and his
wickedness, together, will, in a little while, occasion a search at the
heralds’ office, to set out thy wretched obscurity! Provoke me, I
desire thou wilt! One hundred guineas will I give thee, to say but thou
thinkest thou art married to my brother.

Your ladyship, I hope, won’t kill me: And since nothing I can say will
please you, but your ladyship is resolved to quarrel with me; since I
must not say what I think, on one hand nor another; whatever your
ladyship designs by me, be pleased to do, and let me depart your
presence!

She gave me a slap on the hand, and reached to box my ear; but Mrs.
Jewkes hearkening without, and her woman too, they both came in at that
instant; and Mrs. Jewkes said, pushing herself in between us; Your
ladyship knows not what you do! Indeed you don’t! My master would never
forgive me, if I suffered, in his house, one he so dearly loves, to be
so used; and it must not be, though you are Lady Davers. Her woman too
interposed, and told her, I was not worth her ladyship’s anger. But she
was like a person beside herself.

I offered to go out, and Mrs. Jewkes took my hand to lead me out: But
her kinsman set his back against the door, and put his hand to his
sword, and said, I should not go, till his aunt permitted it. He drew
it half-way, and I was so terrified, that I cried out, Oh, the sword!
the sword! and, not knowing what I did, I ran to my lady herself, and
clasped my arms about her, forgetting, just then, how much she was my
enemy, and said, sinking on my knees, Defend me, good your ladyship!
the sword! the sword!—Mrs. Jewkes said, Oh! my lady will fall into
fits! But Lady Davers was herself so startled at the matter being
carried so far, that she did not mind her words, and said, Jackey,
don’t draw your sword!—You see, as great as her spirit is, she can’t
bear that.

Come, said she, be comforted; he shan’t frighten you!—I’ll try to
overcome my anger, and will pity you. So, wench, rise up, and don’t be
foolish. Mrs. Jewkes held her salts to my nose, and I did not faint.
And my lady said, Mrs. Jewkes, if you would be forgiven, leave Pamela
and me by ourselves; and, Jackey, do you withdraw; only you, Beck,
stay.

So I sat down in the window, all in a sad fluster; for, to be sure, I
was sadly frightened.—Said her woman, You should not sit in my lady’s
presence, Mrs. Pamela. Yes, let her sit till she is a little recovered
of her fright, said my lady, and do you set my chair by her. And so she
sat over-against me, and said, To be sure, Pamela, you have been very
provoking with your tongue, to be sure you have, as well upon my
nephew, (who is a man of quality too,) as me. And palliating her cruel
usage, and beginning, I suppose, to think herself she had carried it
further than she could answer it to her brother, she wanted to lay the
fault upon me. Own, said she, you have been very saucy; and beg my
pardon, and beg Jackey’s pardon, and I will try to pity you. For you
are a sweet girl, after all; if you had but held out, and been honest.

’Tis injurious to me, madam, said I, to imagine I am not honest!—Said
she, Have you not been a-bed with my brother? tell me that. Your
ladyship, replied I, asks your questions in a strange way, and in
strange words.

O! your delicacy is wounded, I suppose, by my plain questions!—This
niceness will soon leave you, wench: It will, indeed. But answer me
directly. Then your ladyship’s next question, said I, will be, Am I
married? And you won’t bear my answer to that—and will beat me again.

I han’t beat you yet; have I, Beck? said she. So you want to make out a
story, do you?—But, indeed, I can’t bear thou shouldst so much as think
thou art my sister. I know the whole trick of it; and so, ’tis my
opinion, dost thou. It is only thy little cunning, that it might look
like a cloak to thy yielding, and get better terms from him. Pr’ythee,
pr’ythee, wench, thou seest I know the world a little;—almost as much
at thirty-two, as thou dost at sixteen.—Remember that!

I rose from the window, and walking to the other end of the room, Beat
me again, if you please, said I, but I must tell your ladyship, I scorn
your words, and am as much married as your ladyship!

At that she ran to me; but her woman interposed again: Let the vain
wicked creature go from your presence, madam, said she. She is not
worthy to be in it. She will but vex your ladyship. Stand away, Beck,
said she. That’s an assertion that I would not take from my brother, I
can’t bear it. As much married as I!—Is that to be borne? But if the
creature believes she is, madam, said her woman, she is to be as much
pitied for her credulity, as despised for her vanity.

I was in hopes to have slipt out at the door; but she caught hold of my
gown, and pulled me back. Pray your ladyship, said I, don’t kill me!—I
have done no harm.—But she locked the door, and put the key in her
pocket. So, seeing Mrs. Jewkes before the window, I lifted up the sash,
and said, Mrs. Jewkes, I believe it would be best for the chariot to go
to your master, and let him know, that Lady Davers is here; and I
cannot leave her ladyship.

She was resolved to be displeased, let me say what I would.

Said she, No, no; he’ll then think, that I make the creature my
companion, and know not how to part with her. I thought your ladyship,
replied I, could not have taken exceptions at this message. Thou
knowest nothing, wench, said she, of what belongs to people of
condition: How shouldst thou? Nor, thought I, do I desire it, at this
rate.

What shall I say, madam? said I. Nothing at all, replied she; let him
expect his dearest love, and be disappointed; it is but adding a few
more hours, and he will make every one a day, in his amorous
account.—Mrs. Jewkes coming nearer me, and my lady walking about the
room, being then at the end, I whispered, Let Robert stay at the elms;
I’ll have a struggle for’t by and by.

As much married as I! repeated she.—The insolence of the creature!—And
so she walked about the room, talking to herself, to her woman, and now
and then to me; but seeing I could not please her, I thought I had
better be silent. And then it was, Am I not worthy an answer? If I
speak, said I, your ladyship is angry at me, though ever so
respectfully; if I do not, I cannot please: Would your ladyship tell me
but how I shall oblige you, and I would do it with all my heart.

Confess the truth, said she, that thou art an undone creature; hast
been in bed with thy master; and art sorry for it, and for the mischief
thou hast occasioned between him and me; and then I’ll pity thee, and
persuade him to pack thee off, with a hundred or two of guineas; and
some honest farmer may take pity of thee, and patch up thy shame, for
the sake of the money; and if nobody will have thee, thou must vow
penitence, and be as humble as I once thought thee.

I was quite sick at heart, at all this passionate extravagance, and to
be hindered from being where was the desire of my soul, and afraid too
of incurring my dear master’s displeasure; and, as I sat, I saw it was
no hard matter to get out of the window into the front yard, the
parlour being even with the yard, and so have a fair run for it; and
after I had seen my lady at the other end of the room again, in her
walks, having not pulled down the sash, when I spoke to Mrs. Jewkes, I
got upon the seat, and whipped out in a minute, and ran away as hard as
I could drive, my lady calling after me to return, and her woman at the
other window: But two of her servants appearing at her crying out, and
she bidding them to stop me, I said, Touch me at your peril, fellows!
But their lady’s commands would have prevailed on them, had not Mr.
Colbrand, who, it seems, had been kindly ordered, by Mrs. Jewkes, to be
within call, when she saw how I was treated, come up, and put on one of
his deadly fierce looks, the only time, I thought, it ever became him,
and said, He would chine the man, that was his word, who offered to
touch his lady; and so he ran alongside of me; and I heard my lady say,
The creature flies like a bird! And, indeed, Mr. Colbrand, with his
huge strides, could hardly keep pace with me; and I never stopped, till
I got to the chariot; and Robert had got down, seeing me running at a
distance, and held the door in his hand, with the step ready down; and
in I jumped, without touching the step, saying, Drive me, drive me, as
fast as you can, out of my lady’s reach! And he mounted; and Colbrand
said, Don’t be frightened, madam; nobody shall hurt you.—And shut the
door, and away Robert drove; but I was quite out of breath, and did not
recover it, and my fright, all the way.

Mr. Colbrand was so kind, but I did not know it till the chariot
stopped at Sir Simon’s, to step up behind the carriage, lest, as he
said, my lady should send after me; and he told Mrs. Jewkes, when he
got home, that he never saw such a runner as me in his life.

When the chariot stopped, which was not till six o’clock, so long did
this cruel lady keep me, Miss Darnford ran out to me: O madam, said
she, ten times welcome! but you’ll be beat, I can tell you! for here
has been Mr. B—— come these two hours, and is very angry with you.

That’s hard indeed, said I;—Indeed I can’t afford it;—for I hardly knew
what I said, having not recovered my fright. Let me sit down, miss, any
where, said I; for I have been sadly off. So I sat down, and was quite
sick with the hurry of my spirits, and leaned upon her arm.

Said she, Your lord and master came in very moody; and when he had
staid an hour, and you not come, he began to fret, and said, He did not
expect so little complaisance from you. And he is now sat down, with
great persuasion, to a game at loo.—Come, you must make your
appearance, lady fair; for he is too sullen to attend you, I doubt.

You have no strangers, have you miss? said I.—Only two women relations
from Stamford, replied she, and an humble servant of one of them.—Only
all the world, miss! said I.—What shall I do, if he be angry? I can’t
bear that.

Just as I had said so, came in Lady Darnford and Lady Jones to chide
me, as they said, for not coming sooner. And before I could speak, came
in my dear master. I ran to him. How dy’e Pamela? said he; and saluting
me, with a little more formality than I could well bear.—I expected
half a word from me, when I was so complaisant to your choice, would
have determined you, and that you’d have been here to dinner;—and the
rather, as I made my request a reasonable one, and what I thought would
be agreeable to you. O dear sir, said I, pray, pray, hear me, and
you’ll pity me, and not be displeased! Mrs. Jewkes will tell you, that
as soon as I had your kind commands, I said, I would obey you, and come
to dinner with these good ladies; and so prepared myself instantly,
with all the pleasure in the world. Lady Darnford and miss said I was
their dear!—Look you, said miss, did I not tell you, stately one, that
something must have happened? But, O these tyrants! these men!

Why, what hindered it, my dear? said he: give yourself time; you seem
out of breath!—O sir, said I, out of breath! well I may!—For, just as I
was ready to come away, who should drive into the court-yard, but Lady
Davers!—Lady Davers! Nay, then, my sweet dear, said he, and saluted me
more tenderly, hast thou had a worse trial than I wish thee, from one
of the haughtiest women in England, though my sister!—For, she too, my
Pamela, was spoiled by my good mother!—But have you seen her?

Yes, sir, said I, and more than seen her!—Why sure, said he, she has
not had the insolence to strike my girl!—Sir, said I, but tell me you
forgive me; for indeed I could not come sooner; and these good ladies
but excuse me; and I’ll tell you all another time; for to take up the
good company’s attention now, will spoil their pleasantry, and be to
them, though more important to me, like the broken china you cautioned
me about.

That’s a dear girl! said he; I see my hints are not thrown away upon
you; and I beg pardon for being angry with you; and, for the future,
will stay till I hear your defence, before I judge you. Said Miss
Darnford, This is a little better! To own a fault is some reparation;
and what every lordly husband will not do. He said, But tell me, my
dear, did Lady Davers offer you any incivility? O sir, replied I, she
is your sister, and I must not tell you all; but she has used me very
severely! Did you tell her, said he, you were married? Yes, sir, I did
at last; but she will have it ’tis a sham-marriage, and that I am a
vile creature: and she was ready to beat me, when I said so: for she
could not have patience, that I should be deemed her sister, as she
said.

How unlucky it was, replied he, I was not at home?—Why did you not send
to me here? Send, sir! I was kept prisoner by force. They would not let
me stir, or do you think I would have been hindered from obeying you?
Nay, I told them, that I had a pre-engagement; but she ridiculed me,
and said, Waiting-maids talk of pre-engagements! And then I shewed her
your kind letter; and she made a thousand remarks upon it, and made me
wish I had not. In short, whatever I could do or say, there was no
pleasing her; and I was a creature and wench, and all that was naught.
But you must not be angry with her on my account.

Well, but, said he, I suppose she hardly asked you to dine with her;
for she came before dinner, I presume, if it was soon after you had
received my letter! No, sir, dine with my lady! no, indeed! Why, she
would make me wait at table upon her, with her woman, because she would
not expose herself and me before the men-servants; which you know, sir,
was very good of her ladyship.

Well, said he, but did you wait upon her? Would you have had me, sir?
said I.—Only, Pamela, replied he, if you did, and knew not what
belonged to your character, as my wife, I shall be very angry with you.
Sir, said I, I did not, but refused it, out of consideration to the
dignity you have raised me to; else, sir, I could have waited on my
knees upon your sister.

Now, said he, you confirm my opinion of your prudence and judgment. She
is an insolent woman, and shall dearly repent it. But, sir, she is to
be excused, because she won’t believe I am indeed married; so don’t be
too angry at her ladyship.

He said, Ladies, pray don’t let us keep you from the company; I’ll only
ask a question or two more, and attend you. Said Lady Jones, I so much
long to hear this story of poor madam’s persecution, that, if it was
not improper, I should be glad to stay. Miss Darnford would stay for
the same reason; my master saying, He had no secrets to ask; and that
it was kind of them to interest themselves in my grievances.

But Lady Darnford went into the company, and told them the cause of my
detention; for, it seems, my dear master loved me too well, to keep to
himself the disappointment my not being here to receive him, was to
him; and they had all given the two Misses Boroughs and Mr. Perry, the
Stamford guests, such a character of me, that they said they were
impatient to see me.

Said my master, But, Pamela, you said they and them: Who had my sister
with her besides her woman? Her nephew, sir, and three footmen on
horseback; and she and her woman were in her chariot and six.

That’s a sad coxcomb, said he: How did he behave to you?—Not
extraordinarily, sir; but I should not complain; for I was even with
him; because I thought I ought not to bear with him as with my lady.

By Heaven! said he, if I knew he behaved unhandsomely to my jewel, I’d
send him home to his uncle without his ears. Indeed, sir, returned I, I
was as hard upon him as he was upon me. Said he, ’Tis kind to say so;
but I believe I shall make them dearly repent their visit, if I find
their behaviour to call for my resentment.

But, sure, my dear, you might have got away when you went to your own
dinner? Indeed, sir, said I, her ladyship locked me in, and would not
let me stir.—So you ha’nt ate any dinner? No, indeed, sir, nor had a
stomach for any. My poor dear, said he. But then, how got you away at
last? O sir, replied I, I jumped out of the parlour window, and ran
away to the chariot, which had waited for me several hours, by the
elm-walk, from the time of my lady’s coming (for I was just going, as I
said); and Mr. Colbrand conducted me through her servants, whom she
called to, to stop me; and was so kind to step behind the chariot,
unknown to me, and saw me safe here.

I’m sure, said he, these insolent creatures must have treated you
vilely. But tell me, what part did Mrs. Jewkes act in this affair? A
very kind part, sir, said I, in my behalf; and I shall thank her for
it. Sweet creature! said he, thou lovest to speak well of every body;
but I hope she deserves it; for she knew you were married.—But come,
we’ll now join the company, and try to forget all you have suffered,
for two or three hours, that we may not tire the company with our
concerns and resume the subject as we go home: and you shall find I
will do you justice, as I ought. But you forgive me, sir, said I, and
are not angry? Forgive you, my dear! returned he—I hope you forgive me!
I shall never make you satisfaction for what you have suffered from me,
and for me! And with those words he led me into the company.

He very kindly presented me to the two stranger ladies, and the
gentleman, and them to me: and Sir Simon, who was at cards, rose from
table, and saluted me: Adad! madam, said he, I’m glad to see you here.
What, it seems you have been a prisoner! ’Twas well you was, or your
spouse and I should have sat in judgment upon you, and condemned you to
a fearful punishment for your first crime of laesae majestatis: (I had
this explained to me afterwards, as a sort of treason against my liege
lord and husband:) for we husbands hereabouts, said he, are resolved to
turn over a new leaf with our wives, and your lord and master shall
shew us the way, I can tell you that. But I see by your eyes, my sweet
culprit, added he, and your complexion, you have had sour sauce to your
sweet meat.

Miss Darnford said, I think we are obliged to our sweet guest, at last;
for she was forced to jump out at a window to come to us. Indeed! said
Mrs. Peters;—and my master’s back being turned, says she, Lady Davers,
when a maiden, was always vastly passionate; but a very good lady when
her passion was over. And she’d make nothing of slapping her maids
about, and begging their pardons afterwards, if they took it patiently;
otherwise she used to say the creatures were even with her.

Ay, said I, I have been a many creatures and wenches, and I know not
what; for these were the names she gave me. And I thought I ought to
act up to the part her dear brother has given me; and so I have but
just escaped a good cuffing.

Miss Boroughs said to her sister, as I overheard, but she did not
design I should, What a sweet creature is this! and then she takes so
little upon her, is so free, so easy, and owns the honour done her, so
obligingly! said Mr. Perry, softly, The loveliest person I ever saw!
Who could have the heart to be angry with her one moment?

Says Miss Darnford, Here, my dearest neighbour, these gentry are
admiring you strangely; and Mr. Perry says, you are the loveliest lady
he ever saw; and he says it to his own mistress’s face too, I’ll assure
you!—Or else, says Miss Boroughs, I should think he much flattered me.

O, madam, you are exceedingly obliging! but your kind opinion ought to
teach me humility, and to reverence so generous a worth as can give a
preference against yourself, where it is so little due. Indeed, madam,
said Miss Nanny Boroughs, I love my sister well; but it would be a high
compliment to any lady, to be deemed worthy a second or third place
after you.

There is no answering such politeness, said I: I am sure Lady Davers
was very cruel to keep me from such company. ’Twas our loss, madam,
says Miss Darnford. I’ll allow it, said I, in degree; for you have all
been deprived, several hours, of an humble admirer.

Mr. Perry said, I never before saw so young a lady shine forth with
such graces of mind and person. Alas! sir, said I, my master coming up,
mine is but a borrowed shine, like that of the moon. Here is the sun,
to whose fervent glow of generosity I owe all the faint lustre, that
your goodness is pleased to look upon with so much kind distinction.

Mr. Perry was pleased to hold up his hands; and the ladies looked upon
one another. And my master said, hearing part of the last sentence,
What’s the pretty subject, that my Pamela is displaying so sweetly her
talents upon?

Oh! sir, said Mr. Perry, I will pronounce you the happiest man in
England: and so said they all.

My master said, most generously, Thank ye, thank ye, thank ye, all
round, my dear friends. I know not your subject; but if you believe me
so, for a single instance of this dear girl’s goodness, what must I
think myself, when blessed with a thousand instances, and experiencing
it in every single act and word! I do assure you my Pamela’s person,
all lovely as you see it, is far short of her mind: That, indeed, first
attracted my admiration, and made me her lover: but they were the
beauties of her mind, that made me her husband; and proud, my sweet
dear, said he, pressing my hand, am I of that title.

Well, said Mr. Perry, very kindly and politely, excellent as your lady
is, I know not the gentleman that could deserve her, but that one who
could say such just and such fine things.

I was all abashed; and took Miss Darnford’s hand, and said, Save me,
dear miss, by your sweet example, from my rising pride. But could I
deserve half these kind things, what a happy creature should I be! said
Miss Darnford, You deserve them all, indeed you do.

The greatest part of the company having sat down to loo, my master
being pressed, said he would take one game at whist; but had rather be
excused too, having been up all night: and I asked how his friend did?
We’ll talk of that, said he, another time; which, and his seriousness,
made me fear the poor gentleman was dead, as it proved.

We cast in, and Miss Boroughs and my master were together, and Mr.
Perry and I; and I had all four honours the first time, and we were up
at one deal. Said my master, An honourable hand, Pamela, should go with
an honourable heart; but you’d not have been up, if a knave had not
been one. Whist, sir, said Mr. Perry, you know, was a court game
originally; and the knave, I suppose, signified always the prime
minister.

’Tis well, said my master, if now there is but one knave in a court,
out of four persons, take the court through.

The king and queen, sir, said Mr. Perry, can do no wrong, you know. So
there are two that must be good out of four; and the ace seems too
plain a card to mean much hurt.

We compliment the king, said my master, in that manner; and ’tis well
to do so, because there is something sacred in the character. But yet,
if force of example be considered, it is going a great way; for
certainly a good master makes a good servant, generally speaking.

One thing, added he, I will say, in regard to the ace: I have always
looked upon that plain and honest looking card in the light you do: and
have considered whist as an English game in its original; which has
made me fonder of it than of any other. For by the ace I have always
thought the laws of the land denoted; and as the ace is above the king
or queen, and wins them, I think the law should be thought so too;
though, may be, I shall be deemed a Whig for my opinion.

I shall never play whist, said Mr. Perry, without thinking of this, and
shall love the game the better for the thought; though I am no
party-man. Nor I, said my master; for I think the distinctions of whig
and tory odious; and love the one or the other only as they are honest
and worthy men; and have never (nor never shall, hope) given a vote,
but according to what I thought was for the public good, let either
whig or tory propose it.

I wish, sir, replied Mr. Perry, all gentlemen in your station would act
so. If there was no undue influence, said my master, I am willing to
think so well of all mankind, that I believe they generally would.

But you see, said he, by my Pamela’s hand, when all the court-cards get
together, and are acted by one mind, the game is usually turned
accordingly: Though now and then, too, it may be so circumstanced, that
honours will do them no good, and they are forced to depend altogether
upon tricks.

I thought this way of talking prettier than the game itself. But I
said, Though I have won the game, I hope I am no trickster. No, said my
master, God forbid but court-cards should sometimes win with honour!
But you see, for all that, your game is as much owing to the knave as
the king; and you, my fair-one, lost no advantage, when it was put into
your power.

Else, sir, said I, I should not have done justice to my partner. You
are certainly right, Pamela, replied he; though you thereby beat your
husband. Sir, said I, you may be my partner next, and I must do
justice, you know. Well, said he, always choose so worthy a friend, as
chance has given you for a partner, and I shall never find fault with
you, do what you will.

Mr. Perry said, You are very good to me, sir; and Miss Boroughs, I
observed, seemed pleased with the compliment to her humble servant; by
which I saw she esteemed him, as he appears to deserve. Dear sir! said
I, how much better is this, than to be locked in by Lady Davers!

The supper was brought in sooner on my account, because I had had no
dinner; and there passed very agreeable compliments on the occasion.
Lady Darnford would help me first, because I had so long fasted, as she
said. Sir Simon would have placed himself next me: And my master said,
He thought it was best, where there was an equal number of ladies and
gentlemen, that they should sit, intermingled, that the gentlemen might
be employed in helping and serving the ladies. Lady Darnford said, She
hoped Sir Simon would not sit above any ladies at his own table
especially. Well, said he, I shall sit over-against her, however, and
that’s as well.

My dearest sir could not keep his eyes off me, and seemed generously
delighted with all I did, and all I said; and every one was pleased to
see his kind and affectionate behaviour to me.

Lady Jones brought up the discourse about Lady Davers again; and my
master said, I fear, Pamela, you have been hardly used, more than
you’ll say. I know my sister’s passionate temper too well, to believe
she could be over-civil to you, especially as it happened so unluckily
that I was out. If, added he, she had no pique to you, my dear, yet
what has passed between her and me, has so exasperated her, that I know
she would have quarrelled with my horse, if she had thought I valued
it, and nobody else was in her way. Dear sir, said I, don’t say so of
good Lady Davers.

Why, my dear, said he, I know she came on purpose to quarrel; and had
she not found herself under a very violent uneasiness, after what had
passed between us, and my treatment of her lord’s letter, she would not
have offered to come near me. What sort of language had she for me,
Pamela? O sir, very good, only her well-mannered brother, and such as
that!

Only, said he, ’tis taking up the attention of the company
disagreeably, or I could tell you almost every word she said. Lady
Jones wished to hear a further account of my lady’s conduct, and most
of the company joined with her, particularly Mrs. Peters; who said,
that as they knew the story, and Lady Davers’s temper, though she was
very good in the main, they could wish to be so agreeably entertained,
if he and I pleased; because they imagined I should have no
difficulties after this.

Tell me, then, Pamela, said he, did she lift up her hand at you? Did
she strike you? But I hope not! A little slap of the hand, said I, or
so.—Insolent woman! She did not, I hope, offer to strike your face?
Why, said I, I was a little saucy once or twice; and she would have
given me a cuff on the ear, if her woman and Mrs. Jewkes had not
interposed. Why did you not come out at the door? Because, said I, her
ladyship sat in the chair against it, one while, and another while
locked it; else I offered several times to get away.

She knew I expected you here: You say, you shewed her my letter to you?
Yes, sir, said I; but I had better not; for she as then more
exasperated, and made strange comments upon it. I doubt it not, said
he; but, did she not see, by the kind epithets in it, that there was no
room to doubt of our being married? O, sir, replied I, and made the
company smile, she said, For that very reason she was sure I was not
married.

That’s like my sister! said he; exactly like her; and yet she lives
very happily herself: for her poor lord never contradicts her. Indeed
he dares not.

You were a great many wenches, were you not, my dear? for that’s a
great word with her.—Yes, sir, said I, wenches and creatures out of
number; and worse than all that. What? tell me, my dear. Sir, said I, I
must not have you angry with Lady Davers; while you are so good to me,
’tis all nothing; only the trouble I have that I cannot be suffered to
shew how much I honoured her ladyship, as your sister.

Well, said he, you need not be afraid to tell me: I must love her after
all; though I shall not be pleased with her on this occasion. I know it
is her love for me, though thus oddly expressed, that makes her so
uneasy: and, after all, she comes, I’m sure, to be reconciled to me;
though it must be through a good hearty quarrel first: for she can shew
a good deal of sunshine; but it must be always after a storm; and I’ll
love her dearly, if she has not been, and will not be, too hard upon my
dearest.

Mr. Peters said, Sir, you are very good, and very kind; I love to see
this complaisance to your sister, though she be in fault, so long as
you can shew it with so much justice to the sweetest innocence and
merit in the world. By all that’s good, Mr. Peters, said he, I’d
present my sister with a thousand pounds, if she would kindly take my
dear Pamela by the hand, and wish her joy, and call her sister!—And yet
I should be unworthy of the dear creature that smiles upon me there, if
it was not principally for her sake, and the pleasure it would give
her, that I say this: for I will never be thoroughly reconciled to my
sister till she does; for I most sincerely think, as to myself, that my
dear wife, there she sits, does me more honour in her new relation,
than she receives from me.

Sir, said I, I am overwhelmed with your goodness!—And my eyes were
filled with tears of joy and gratitude: and all the company with one
voice blessed him. And Lady Jones was pleased to say, The behaviour of
you two happy ones, to each other, is the most edifying I ever knew. I
am always improved when I see you. How happy would every good lady be
with such a gentleman, and every good gentleman with such a lady!—In
short, you seem made for one another.

O madam, said I, you are so kind, so good to me, that I know not how to
thank you enough!—Said she, You deserve more than I can express; for,
to all that know your story, you are a matchless person. You are an
ornament to our sex and your virtue, though Mr. B—— is so generous as
he is, has met with no more than its due reward. God long bless you
together!

You are, said my dearest sir, very good to me, madam, I am sure. I have
taken liberties in my former life, that deserved not so much
excellence. I have offended extremely, by trials glorious to my Pamela,
but disgraceful to me, against a virtue that I now consider as almost
sacred; and I shall not think I deserve her, till I can bring my
manners, my sentiments, and my actions, to a conformity with her own.
In short, my Pamela, continued he, I want you to be nothing but what
you are, and have been. You cannot be better; and if you could, it
would be but filling me with despair to attain the awful heights of
virtue at which you have arrived. Perhaps, added the dear gentleman,
the scene I have beheld within these twelve hours, has made me more
serious than otherwise I should have been: but I’ll assure you, before
all this good company, I speak the sentiments of my heart, and those
not of this day only.

What a happy daughter is yours, O my dear father and mother! I owe it
all to God’s grace, and to yours and my good lady’s instructions: And
to these let me always look back with grateful acknowledgments, that I
may not impute to myself, and be proud, my inexpressible happiness.

The company were so kindly pleased with our concern, and my dear
master’s goodness, that he, observing their indulgence, and being
himself curious to know the further particulars of what had passed
between my lady and me, repeated his question, What she had called me
besides wench and creature? And I said, My lady, supposing I was
wicked, lamented over me, very kindly, my depravity and fall, and said,
What a thousand pities it was, so much virtue, as she was pleased to
say, was so destroyed; and that I had yielded, after so noble a stand!
as she said.

Excuse me, gentlemen and ladies, said I! you know my story, it seems;
and I am commanded, by one who has a title to all my obedience, to
proceed.

They gave all of them bows of approbation, that they might not
interrupt me; and I continued my story—the men-servants withdrawing, at
a motion of Mr. B——, on my looking towards them: and then, at Lady
Darnford’s coming in, I proceeded.

I told her ladyship, that I was still innocent, and would be so, and it
was injurious to suppose me otherwise. Why, tell me, wench, said
she—But I think I must not tell you what she said. Yes, do, said my
master, to clear my sister; we shall think it very bad else.

I held my hand before my face—Why, she said, Tell me, wench, hast thou
not been—hesitating—a very free creature with thy master? That she
said, or to that effect—And when I said, She asked strange questions,
and in strange words, she ridiculed my delicacy, as she called it; and
said, My niceness would not last long. She said, I must know I was not
really married, that my ring was only a sham, and all was my cunning to
cloak my yielding, and get better terms. She said, She knew the world
as much at thirty-two, as I did at sixteen; and bid me remember that.

I took the liberty to say, (but I got a good way off,) that I scorned
her ladyship’s words, and was as much married as her ladyship. And then
I had certainly been cuffed, if her woman had not interposed, and told
her I was not worthy her anger; and that I was as much to be pitied for
my credulity, as despised for my vanity.

My poor Pamela, said my master, this was too, too hard upon you! O sir,
said I, how much easier it was to me than if it had been so!—That would
have broken my heart quite!—For then I should have deserved it all, and
worse; and these reproaches, added to my own guilt, would have made me
truly wretched!

Lady Darnford, at whose right-hand I sat, kissed me with a kind of
rapture, and called me a sweet exemplar for all my sex. Mr. Peters said
very handsome things; so did Mr. Perry and Sir Simon, with tears in his
eyes, said to my master, Why, neighbour, neighbour, this is excellent,
by my troth. I believe there is something in virtue, that we had not
well considered. On my soul, there has been but one angel come down for
these thousand years, and you have got her.

Well, my dearest, said my master, pray proceed with your story until,
we have done supper, since the ladies seem pleased with it. Why, sir,
said I, her ladyship went on in the same manner; but said, one time,
(and held me by the hand,) she would give me an hundred guineas for one
provoking word; or, if I would but say I believed myself married, that
she might fell me at her foot: But, sir, you must not be angry with her
ladyship. She called me painted dirt, baby-face, waiting-maid, beggar’s
brat, and beggar-born; but I said, As long as I knew my innocence, I
was easy in every thing, but to have my dear parents abused. They were
never beggars, nor beholden to any body; nor to any thing but God’s
grace and their own labour; that they once lived in credit; that
misfortunes might befall any body; and that I could not bear they
should be treated so undeservedly.

Then her ladyship said, Ay, she supposed my master’s folly would make
us set up for a family, and that the heralds’ office would shortly be
searched to make it out.

Exactly my sister again! said he. So you could not please her any way?

No, indeed, sir. When she commanded me to fill her a glass of wine, and
would not let her woman do it, she asked, If I was above it? I then
said, If to attend your ladyship at table, or even kneel at your feet,
was required of me, I would most gladly do it, were I only the person
you think me. But if it be to triumph over one, who has received
honours which she thinks require from her another part, that she may
not be utterly unworthy of them, I must say, I cannot do it. This quite
astonished her ladyship; and a little before, her kinsman brought me
the bottle and glass, and required me to fill it for my lady, at her
command, and called himself my deputy: And I said, ’Tis in a good hand;
help my lady yourself. So, sir, added I, you see I could be a little
saucy upon occasion.

You please me well, my Pamela, said he. This was quite right. But
proceed.

Her ladyship said, She was astonished! adding, She supposed I would
have her look upon me as her brother’s wife: And asked me, What, in the
name of impudence, possessed me, to dare to look upon myself as her
sister? And I said, That was a question better became her most worthy
brother to answer, than me. And then I thought I should have had her
ladyship upon me; but her woman interposed.

I afterwards told Mrs. Jewkes, at the window, that since I was hindered
from going to you, I believed it was best to let Robert go with the
chariot, and say, Lady Davers was come, and I could not leave her
ladyship. But this did not please; and I thought it would too; for she
said, No, no, he’ll think I make the creature my companion, and know
not how to part with her.

Exactly, said he, my sister again.

And she said, I knew nothing what belonged to people of condition; how
should I?—What shall I say, madam? said I. Nothing at all, answered
she; let him expect his dearest love, alluding to your kind epithet in
your letter, and be disappointed; it is but adding a few more hours to
this heavy absence, and every one will become a day in his amorous
account.

So, to be short, I saw nothing was to be done; and I feared, sir, you
would wonder at my stay, and be angry; and I watched my opportunity,
till my lady, who was walking about the room, was at the further end;
and the parlour being a ground-floor, in a manner, I jumped out at the
window, and ran for it.

Her ladyship called after me; so did her woman; and I heard her say, I
flew like a bird; and she called two of her servants in sight to stop
me; but I said, Touch me at your peril, fellows! And Mr. Colbrand,
having been planted at hand by Mrs. Jewkes, (who was very good in the
whole affair, and incurred her ladyship’s displeasure, once or twice,
by taking my part,) seeing how I was used, put on a fierce look, cocked
his hat with one hand, and put t’other on his sword, and said, he would
chine the man who offered to touch his lady. And so he ran alongside of
me, and could hardly keep pace with me:—And here, my dear sir,
concluded I, I am, at yours and the good company’s service.

They seemed highly pleased with my relation; and my master said, he was
glad Mrs. Jewkes behaved so well, as also Mr. Colbrand. Yes, sir, said
I: when Mrs. Jewkes interposed once, her ladyship said, It was hard,
she, who was born in that house, could not have some privilege in it,
without being talked to by the saucy servants. And she called her
another time fat-face, and womaned her most violently.

Well, said my master, I am glad, my dear, you have had such an escape.
My sister was always passionate, as Mrs. Peters knows: And my poor
mother had enough to do with us both. For we neither of us wanted
spirit: and when I was a boy, I never came home from school or college
for a few days, but though we longed to see one another before, yet ere
the first day was over, we had a quarrel; for she, being seven years
older than I, was always for domineering over me, and I could not bear
it. And I used, on her frequently quarrelling with the maids, and being
always at a word and a blow, to call her Captain Bab; for her name is
Barbara. And when my Lord Davers courted her, my poor mother has made
up quarrels between them three times in a day; and I used to tell her,
she would certainly beat her husband, marry whom she would, if he did
not beat her first, and break her spirit.

Yet has she, continued he, very good qualities. She was a dutiful
daughter, is a good wife; she is bountiful to her servants, firm in her
friendships, charitable to the poor, and, I believe, never any sister
better loved a brother, than she me: and yet she always loved to vex
and tease me; and as I would bear a resentment longer than she, she’d
be one moment the most provoking creature in the world, and the next
would do any thing to be forgiven; and I have made her, when she was
the aggressor, follow me all over the house and garden to be upon good
terms with me.

But this case piques her more, because she had found out a match for me
in the family of a person of quality, and had set her heart upon
bringing it to effect, and had even proceeded far in it, without my
knowledge, and brought me into the lady’s company, unknowing of her
design. But I was then averse to matrimony upon any terms; and was
angry at her proceeding in it so far without my privity or
encouragement: And she cannot, for this reason, bear the thoughts of my
being now married, and to her mother’s waiting-maid too, as she reminds
my dear Pamela, when I had declined her proposal with the daughter of a
noble earl.

This is the whole case, said he; and, allowing for the pride and
violence of her spirit, and that she knows not, as I do, the
transcendent excellencies of my dear Pamela, and that all her view, in
her own conception, is mine and the family honour, she is a little to
be allowed for: Though, never fear, my Pamela, but that I, who never
had a struggle with her, wherein I did not get the better, will do you
justice, and myself too.

This account of Lady Davers pleased every body, and was far from being
to her ladyship’s disadvantage in the main; and I would do any thing in
the world to have the honour to be in her good graces: Yet I fear it
will not be easily, if at all, effected. But I will proceed.

After supper, nothing would serve Miss Darnford and Miss Boroughs, but
we must have a dance; and Mr. Peters, who plays a good fiddle, urged it
forward. My dear master, though in a riding-dress, took out Miss
Boroughs.

Sir Simon, for a man of his years, danced well, and took me out; but
put on one of his free jokes, that I was fitter to dance with a younger
man; and he would have it, (though I had not danced since my dear
lady’s death to signify, except once or twice to please Mrs. Jervis,
and, indeed, believed all my dancing days over,) that as my master and
I were the best dancers, we should dance once together, before folks,
as the odd gentleman said; and my dear sir was pleased to oblige him:
And afterwards danced with Miss Darnford, who has much more skill and
judgment than I; though they compliment me with an easier shape and
air.

We left the company with great difficulty at about eleven, my dear
master having been up all night before, and we being at the greatest
distance from home; though they seemed inclinable not to break up so
soon, as they were neighbours; and the ladies said, They longed to hear
what would be the end of Lady Davers’s interview with her brother.

My master said, He feared we must not now think of going next day to
Bedfordshire, as we had intended; and perhaps might see them again. And
so we took leave, and set out for home; where we arrived not till
twelve o’clock; and found Lady Davers had gone to bed about eleven,
wanting sadly that we should come home first; but so did not I.

Mrs. Jewkes told us, That my lady was sadly fretted that I had got away
so; and seemed a little apprehensive of what I would say of the usage I
had received from her. She asked Mrs. Jewkes, if she thought I was
really married? And Mrs. Jewkes telling her yes, she fell into a
passion, and said, Begone, bold woman, I cannot bear thee! See not my
face till I send for thee! Thou hast been very impudent to me once or
twice to-day already, and art now worse than ever. She said, She would
not have told her ladyship, if she had not asked her; and was sorry she
had offended.

She sent for her at supper time: Said she, I have another question to
ask thee, woman, and tell me yes, if thou darest. Was ever any thing so
odd?—Why then, said Mrs. Jewkes, I will say No, before your ladyship
speaks.—My master laughed: Poor woman! said he.—She called her
insolent, and assurance; and said, Begone, bold woman as thou art!—but
come hither. Dost thou know if that young harlot is to be with my
brother to-night?

She said she knew not what to answer, because she had threatened her if
she said yes. But at last my lady said, I will know the bottom of this
iniquity. I suppose they won’t have so much impudence to be together
while I’m in the house; but I dare say they have been bed-fellows.

Said she, I will lie to-night in the room I was born in; so get that
bed ready. That room being our bedchamber, Mrs. Jewkes, after some
hesitation, replied, Madam, my master lies there, and has the key. I
believe, woman, said she, thou tellest me a story. Indeed, madam, said
she, he does; and has some papers there he will let nobody see; for
Mrs. Jewkes said, she feared she would beat her if she went up, and
found by my clothes, and some of my master’s, how it was.

So she said, I will then lie in the best room, as it is called; and
Jackey shall lie in the little green room adjoining to it. Has thy
master got the keys of those?—No, madam, said Mrs. Jewkes: I will order
them to be made ready for your ladyship.

And where dost thou lay the pursy sides? said she. Up two pair of
stairs, madam, next the garden. And where lies the young harlotry?
continued she. Sometimes with me, madam, said she. And sometimes with
thy virtuous master, I suppose? said my lady.—Ha, woman! what sayest
thou? I must not speak, said Mrs. Jewkes. Well, thou mayest go, said
she; but thou hast the air of a secret keeper of that sort I dare say
thoul’t set the good work forward most cordially. Poor Mrs. Jewkes,
said my master, and laughed most heartily.

This talk we had whilst we were undressing. So she and her woman lay
together in the room my master lay in before I was happy.

I said, Dear sir, pray, in the morning let me lock myself up in the
closet, as soon as you rise; and not be called down for ever so much;
for I am afraid to see her ladyship: And I will employ myself about my
journal, while these things are in my head. Don’t be afraid, my dear,
said he: Am not I with you?

Mrs. Jewkes pitied me for what I had undergone in the day; and I said,
We won’t make the worst of it to my dear master, because we won’t
exasperate where we would reconcile: but, added I, I am much obliged to
you, Mrs. Jewkes, and I thank you. Said my master, I hope she did not
beat your lady, Mrs. Jewkes? Not much, sir, said she; but I believe I
saved my lady once: Yet, added she, I was most vexed at the young lord.
Ay, Mrs. Jewkes, said my master, let me know his behaviour. I can
chastise him, though I cannot my sister, who is a woman; let me
therefore know the part he acted.

Nothing, my dear sir, said I, but impertinence, if I may so say, and
foolishness, that was very provoking; but I spared him not; and so
there is no room, sir, for your anger. No, sir, said Mrs. Jewkes,
nothing else indeed.

How was her woman? said my master. Pretty impertinent, replied Mrs.
Jewkes, as ladies’ women will be. But, said I, you know she saved me
once or twice. Very true, madam, returned Mrs. Jewkes. And she said to
me at table, that you were a sweet creature; she never saw your equal;
but that you had a spirit; and she was sorry you answered her lady so,
who never bore so much contradiction before. I told her, added Mrs.
Jewkes, that if I was in your ladyship’s place, I should have taken
much more upon me, and that you were all sweetness. And she said, I was
got over, she saw.

Tuesday morning, the sixth of my happiness.

My master had said to Mrs. Jewkes, that he should not rise till eight
or nine, as he had sat up all the night before: but it seems, my lady,
knowing he usually rose about six, got up soon after that hour; raised
her woman and her nephew; having a whimsical scheme in her head, to try
to find whether we were in bed together: And, about half an hour after
six, she rapped at our chamber door.

My master was waked at the noise, and asked, Who was there? Open the
door, said she; open it this minute! I said, clinging about his neck,
Dear, dear sir, pray, pray don’t!—O save me, save me! Don’t fear,
Pamela, said he. The woman’s mad, I believe.

But he called out; Who are you? What do you want?—You know my voice
well enough, said she:—I will come in.—Pray, sir, said I, don’t let her
ladyship in.—Don’t be frightened, my dear, said he; she thinks we are
not married, and are afraid to be found a-bed together. I’ll let her
in; but she shan’t come near my dearest.

So he slipt out of bed, and putting on some of his clothes, and gown
and slippers, he said, What bold body dare disturb my repose thus? and
opened the door. In rushed she: I’ll see your wickedness, said she, I
will! In vain shall you think to hide it from me.—What should I hide?
said he. How dare you set a foot into my house, after the usage I have
received from you?—I had covered myself over head and ears, and
trembled every joint. He looked, and ’spied her woman and kinsman in
the room, she crying out, Bear witness, Jackey; bear witness, Beck; the
creature is now in his bed! And not seeing the young gentleman before,
who was at the feet of the bed, he said, How now, sir? What’s your
business in this apartment? Begone this moment!—And he went away
directly.

Beck, said my lady, you see the creature is in his bed. I do, madam,
answered she. My master came to me, and said, Ay, look, Beck, and bear
witness: Here is my Pamela!—My dear angel, my lovely creature, don’t be
afraid; look up, and see how frantickly this woman of quality behaves.

At that, I just peeped, and saw my lady, who could not bear this,
coming to me; and she said, Wicked abandoned wretch! Vile brother, to
brave me thus! I’ll tear the creature out of bed before your face, and
expose you both as you deserve.

At that he took her in his arms, as if she had been nothing; and
carrying her out of the room, she cried out, Beck! Beck! help me, Beck!
the wretch is going to fling me down stairs! Her woman ran to him, and
said, Good sir, for Heaven’s sake do no violence to my lady! Her
ladyship has been ill all night.

He sat her down in the chamber she lay in, and she could not speak for
passion. Take care of your lady, said he; and when she has rendered
herself more worthy of my attention, I’ll see her; till then, at her
peril, and yours too, come not near my apartment. And so he came to me,
and, with all the sweet soothing words in the world, pacified my fears,
and gave me leave to go to write in my closet, as soon as my fright was
over, and to stay there till things were more calm. And so he dressed
himself, and went out of the chamber, permitting me, at my desire, to
fasten the door after him.

At breakfast-time my master tapped at the door, and I said, Who’s
there? I, my dearest, said he. Oh! then, replied I, I will open it with
pleasure. I had written on a good deal; but I put it by, when I ran to
the door. I would have locked it again, when he was in; but he said, Am
not I here? Don’t be afraid. Said he, Will you come down to breakfast,
my love? O no, dear sir, said I; be pleased to excuse me! said he, I
cannot bear the look of it, that the mistress of my house should
breakfast in her closet, as if she durst not come down, and I at
home!—O, dearest sir, replied I, pray pass that over, for my sake; and
don’t let my presence aggravate your sister, for a kind punctilio!
Then, my dear, said he, I will breakfast with you here. No, pray, dear
sir, answered I, breakfast with your sister. That, my dear, replied he,
will too much gratify her pride, and look like a slight to you.—Dear
sir, said I, your goodness is too great, for me to want punctilious
proofs of it. Pray oblige her ladyship. She is your guest surely, sir,
you may be freest with your dutiful wife!

She is a strange woman, said he: How I pity her!—She has thrown herself
into a violent fit of the colic, through passion: And is but now, her
woman says, a little easier. I hope, sir, said I, when you carried her
ladyship out, you did not hurt her. No, replied he, I love her too
well. I set her down in the apartment she had chosen: and she but now
desires to see me, and that I will breakfast with her, or refuses to
touch any thing. But, if my dearest please, I will insist it shall be
with you at the same time.

O, no, no, dear sir! said I; I should not forgive myself, if I did. I
would on my knees beg her ladyship’s goodness to me, now I am in your
presence; though I thought I ought to carry it a little stiff when you
were absent, for the sake of the honour you have done me. And, dear
sir, if my deepest humility will please, permit me to shew it.

You shall do nothing, returned he, unworthy of my wife, to please the
proud woman!—But I will, however, permit you to breakfast by yourself
this once, as I have not seen her since I have used her in so barbarous
a manner, as I understand she exclaims I have; and as she will not eat
any thing, unless I give her my company.—So he saluted me, and
withdrew; and I locked the door after him again for fear.

Mrs. Jewkes soon after rapped at the door. Who’s there? said I. Only I,
madam. So I opened the door. ’Tis a sad thing, madam, said she, you
should be so much afraid in your own house. She brought me some
chocolate and toast; and I asked her about my lady’s behaviour. She
said, she would not suffer any body to attend but her woman, because
she would not be heard what she had to say; but she believed, she said,
her master was very angry with the young lord, as she called her
kinsman; for, as she passed by the door, she heard him say, in a high
tone, I hope, sir, you did not forget what belongs to the character you
assume; or to that effect.

About one o’clock my master came up again, and he said, Will you come
down to dinner, Pamela, when I send for you? Whatever you command, sir,
I must do. But my lady won’t desire to see me. No matter whether she
will or no. But I will not suffer, that she shall prescribe her
insolent will to my wife, and in your own house too.—I will, by my
tenderness to you, mortify her pride; and it cannot be done so well as
to her face.

Dearest sir, said I, pray indulge me, and let me dine here by myself.
It will make my lady but more inveterate.—Said he, I have told her we
are married. She is out of all patience about it, and yet pretends not
to believe it. Upon that I tell her, Then she shall have it her own
way, and that I am not. And what has she to do with it either way? She
has scolded and begged, commanded and prayed, blessed me, and cursed
me, by turns, twenty times in these few hours. And I have sometimes
soothed her, sometimes raged; and at last left her, and took a turn in
the garden for an hour to compose myself, because you should not see
how the foolish woman has ruffled me; and just now I came out, seeing
her coming in.

Just as he had said so, I cried, Oh! my lady, my lady! for I heard her
voice in the chamber, saying, Brother, brother, one word with
you—stopping in sight of the closet where I was. He stepped out, and
she went up to the window that looks towards the garden, and said, Mean
fool that I am, to follow you up and down the house in this manner,
though I am shunned and avoided by you! You a brother!—You a barbarian!
Is it possible we could be born of one mother?

Why, said he, do you charge me with a conduct to you, that you bring
upon yourself?—Is it not surprising that you should take the liberty
with me, that the dear mother you have named never gave you an example
for to any of her relations?—Was it not sufficient, that I was
insolently taken to task by you in your letters, but my retirements
must be invaded? My house insulted? And, if I have one person dearer to
me than another, that that person must be singled out for an object of
your violence?

Ay, said she, that one person is the thing!—But though I came with a
resolution to be temperate, and to expostulate with you on your
avoiding me so unkindly, yet cannot I have patience to look upon that
bed in which I was born, and to be made the guilty scene of your
wickedness with such a——

Hush! said he, I charge you! call not the dear girl by any name
unworthy of her. You know not, as I told you, her excellence; and I
desire you’ll not repeat the freedoms you have taken below.

She stamped with her foot, and said, God give me patience! So much
contempt to a sister that loves you so well; and so much tenderness to
a vile——

He put his hand before her mouth: Be silent, said he, once more, I
charge you! You know not the innocence you abuse so freely. I ought
not, neither will I bear it.

She sat down and fanned herself, and burst into tears, and such sobs of
grief, or rather passion, that grieved me to hear; and I sat and
trembled sadly.

He walked about the room in great anger; and at last said, Let me ask
you, Lady Davers, why I am thus insolently to be called to account by
you? Am I not independent? Am I not of age? Am I not at liberty to
please myself?—Would to God, that, instead of a woman, and my sister,
any man breathing had dared, whatever were his relation under that of a
father, to give himself half the airs you have done!—Why did you not
send on this accursed errand your lord, who could write me such a
letter as no gentleman should write, nor any gentleman tamely receive?
He should have seen the difference.

We all know, said she, that, since your Italian duel, you have
commenced a bravo; and all your airs breathe as strongly of the
manslayer as of the libertine. This, said he, I will bear; for I have
no reason to be ashamed of that duel, nor the cause of it; since it was
to save a friend, and because it is levelled at myself only: but suffer
not your tongue to take too great a liberty with my Pamela.

She interrupted him in a violent burst of passion. If I bear this, said
she, I can bear any thing!—O the little strumpet!—He interrupted her
then, and said wrathfully, Begone, rageful woman! begone this moment
from my presence! Leave my house this instant!—I renounce you, and all
relation to you! and never more let me see your face, or call me
brother! And took her by the hand to lead her out. She laid hold of the
curtains of the window, and said, I will not go! You shall not force me
from you thus ignominiously in the wretch’s hearing, and suffer her to
triumph over me in your barbarous treatment of me.

Not considering any thing, I ran out of the closet, and threw myself at
my dear master’s feet, as he held her hand, in order to lead her out;
and I said, Dearest sir, let me beg, that no act of unkindness, for my
sake, pass between so worthy and so near relations. Dear, dear madam,
said I, and clasped her knees, pardon and excuse the unhappy cause of
all this evil; on my knees I beg your ladyship to receive me to your
grace and favour, and you shall find me incapable of any triumph but in
your ladyship’s goodness to me.

Creature, said she, art thou to beg an excuse for me?—Art thou to
implore my forgiveness? Is it to thee I am to owe the favour, that I am
not cast headlong from my brother’s presence? Begone to thy corner,
wench! begone, I say, lest thy paramour kill me for trampling thee
under my foot!

Rise, my dear Pamela, said my master; rise, dear life of my life; and
expose not so much worthiness to the ungrateful scorn of so violent a
spirit. And so he led me to my closet again, and there I sat and wept.

Her woman came up, just as he had led me to my closet, and was
returning to her lady; and she very humbly said, Excuse my intrusion,
good sir!—I hope I may come to my lady. Yes, Mrs. Worden, said he, you
may come in; and pray take your lady down stairs with you, for fear I
should too much forget what belongs either to my sister or myself!

I began to think (seeing her ladyship so outrageous with her brother)
what a happy escape I had had the day before, though hardly enough used
in conscience too, as I thought.

Her woman begged her ladyship to walk down; and she said, Beck, seest
thou that bed? That was the bed that I was born in; and yet that was
the bed thou sawest, as well as I, the wicked Pamela in, this morning,
and this brother of mine just risen from her!

True, said he; you both saw it, and it is my pride that you could see
it. ’Tis my bridal bed; and ’tis abominable that the happiness I knew
before you came hither, should be so barbarously interrupted.

Swear to me but, thou bold wretch! said she, swear to me, that Pamela
Andrews is really and truly thy lawful wife, without sham, without
deceit, without double-meaning; and I know what I have to say!

I’ll humour you for once, said he; and then swore a solemn oath that I
was. And, said he, did I not tell you so at first?

I cannot yet believe you, said she; because, in this particular, I had
rather have called you knave than fool.—Provoke me not too much, said
he; for, if I should as much forget myself as you have done, you’d have
no more of a brother in me, than I have a sister in you.

Who married you? said she: tell me that! Was it not a broken attorney
in a parson’s habit? Tell me truly, in the wench’s hearing. When she’s
undeceived, she’ll know how to behave herself better! Thank God,
thought I, it is not so.

No, said he; and I’ll tell you, that I bless God, I abhorred that
project, before it was brought to bear: and Mr. Williams married
us.—Nay then, said she—but answer me another question or two, I beseech
you: Who gave her away? Parson Peters, said he. Where was the ceremony
performed? In my little chapel, which you may see, as it was put in
order on purpose.

Now, said she, I begin to fear there is something in it! But who was
present? said she. Methinks, replied he, I look like a fine puppy, to
suffer myself to be thus interrogated by an insolent sister: but, if
you must know, Mrs. Jewkes was present. O the procuress! said she: But
nobody else? Yes, said he, all my heart and soul!

Wretch! said she; and what would thy father and mother have said, had
they lived to this day? Their consents, replied he, I should have
thought it my duty to ask; but not yours, madam.

Suppose, said she, I had married my father’s groom! what would you have
said to that?—I could not have behaved worse, replied he, than you have
done. And would you not have thought, said she, I had deserved it.

Said he, Does your pride let you see no difference in the case you put?
None at all, said she. Where can the difference be between a beggar’s
son married by a lady, or a beggar’s daughter made a gentleman’s wife?

Then I’ll tell you, replied he; the difference is, a man ennobles the
woman he takes, be she who she will; and adopts her into his own rank,
be it what it will: but a woman, though ever so nobly born, debases
herself by a mean marriage, and descends from her own rank to his she
stoops to.

When the royal family of Stuart allied itself into the low family of
Hyde, (comparatively low, I mean,) did any body scruple to call the
lady, Royal Highness, and Duchess of York? And did any body think her
daughters, the late Queen Mary and Queen Anne, less royal for that?

When the broken-fortuned peer goes into the city to marry a rich
tradesman’s daughter, be he duke or earl, does not his consort
immediately become ennobled by his choice? and who scruples to call her
lady, duchess, or countess?

But when a duchess or countess dowager descends to mingle with a person
of obscure birth, does she not then degrade herself? and is she not
effectually degraded? And will any duchess or countess rank with her?

Now, Lady Davers, do you not see a difference between my marrying my
dear mother’s beloved and deserving waiting-maid, with a million of
excellencies about her, and such graces of mind and person as would
adorn any distinction; and your marrying a sordid groom, whose constant
train of education, conversation, and opportunities, could possibly
give him no other merit, than that which must proceed from the vilest,
lowest taste, in his sordid dignifier?

O the wretch! said she, how he finds excuses to palliate his meanness!

Again, said he, let me observe to you, Lady Davers, When a duke marries
a private person, is he not still her head, by virtue of being her
husband? But, when a lady descends to marry a groom, is not the groom
her head, being her husband? And does not the difference strike you?
For what lady of quality ought to respect another, who has made so
sordid a choice, and set a groom above her? For, would not that be to
put that groom upon a par with themselves?—Call this palliation, or
what you will; but if you see not the difference, you are blind; and a
very unfit judge for yourself, much more unfit to be a censurer of me.

I’d have you, said she, publish your fine reasons to the world, and
they will be sweet encouragements to all the young gentlemen who read
them to cast themselves away on the servant-wenches in their families.

Not at all, Lady Davers, replied he: For, if any young gentleman stays
till he finds such a person as my Pamela, so enriched with the beauties
of person and mind, so well accomplished, and so fitted to adorn the
degree she is raised to, he will stand as easily acquitted, as I shall
be to all the world that sees her, except there be many more Lady
Davers than I apprehend can possibly be met with.

And so, returned she, you say you are actually and really married,
honestly, or rather foolishly married, to this slut?

I am, indeed, says he, if you presume to call her so! And why should I
not, if I please? Who is there ought to contradict me? Whom have I hurt
by it?—Have I not an estate, free and independent?—Am I likely to be
beholden to you, or any of my relations? And why, when I have a
sufficiency in my own single hands, should I scruple to make a woman
equally happy, who has all I want? For beauty, virtue, prudence, and
generosity too, I will tell you, she has more than any lady I ever saw.
Yes, Lady Davers, she has all these naturally; they are born with her;
and a few years’ education, with her genius, has done more for her,
than a whole life has done for others.

No more, no more, I beseech you, said she; thou surfeitest me, honest
man! with thy weak folly. Thou art worse than an idolater; thou hast
made a graven image, and thou fallest down and worshippest the works of
thy own hands; and, Jeroboam-like, wouldst have every body else bow
down before thy calf!

Well said, Lady Davers! Whenever your passion suffers you to descend to
witticism; ’tis almost over with you. But let me tell you, though I
myself worship this sweet creature, that you call such names, I want
nobody else to do it; and should be glad you had not intruded upon me,
to interrupt me in the course of our mutual happiness.

Well said, well said, my kind, my well-mannered brother! said she. I
shall, after this, very little interrupt your mutual happiness, I’ll
assure you. I thought you a gentleman once, and prided myself in my
brother: But I’ll say now with the burial service, Ashes to ashes, and
dirt to dirt!

Ay, said he, Lady Davers, and there we must all end at last; you with
all your pride, and I with my plentiful fortune, must come to it; and
then where will be your distinction? Let me tell you, except you and I
both mend our manners, though you have been no duellist, no libertine,
as you call me, this amiable girl, whom your vanity and folly so much
despise, will out-soar us both, infinitely out-soar us; and he who
judges best, will give the preference where due, without regard to
birth or fortune.

Egregious preacher! said she: What, my brother already turned
Puritan!—See what marriage and repentance may bring a man to! I
heartily congratulate this change!—Well, said she, (and came towards
me, and I trembled to see her coming; but her brother followed to
observe her, and I stood up at her approach, and she said,) give me thy
hand, Mrs. Pamela, Mrs. Andrews, Mrs. what shall I call thee?—Thou hast
done wonders in a little time; thou hast not only made a rake a husband
but thou hast made a rake a preacher! But take care, added she, after
all, in ironical anger, and tapped me on the neck, take care that thy
vanity begins not where his ends; and that thou callest not thyself my
sister.

She shall, I hope, Lady Davers, said he, when she can make as great a
convert of you from pride, as she has of me, from libertinism.

Mrs. Jewkes just then came up, and said dinner was ready. Come, my
Pamela, said my dear master; you desired to be excused from
breakfasting with us; but I hope you’ll give Lady Davers and me your
company to dinner.

How dare you insult me thus? said my lady.—How dare you, said he,
insult me by your conduct in my own house, after I have told you I am
married? How dare you think of staying here one moment, and refuse my
wife the honours that belong to her as such?

Merciful God! said she, give me patience! and held her hand to her
forehead.

Pray, sir, dear sir, said I, excuse me, don’t vex my lady:—Be silent,
my dear love, said he; you see already what you have got by your sweet
condescension. You have thrown yourself at her feet, and, insolent as
she is, she has threatened to trample upon you. She’ll ask you,
presently, if she is to owe her excuse to your interposition? and yet
nothing else can make her forgiven.

Poor lady, she could not bear this; and, as if she was discomposed, she
ran to her poor grieved woman, and took hold of her hand, and said,
Lead me down, lead me down, Beck! Let us instantly quit this house,
this cursed house, that once I took pleasure in! Order the fellows to
get ready, and I will never see it, nor its owner, more. And away she
went down stairs, in a great hurry. And the servants were ordered to
make ready for their departure.

I saw my master was troubled, and I went to him, and said, Pray, dear
sir, follow my lady down, and pacify her. ’Tis her love to you.—Poor
woman! said he, I am concerned for her! But I insist upon your coming
down, since things are gone so far. Her pride will get new strength
else, and we shall be all to begin again.

Dearest, dear sir, said I, excuse my going down this once! Indeed, my
dear, I won’t, replied he. What! shall it be said, that my sister shall
scare my wife from my table, and I present?—No, I have borne too much
already; and so have you: And I charge you come down when I send for
you.

He departed, saying these words, and I durst not dispute; for I saw he
was determined. And there is as much majesty as goodness in him, as I
have often had reason to observe; though never more than on the present
occasion with his sister. Her ladyship instantly put on her hood and
gloves, and her woman tied up a handkerchief full of things; for her
principal matters were not unpacked; and her coachman got her chariot
ready, and her footmen their horses; and she appeared resolved to go.
But her kinsman and Mr. Colbrand had taken a turn together, somewhere;
and she would not come in, but sat fretting on a seat in the fore-yard,
with her woman by her; and, at last, said to one of the footmen, Do
you, James, stay to attend my nephew; and we’ll take the road we came.

Mrs. Jewkes went to her ladyship, and said, Your ladyship will be
pleased to stay dinner; ’tis just coming upon table? No, said she, I
have enough of this house; I have indeed. But give my service to your
master, and I wish him happier than he has made me.

He had sent for me down, and I came, though unwillingly, and the cloth
was laid in the parlour I had jumped out of; and there was my master
walking about it. Mrs. Jewkes came in, and asked, if he pleased to have
dinner brought in? for my lady would not come in, but desired her
service, and wished him happier than he had made her. He, seeing her at
the window, when he went to that side of the room, all ready to go,
stept out to her, and said, Lady Davers, if I thought you would not be
hardened, rather than softened, by my civility, I would ask you to walk
in; and, at least, let your kinsman and servants dine before they go.
She wept, and turned her face from him, to hide it. He took her hand,
and said, Come, sister, let me prevail upon you: Walk in. No, said she,
don’t ask me.—I wish I could hate you, as much as you hate me!—You do,
said he, and a great deal more, I’ll assure you; or else you’d not vex
me as you do.—Come, pray walk in. Don’t ask me, said she. Her kinsman
just then returned: Why, madam, said he, your ladyship won’t go till
you have dined, I hope. No, Jackey, said she, I can’t stay; I’m an
intruder here, it seems!—Think, said my master, of the occasion you
gave for that word. Your violent passions are the only intruders! Lay
them aside, and never sister was dearer to a brother. Don’t say such
another word, said she, I beseech you; for I am too easy to forgive you
any thing for one kind word!—You shall have one hundred, said he, nay,
ten thousand, if they will do, my dear sister. And, kissing her, he
added, Pray give me your hand. John, said he, put up the horses; you
are all as welcome to me, for all your lady’s angry with me, as at any
inn you can put up at. Come, Mr. H——, said he, lead your aunt in; for
she won’t permit that honour to me.

This quite overcame her; and she said, giving her brother her hand,
Yes, I will, and you shall lead me any where! and kissed him. But don’t
think, said she, I can forgive you neither. And so he led her into the
parlour where I was. But, said she, why do you lead me to this wench?
’Tis my wife, my dear sister; and if you will not love her, yet don’t
forget common civilities to her, for your own sake.

Pray, madam, said her kinsman, since your brother is pleased to own his
marriage, we must not forget common civilities, as Mr. B—— says. And,
sir, added he, permit me to wish you joy. Thank you, sir, said he. And
may I? said he, looking at me. Yes, sir, replied my master. So he
saluted me, very complaisantly; and said, I vow to Gad, madam, I did
not know this yesterday; and if I was guilty of a fault, I beg your
pardon.

My lady said, Thou’rt a good-natured foolish fellow; thou might’st have
saved this nonsensical parade, till I had given thee leave. Why, aunt,
said he, if they are actually married, there’s no help for it; and we
must not make mischief between man and wife.

But brother, said she, do you think I’ll sit at table with the
creature? No contemptuous names, I beseech you, Lady Davers! I tell you
she is really my wife; and I must be a villain to suffer her to be ill
used. She has no protector but me; and, if you will permit her, she
will always love and honour you.—Indeed, indeed I will, madam, said I.

I cannot, I won’t sit down at table with her, said she: Pamela, I hope
thou dost not think I will?—Indeed, madam, said I, if your good brother
will permit it, I will attend your chair all the time you dine, to shew
my veneration for your ladyship, as the sister of my kind protector.
See, said he, her condition has not altered her; but I cannot permit in
her a conduct unworthy of my wife; and I hope my sister will not expect
it neither.

Let her leave the room, replied she, if I must stay. Indeed you are out
of the way, aunt, said her kinsman; that is not right, as things stand.
Said my master, No, madam, that must not be; but, if it must be so,
we’ll have two tables; you and your nephew shall sit at one, and my
wife and I at the other: and then see what a figure your unreasonable
punctilio will make you cut.—She seemed irresolute, and he placed her
at the table; the first course, which was fish, being brought in.
Where, said she to me, would’st thou presume to sit? Would’st have me
give place to thee too, wench?—Come, come, said my master, I’ll put
that out of dispute; and so set himself down by her ladyship, at the
upper end of the table, and placed me at his left hand. Excuse me, my
dear, said he; this once excuse me!—Oh! your cursed complaisance, said
she, to such a——. Hush, sister! hush! said he: I will not bear to hear
her spoken slightly of! ’Tis enough, that, to oblige your violent and
indecent caprice, you make me compromise with you thus.

Come, sir, added he, pray take your place next your gentle aunt!—Beck,
said she, do you sit down by Pamela there, since it must be so; we’ll
be hail fellow all! With all my heart, replied my master; I have so
much honour for all the sex, that I would not have the meanest person
of it stand, while I sit, had I been to have made the custom. Mrs.
Worden, pray sit down. Sir, said she, I hope I shall know my place
better.

My lady sat considering; and then, lifting up her hands, said, Lord!
what will this world come to?—To nothing but what’s very good, replied
my master, if such spirits as Lady Davers’s do but take the rule of it.
Shall I help you, sister, to some of the carp? Help your beloved! said
she. That’s kind! said he.—Now, that’s my good Lady Davers! Here, my
love, let me help you, since my sister desires it.—Mighty well,
returned she, mighty well!—But sat on one side, turning from me, as it
were.

Dear aunt, said her kinsman, let’s see you buss and be friends: since
’tis so, what signifies it? Hold thy fool’s tongue! said she: Is thy
tone so soon turned since yesterday? said my master, I hope nothing
affronting was offered yesterday to my wife, in her own house. She hit
him a good smart slap on the shoulder: Take that, impudent brother said
she. I’ll wife you, and in her own house! She seemed half afraid: but
he, in very good humour, kissed her, and said, I thank you, sister, I
thank you. But I have not had a blow from you before for some time!

‘Fore gad, said her kinsman, ’tis very kind of you to take it so well.
Her ladyship is as good a woman as ever lived; but I’ve had many a cuff
from her myself.

I won’t put it up neither, said my master, except you’ll assure me you
have seen her serve her lord so.

I pressed my foot to his, and said, softly, Don’t, dear sir!—What! said
she, is the creature begging me off from insult? If his manners won’t
keep him from outraging me, I won’t owe his forebearance to thee,
wench.

Said my master, and put some fish on my lady’s plate, Well does Lady
Davers use the word insult!—But, come, let me see you eat one mouthful,
and I’ll forgive you; and he put the knife in one of her hands, and the
fork in the other. As I hope to live, said he, I cannot bear this silly
childishness, for nothing at all! I am quite ashamed of it.

She put a little bit to her mouth, but laid it down in her plate again:
I cannot eat, said she; I cannot swallow, I’m sure. It will certainly
choak me. He had forbid his men-servants to come in, that they might
not behold the scene he expected; and rose from table himself, and
filled a glass of wine, her woman offering, and her kinsman rising, to
do it. Mean-time, his seat between us being vacant, she turned to me:
How now, confidence, said she, darest thou sit next me? Why dost thou
not rise, and take the glass from thy property?

Sit still, my dear, said he; I’ll help you both. But I arose; for I was
afraid of a good cuff; and said, Pray, sir, let me help my lady. So you
shall, replied he, when she’s in a humour to receive it as she ought.
Sister, said he, with a glass in his hand, pray drink; you’ll perhaps
eat a little bit of something then. Is this to insult me? said she.—No,
really, returned he: but to incite you to eat; for you’ll be sick for
want of it.

She took the glass, and said, God forgive you, wicked wretch, for your
usage of me this day!—This is a little as it used to be!—I once had
your love;—and now it is changed; and for whom? that vexes me! And wept
so, she was forced to set down the glass.

You don’t do well, said he. You neither treat me like your brother nor
a gentleman; and if you would suffer me, I would love you as well as
ever.—But for a woman of sense and understanding, and a fine-bred
woman, as I once thought my sister, you act quite a childish part.
Come, added he, and held the glass to her lips, let your brother, that
you once loved, prevail on you to drink this glass of wine.—She then
drank it. He kissed her, and said, Oh! how passion deforms the noblest
minds! You have lost a good deal of that loveliness that used to adorn
my sister. And let me persuade you to compose yourself, and be my
sister again!—For Lady Davers is, indeed, a fine woman; and has a
presence as majestic for a lady, as her dear brother has for a
gentleman.

He then sat down between us again, and said, when the second course
came in, Let Abraham come in and wait. I touched his toe again; but he
minded it not; and I saw he was right; for her ladyship began to
recollect herself, and did not behave half so ill before the servants,
as she had done; and helped herself with some little freedom; but she
could not forbear a strong sigh and a sob now and then. She called for
a glass of the same wine she had drank before. Said he, Shall I help
you again, Lady Davers?—and rose, at the same time, and went to the
sideboard, and filled her a glass. Indeed, said she, I love to be
soothed by my brother!—Your health, sir!

Said my master to me, with great sweetness, My dear, now I’m up, I’ll
fill for you!—I must serve both sisters alike! She looked at the
servant, as if he were a little check upon her, and said to my master,
How now, sir!—Not that you know of. He whispered her, Don’t shew any
contempt before my servants to one I have so deservedly made their
mistress. Consider, ’tis done.—Ay, said she, that’s the thing that
kills me.

He gave me a glass: My good lady’s health, sir, said I.—That won’t do,
said she, leaning towards me, softly: and was going to say wench, or
creature, or some such word. And my master, seeing Abraham look towards
her, her eyes being red and swelled, said, Indeed, sister, I would not
vex myself about it, if I was you. About what? said she. Why, replied
he, about your lord’s not coming down, as he had promised. He sat down,
and she tapped him on the shoulder: Ah! wicked one, said she, nor will
that do neither!—Why, to be sure, added he, it would vex a lady of your
sense and merit to be slighted, if it was so; but I am sure my lord
loves you, as well as you love him; and you know not what may have
happened.

She shook her head, and said, That’s like your art!—This makes one
amazed you should be so caught!—Who, my lord caught! said he: No, no!
he’ll have more wit than so! But I never heard you were jealous before.
Nor, said he, have you any reason to think so now!—Honest friend, you
need not wait, said she; my woman will help us to what we want. Yes,
let him, replied he. Abraham, fill me a glass. Come, said my master,
Lord Davers to you, madam: I hope he’ll take care he is not found
out!—You’re very provoking, brother, said she. I wish you were as good
as Lord Davers.—But don’t carry your jest too far. Well, said he, ’tis
a tender point, I own. I’ve done.

By these kind managements the dinner passed over better than I
expected. And when the servants were withdrawn, my master said, still
keeping his place between us, I have a question to ask you, Lady
Davers, and that is, If you’ll bear me company to Bedfordshire? I was
intending to set out thither to-morrow, but I’ll tarry your pleasure,
if you’ll go with me.

Is thy wife, as thou callest her, to go along with thee, friend? said
she. Yes, to be sure, answered he, my dear Quaker sister; and took her
hand, and smiled. And would’st have me parade it with her on the
road?—Hey?—And make one to grace her retinue?—Hey? Tell me how thoud’st
chalk it out, if I would do as thou would’st have me, honest friend?

He clasped his arms about her, and kissed her: You are a dear saucy
sister, said he; but I must love you!—Why, I’ll tell you how I’d have
it. Here shall you, and my Pamela—Leave out my, I desire you, if you’d
have me sit patiently. No, replied he, I can’t do that. Here shall you,
and my Pamela, go together in your chariot, if you please; and she will
then appear as one of your retinue; and your nephew and I will
sometimes ride, and sometimes go into my chariot, to your woman.

Should’st thou like this, creature? said she to me.—If your ladyship
think it not too great an honour for me, madam, said I. Yes, replied
she, but my ladyship does think it would be too great an honour.

Now I think of it, said he, this must not be neither; for, without
you’d give her the hand in your own chariot, my wife would be thought
your woman, and that must not be. Why, that would, may be, said she, be
the only inducement for me to bear her near me, in my chariot.—But, how
then?—Why then, when we came home, we’d get Lord Davers to come to us,
and stay a month or two.

And what if he was to come?—Why I would have you, as I know you have a
good fancy, give Pamela your judgment on some patterns I expect from
London, for clothes.—Provoking wretch! said she; now I wish I may keep
my hands to myself. I don’t say it to provoke you, said he, nor ought
it to do so. But when I tell you I am married, is it not a consequence
that we must have new clothes?

Hast thou any more of these obliging things to say to me, friend? said
she. I will make you a present, returned he, worth your acceptance, if
you will grace us with your company at church, when we make our
appearance.—Take that, said she, if I die for it, wretch that thou art!
and was going to hit him a great slap; but he held her hand. Her
kinsman said, Dear aunt, I wonder at you! Why, all these are things of
course.

I begged leave to withdraw; and, as I went out, my good master said,
There’s a person! There’s a shape! There’s a sweetness! O, Lady Davers!
were you a man, you would doat on her, as I do. Yes, said the naughty
lady, so I should, for my harlot, but not for my wife. I turned, on
this, and said, Indeed your ladyship is cruel; and well may gentlemen
take liberties, when ladies of honour say such things! And I wept, and
added, Your ladyship’s inference, if your good brother was not the most
generous of men, would make me very unhappy.

No fear, wench; no fear, said she; thou’lt hold him as long as any body
can, I see that!—Poor Sally Godfrey never had half the interest in him,
I’ll assure you.

Stay, my Pamela, said he, in a passion; stay, when I bid you. You have
now heard two vile charges upon me!—I love you with such a true
affection, that I ought to say something before this malicious accuser,
that you may not think your consummate virtue linked to so black a
villain.

Her nephew seemed uneasy, and blamed her much; and I came back, but
trembled as I stood; and he set me down, and said, taking my hand, I
have been accused, my dear, as a dueller, and now as a profligate, in
another sense; and there was a time I should not have received these
imputations with so much concern as I now do, when I would wish, by
degrees, by a conformity of my manners to your virtue, to shew every
one the force your example has upon me. But this briefly is the case of
the first.

I had a friend, who had been basely attempted to be assassinated by
bravoes, hired by a man of title in Italy, who, like many other persons
of title, had no honour; and, at Padua, I had the fortune to disarm one
of these bravoes in my friend’s defence, and made him confess his
employer; and him, I own, I challenged. At Sienna we met, and he died
in a month after, of a fever; but, I hope, not occasioned by the slight
wounds he had received from me; though I was obliged to leave Italy
upon it, sooner than I intended, because of his numerous relations, who
looked upon me as the cause of his death; though I pacified them by a
letter I wrote them from Inspruck, acquainting them with the baseness
of the deceased: and they followed me not to Munich, as they intended.

This is one of the good-natured hints that might shock your sweetness,
on reflecting that you are yoked with a murderer. The other—Nay,
brother, said she, say no more. ’Tis your own fault if you go further.
She shall know it all, said he; and I defy the utmost stretch of your
malice.

When I was at college, I was well received by a widow lady, who had
several daughters, and but small fortunes to give them; and the old
lady set one of them (a deserving good girl she was,) to draw me into
marriage with her, for the sake of the fortune I was heir to; and
contrived many opportunities to bring us and leave us together. I was
not then of age; and the young lady, not half so artful as her mother,
yielded to my addresses before the mother’s plot could be ripened, and
so utterly disappointed it. This, my Pamela, is the Sally Godfrey, this
malicious woman, with the worst intentions, has informed you of. And
whatever other liberties I may have taken, (for perhaps some more I
have, which, had she known, you had heard of, as well as this,) I
desire Heaven will only forgive me, till I revive its vengeance by the
like offences, in injury to my Pamela.

And now, my dear, you may withdraw; for this worthy sister of mine has
said all the bad she knows of me; and what, at a proper opportunity,
when I could have convinced you, that they were not my boast, but my
concern, I should have acquainted you with myself; for I am not fond of
being thought better than I am: though I hope, from the hour I devoted
myself to so much virtue, to that of my death, my conduct shall be
irreproachable.

She was greatly moved at this, and the noble manner in which the dear
gentleman owned and repented of his faults; and gushed out into tears,
and said, No, don’t yet go, Pamela, I beseech you. My passion has
carried me too far, a great deal; and, coming to me, she shook my hand,
and said, You must stay to hear me beg his pardon; and so took his
hand.—But, to my concern, (for I was grieved for her ladyship’s grief,)
he burst from her; and went out of the parlour into the garden in a
violent rage, that made me tremble. Her ladyship sat down, and leaned
her head against my bosom, and made my neck wet with her tears, holding
me by the hands; and I wept for company.—Her kinsman walked up and down
the parlour in a sad fret; and going out afterwards, he came in, and
said, Mr. B—— has ordered his chariot to be got ready, and won’t be
spoken to by any body. Where is he? said she.—Walking in the garden
till it is ready, replied he.

Well, said she, I have indeed gone too far. I was bewitched! And now,
said she, malicious as he calls me, will he not forgive me for a
twelvemonth: for I tell you, Pamela, if ever you offend, he will not
easily forgive. I was all delighted, though sad, to see her ladyship so
good to me. Will you venture, said she, to accompany me to him?—Dare
you follow a lion in his retreats?—I’ll attend your ladyship, said I,
wherever you command. Well, wench, said she; Pamela, I mean; thou art
very good in the main!—I should have loved thee as well as my mother
did—if—but ’tis all over now! Indeed you should not have married my
brother! But come, I must love him! Let’s find him out! And yet will he
use me worse than a dog!—I should not, added she, have so much
exasperated him: for, whenever I have, I have always had the worst of
it. He knows I love him!

In this manner her ladyship talked to me, leaning on my arm, and
walking into the garden. I saw he was still in a tumult, as it were;
and he took another walk to avoid us. She called after him, and said,
Brother, brother, let me speak to you!—One word with you! And as we
made haste towards him, and came near to him; I desire, said he, that
you’ll not oppress me more with your follies, and your violence. I have
borne too much with you, and I will vow for a twelvemonth, from this
day—Hush, said she, don’t vow, I beg you for too well will you keep it,
I know by experience, if you do. You see, said she, I stoop to ask
Pamela to be my advocate. Sure that will pacify you!

Indeed, said he, I desire to see neither of you, on such an occasion;
and let me only be left to myself, for I will not be intruded upon
thus; and was going away.—But, said she, One word first, I desire.—If
you’ll forgive me, I’ll forgive you.—What, said the dear man,
haughtily, will you forgive me?—Why, said she, for she saw him too
angry to mention his marriage, as a subject that required her pardon—I
will forgive you all your bad usage of me this day.

I will be serious with you, sister, said he: I wish you most sincerely
well; but let us, from this time, study so much one another’s quiet, as
never to come near one another more. Never? said she.—And can you
desire this? barbarous brother! can you?—I can, I do, said he; and I
have nothing to do, but to hide from you, not a brother, but a
murderer, and a profligate, unworthy of your relation; and let me be
consigned to penitence for my past evils: A penitence, however, that
shall not be broken in upon by so violent an accuser.

Pamela, said he, and made me tremble, How dare you approach me, without
leave, when you see me thus disturbed?—Never, for the future, come near
me, when I am in these tumults, unless I send for you.

Dear sir! said I—Leave me, interrupted he. I will set out for
Bedfordshire this moment! What! sir, said I, without me?—What have I
done? You have too meanly, said he, for my wife, stooped to this
furious sister of mine; and, till I can recollect, I am not pleased
with you: But Colbrand shall attend you, and two other of my servants;
and Mrs. Jewkes shall wait upon you part of the way: And I hope you’ll
find me in a better disposition to receive you there, than I am at
parting with you here.

Had I not hoped, that this was partly put on to intimidate my lady, I
believe I could not have borne it: But it was grievous to me; for I saw
he was most sincerely in a passion.

I was afraid, said she, he would be angry at you, as well as me; for
well do I know his unreasonable violence, when he is moved. But one
word, sir, said she; Pardon Pamela, if you won’t me; for she has
committed no offence, but that of good-nature to me, and at my request.
I will be gone myself, directly as I was about to do, had you not
prevented me.

I prevented you, said he, through love; but you have strung me for it,
through hatred. But as for my Pamela, I know, besides the present
moment, I cannot be angry with her; and therefore I desire her never to
see me, on such occasions, till I can see her in the temper I ought to
be in, when so much sweetness approaches me. ’Tis therefore I say, my
dearest, leave me now.

But, sir, said I, must I leave you, and let you go to Bedfordshire
without me? Oh, dear sir, how can I?—Said my lady, You may go
to-morrow, both of you, as you had designed; and I will go away this
afternoon: And, since I cannot be forgiven, will try to forget I have a
brother.

May I, sir, said I, beg all your anger on myself, and to be reconciled
to your good sister? Presuming Pamela! replied he, and made me start;
Art thou then so hardy, so well able to sustain a displeasure, which of
all things, I expected from thy affection, and thy tenderness, thou
would’st have wished to avoid?—Now, said he, and took my hand, and, as
it were, tossed it from him, begone from my presence, and reflect upon
what you have said to me!

I was so frightened, (for then I saw he took amiss what I said,) that I
took hold of his knees, as he was turning from me; and I said, Forgive
me, good sir! you see I am not so hardy! I cannot bear your
displeasure! And was ready to sink.

His sister said, Only forgive Pamela; ’tis all I ask—You’ll break her
spirit quite!—You’ll carry your passion as much too far as I have
done!—I need not say, said he, how well I love her; but she must not
intrude upon me at such times as these!—I had intended, as soon as I
could have quelled, by my reason, the tumults you had caused by your
violence, to have come in, and taken such a leave of you both, as might
become a husband, and a brother: But she has, unbidden, broke in upon
me, and must take the consequence of a passion, which, when raised, is
as uncontrollable as your own.

Said she, Did I not love you so well, as sister never loved a brother,
I should not have given you all this trouble. And did I not, said he,
love you better than you are resolved to deserve, I should be
indifferent to all you say. But this last instance, after the duelling
story (which you would not have mentioned, had you not known it is
always matter of concern for me to think upon), of poor Sally Godfrey,
is a piece of spite and meanness, that I can renounce you my blood for.

Well, said she, I am convinced it was wrong. I am ashamed of it myself.
’Twas poor, ’twas mean, ’twas unworthy of your sister: And ’tis for
this reason I stoop to follow you, to beg your pardon, and even to
procure one for my advocate, who I thought had some interest in you, if
I might have believed your own professions to her; which now I shall
begin to think made purposely to insult me.

I care not what you think!—After the meanness you have been guilty of,
I can only look upon you with pity: For, indeed, you have fallen very
low with me.

’Tis plain I have, said she. But I’ll begone.—And so, brother, let me
call you for this once! God bless you! And Pamela, said her ladyship,
God bless you! and kissed me, and wept.

I durst say no more: And my lady turning from him, he said, Your sex is
the d—l! how strangely can you discompose, calm, and turn, as you
please, us poor weathercocks of men! Your last kind blessing to my
Pamela I cannot stand! Kiss but each other again. And then he took both
our hands, and joined them; and my lady saluting me again, with tears
on both sides, he put his kind arms about each of our waists, and
saluted us with great affection, saying, Now, God bless you both, the
two dearest creatures I have in the world!

Well, said she, you will quite forget my fault about Miss—He stopt her
before she could speak the name, and said, For ever forget it!—And,
Pamela, I’ll forgive you too, if you don’t again make my displeasure so
light a thing to you, as you did just now.

Said my lady, She did not make your displeasure a light thing to her;
but the heavier it was, the higher compliment she made me, that she
would bear it all, rather than not see you and me reconciled. No matter
for that, said he: It was either an absence of thought, or a slight by
implication, at least, that my niceness could not bear from her
tenderness: For looked it not presuming, that she could stand my
displeasure, or was sure of making her terms when she pleased? Which,
fond as I am of her, I assure her, will not be always, in wilful
faults, in her power.

Nay, said my lady, I can tell you, Pamela, you have a gentleman here in
my brother; and you may expect such treatment from him, as that
character, and his known good sense and breeding, will always oblige
him to shew: But if you offend, the Lord have mercy upon you!—You see
how it is by poor me!—And yet I never knew him to forgive so soon.

I am sure, said I, I will take care as much as I can; for I have been
frightened out of my wits, and had offended, before I knew where I was.

So happily did this storm blow over; and my lady was quite subdued and
pacified.

When we came out of the garden, his chariot was ready; and he said,
Well, sister, I had most assuredly gone away towards my other house, if
things had not taken this happy turn; and, if you please, instead of
it, you and I will take an airing: And pray, my dear, said he to me,
bid Mrs. Jewkes order supper by eight o’clock, and we shall then join
you.

Sir, added he, to her nephew, will you take your horse and escort us? I
will, said he: and am glad, at my soul, to see you all so good friends.

So my dear lord and master handed my lady into his chariot, and her
kinsman and his servants rode after them and I went up to my closet to
ruminate on these things. And, foolish thing that I am, this poor Miss
Sally Godfrey runs into my head!—How soon the name and quality of a
wife gives one privileges, in one’s own account!—Yet, methinks, I want
to know more about her; for, is it not strange, that I, who lived years
in the family, should have heard nothing of this? But I was so
constantly with my lady, that I might the less hear of it; for she, I
dare say, never knew it, or she would have told me.

But I dare not ask him about the poor lady.—Yet I wonder what became of
her! Whether she be living? And whether any thing came of it?—May be I
shall hear full soon enough!—But I hope not to any bad purpose.

As to the other unhappy case, I know it was talked of, that in his
travels, before I was taken into the family long, he had one or two
broils; and, from a youth, he was always remarkable for courage, and is
reckoned a great master of his sword. God grant he may never be put to
use it! and that he may be always preserved in honour and safety!

About seven o’clock my master sent word, that he would have me not
expect him to supper; for that he, and my lady his sister, and nephew,
were prevailed upon to stay with Lady Jones; and that Lady Darnford,
and Mr. Peters’s family, had promised to meet them there. I was glad
they did not send for me; and the rather, as I hoped those good
families being my friends, would confirm my lady a little in my favour;
and so I followed my writing closely.

About eleven o’clock they returned. I had but just come down, having
tired myself with my pen, and was sitting talking with Mrs. Jewkes and
Mrs. Worden, whom I would, though unwillingly on their sides, make sit
down, which they did over against me. Mrs. Worden asked my pardon, in a
good deal of confusion, for the part she had acted against me; saying,
That things had been very differently represented to her; and that she
little thought I was married, and that she was behaving so rudely to
the lady of the house.

I said, I took nothing amiss; and very freely forgave her; and hoped my
new condition would not make me forget how to behave properly to every
one; but that I must endeavour to act not unworthy of it, for the
honour of the gentleman who had so generously raised me to it.

Mrs. Jewkes said, that my situation gave me great opportunities of
shewing the excellence of my nature, that I could forgive offences
against me so readily, as she, for her own part, must always, she said,
acknowledge, with confusion of face.

People, said I, Mrs. Jewkes, don’t know how they shall act, when their
wills are in the power of their superiors; and I always thought one
should distinguish between acts of malice, and of implicit obedience;
though, at the same time, a person should know how to judge between
lawful and unlawful. And even the great, though at present angry they
are not obeyed, will afterwards have no ill opinion of a person for
withstanding them in their unlawful commands.

Mrs. Jewkes seemed a little concerned at this; and I said, I spoke
chiefly from my own experience: For that I might say, as they both knew
my story, that I had not wanted both for menaces and temptations; and
had I complied with the one, or been intimidated by the other, I should
not have been what I was.

Ah, madam! replied Mrs. Jewkes, I never knew any body like you; and I
think your temper sweeter, since the happy day, than before; and that,
if possible, you take less upon you.

Why, a good reason, said I, may be assigned for that: I thought myself
in danger: I looked upon every one as my enemy; and it was impossible
that I should not be fretful, uneasy, jealous. But when my dearest
friend had taken from me the ground of my uneasiness, and made me quite
happy, I should have been very blamable, if I had not shewn a satisfied
and easy mind, and a temper that should engage every one’s respect and
love at the same time, if possible: And so much the more, as it was but
justifying, in some sort, the honour I had received: For the fewer
enemies I made myself, the more I engaged every one to think, that my
good benefactor had been less to blame in descending as he has done.

This way of talking pleased them both very much; and they made me many
compliments upon it, and wished me always to be happy, as, they said, I
so well deserved.

We were thus engaged, when my master, and his sister and her nephew,
came in: and they made me quite alive, in the happy humour in which
they all returned. The two women would have withdrawn: but my master
said, Don’t go, Mrs. Worden: Mrs. Jewkes, pray stay; I shall speak to
you presently. So he came to me, and, saluting me, said, Well, my dear
love, I hope I have not trespassed upon your patience, by an absence
longer than we designed. But it has not been to your disadvantage; for
though we had not your company, we have talked of nobody else but you.

My lady came up to me, and said, Ay, child, you have been all our
subject. I don’t know how it is: but you have made two or three good
families, in this neighbourhood, as much your admirers, as your friend
here.

My sister, said he, has been hearing your praises, Pamela, from half a
score mouths, with more pleasure than her heart will easily let her
express.

My good Lady Davers’s favour, said I, and the continuance of yours,
sir, would give me more pride than that of all the rest of the world
put together.

Well, child, said she, proud hearts don’t come down all at once; though
my brother, here, has this day set mine a good many pegs lower than I
ever knew it: But I will say, I wish you joy with my brother; and so
kissed me.

My dear lady, said I, you for ever oblige me!—I shall now believe
myself quite happy. This was all I wanted to make me so!—And I hope I
shall always, through my life, shew your ladyship, that I have the most
grateful and respectful sense of your goodness.

But, child, said she, I shall not give you my company when you make
your appearance. Let your own merit make all your Bedfordshire
neighbours your friends, as it has done here, by your Lincolnshire
ones; and you’ll have no need of my countenance, nor any body’s else.

Now, said her nephew, ’tis my turn: I wish you joy with all my soul,
madam; and, by what I have seen, and by what I have heard, ‘fore Gad, I
think you have met with no more than you deserve; and so all the
company says, where we have been: And pray forgive all my nonsense to
you.

Sir, said I, I shall always, I hope, respect as I ought, so near a
relation of my good Lord and Lady Davers; and I thank you for your kind
compliment.

Gad, Beck, said he, I believe you’ve some forgiveness too to ask; for
we were all to blame, to make madam, here, fly the pit, as she did.
Little did we think we made her quit her own house.

Thou always, said my lady, sayest too much, or too little.

Mrs. Worden said, I have been treated with so much goodness and
condescension since you went, that I have been beforehand, sir, in
asking pardon myself.

So my lady sat down with me half an hour, and told me, that her brother
had carried her a fine airing, and had quite charmed her with his kind
treatment of her; and had much confirmed her in the good opinion she
had begun to entertain of my discreet and obliging behaviour: But,
continued she, when he would make me visit, without intending to stay,
my old neighbours, (for, said she, Lady Jones being nearest, we visited
her first; and she scraped all the rest of the company together,) they
were all so full of your praises, that I was quite borne down; and,
truly, it was Saul among the prophets!

You may believe how much I was delighted with this; and I spared not my
due acknowledgments.

When her ladyship took leave, to go to bed, she said, Goodnight to you,
heartily, and to your good man. I kissed you when I came in, out of
form; but I now kiss you out of more than form, I’ll assure you.

Join with me, my dear parents, in my joy for this happy turn; the
contrary of which I so much dreaded, and was the only difficulty I had
to labour with. This poor Miss Sally Godfrey, I wonder what’s become of
her, poor soul! I wish he would, of his own head, mention her
again.—Not that I am very uneasy, neither.—You’ll say, I must be a
little saucy, if I was.

My dear master gave me an account, when we went up, of the pains he had
taken with his beloved sister, as he himself styled her; and of all the
kind things the good families had said in my behalf; and that he
observed she was not so much displeased with hearing them, as she was
at first; when she would not permit any body to speak of me as his
wife: And that my health, as his spouse, being put; when it came to
her, she drank it; but said, Come, brother, here’s your Pamela to you:
But I shall not know how to stand this affair, when the Countess——, and
the young ladies, come to visit me. One of these young ladies was the
person she was so fond of promoting a match for, with her brother.—Lady
Betty, I know, she said, will rally me smartly upon it; and you know,
brother, she wants neither wit nor satire. He said, I hope, Lady Betty,
whenever she marries, will meet with a better husband than I should
have made her; for, in my conscience, I think I should hardly have made
a tolerable one to any but Pamela.

He told me that they rallied him on the stateliness of his temper; and
said, They saw he would make an exceeding good husband where he was;
but it must be owing to my meekness, more than to his complaisance;
for, said Miss Darnford, I could see well enough, when your ladyship
detained her, though he had but hinted his desire of finding her at our
house, he was so out of humour at her supposed noncompliance, that mine
and my sister’s pity for her was much more engaged, than our envy.

Ay, said my lady, he is too lordly a creature, by much; and can’t bear
disappointment, nor ever could.

Said he, Well, Lady Davers, you should not, of all persons, find fault
with me; for I bore a great deal from you, before I was at all angry.

Yes, replied she: but when I had gone a little too far, as I own I did,
you made me pay for it severely enough! You know you did, sauce-box.
And the poor thing too, added she, that I took with me for my advocate,
so low had he brought me! he treated her in such a manner as made my
heart ache for her: But part was art, I know, to make me think the
better of her.

Indeed, sister, said he, there was very little of that; for, at that
time, I cared not what you thought, nor had complaisance enough to have
given a shilling for your good or bad opinion of her or me. And, I own,
I was displeased to be broken in upon, after your provocations, by
either of you and she must learn that lesson, never to come near me,
when I am in those humours; which shall be as little as possible: For,
after a while, if let alone, I always come to myself, and am sorry for
the violence of a temper, so like my dear sister’s here: And, for this
reason think it is no matter how few witnesses I have of its
intemperance, while it lasts; especially since every witness, whether
they merit it or not, as you see in my Pamela’s case, must be a
sufferer by it, if, unsent for, they come in my way.

He repeated the same lesson to me again, and enforced it and owned,
that he was angry with me in earnest, just then; though more with
himself, afterwards, for being so: But when, Pamela, said he, you
wanted to transfer all my displeasure upon yourself, it was so much
braving me with your merit, as if I must soon end my anger, if placed
there; or it was making it so light to you, that I was truly
displeased: for, continued he, I cannot bear that you should wish, on
any occasion whatever, to have me angry with you, or not to value my
displeasure as the heaviest misfortune that could befall you.

But, sir, said I, you know, that what I did was to try to reconcile my
lady; and, as she herself observed, it was paying her a high regard. It
was so, replied he; but never think of making a compliment to her, or
any body living, at my expense. Besides, she had behaved herself so
intolerably, that I began to think you had stooped too much, and more
than I ought to permit my wife to do; and acts of meanness are what I
can’t endure in any body, but especially where I love: and as she had
been guilty of a very signal one, I had much rather have renounced her
at that time, than have been reconciled to her.

Sir, said I, I hope I shall always comport myself so, as not wilfully
to disoblige you for the future; and the rather do I hope this, as I am
sure I shall want only to know your pleasure to obey it. But this
instance shews me, that I may much offend, without designing it in the
least.

Now, Pamela, replied he, don’t be too serious: I hope I shan’t be a
very tyrannical husband to you: Yet do I not pretend to be perfect, or
to be always governed by reason in my first transports; and I expect,
from your affection, that you will bear with me when you find me wrong.
I have no ungrateful spirit, and can, when cool, enter as impartially
into myself as most men; and then I am always kind and acknowledging,
in proportion as I have been out of the way.

But to convince you, my dear, continued he, of your fault, (I mean,
with regard to the impetuosity of my temper; for there was no fault in
your intention, that I acknowledge,) I’ll observe only, that you met,
when you came to me, while I was so out of humour, a reception you did
not expect, and a harsh word or two that you did not deserve. Now, had
you not broken in upon me while my anger lasted, but staid till I had
come to you, or sent to desire your company, you’d have seen none of
this; but that affectionate behaviour, which I doubt not you’ll always
merit, and I shall always take pleasure in expressing: and in this
temper shall you always find a proper influence over me: But you must
not suppose, whenever I am out of humour, that, in opposing yourself to
my passion, you oppose a proper butt to it; but when you are so good,
like the slender reed, to bend to the hurricane, rather than, like the
sturdy oak, to resist it, you will always stand firm in my kind
opinion, while a contrary conduct would uproot you, with all your
excellencies, from my soul.

Sir, said I, I will endeavour to conform myself, in all things, to your
will. I make no doubt but you will: and I’ll endeavour to make my will
as conformable to reason as I can. And let me tell you, that this
belief of you is one of the inducements I have had to marry at all: for
nobody was more averse to this state than myself; and, now we are upon
this subject, I’ll tell you why I was so averse.

We people of fortune, or such as are born to large expectations, of
both sexes, are generally educated wrong. You have occasionally touched
upon this, Pamela, several times in your journal, so justly, that I
need say the less to you. We are usually so headstrong, so violent in
our wills, that we very little bear control.

Humoured by our nurses, through the faults of our parents, we practise
first upon them; and shew the gratitude of our dispositions, in an
insolence that ought rather to be checked and restrained, than
encouraged.

Next, we are to be indulged in every thing at school; and our masters
and mistresses are rewarded with further grateful instances of our
boisterous behaviour.

But, in our wise parents’ eyes, all looks well, all is forgiven and
excused; and for no other reason, but because we are theirs.

Our next progression is, we exercise our spirits, when brought home, to
the torment and regret of our parents themselves, and torture their
hearts by our undutiful and perverse behaviour to them, which, however
ungrateful in us, is but the natural consequence of their culpable
indulgence to us, from infancy upwards.

And then, next, after we have, perhaps, half broken their hearts, a
wife is looked out for: convenience, or birth, or fortune, are the
first motives, affection the last (if it is at all consulted): and two
people thus educated, thus trained up, in a course of unnatural
ingratitude, and who have been headstrong torments to every one who has
had a share in their education, as well as to those to whom they owe
their being, are brought together; and what can be expected, but that
they should pursue, and carry on, the same comfortable conduct in
matrimony, and join most heartily to plague one another? And, in some
measure, indeed, this is right; because hereby they revenge the cause
of all those who have been aggrieved and insulted by them, upon one
another.

The gentleman has never been controlled: the lady has never been
contradicted.

He cannot bear it from one whose new relation, he thinks, should oblige
her to shew a quite contrary conduct.

She thinks it very barbarous, now, for the first time, to be opposed in
her will, and that by a man from whom she expected nothing but
tenderness.

So great is the difference between what they both expect from one
another, and what they both find in each other, that no wonder
misunderstandings happen; that these ripen to quarrels; that acts of
unkindness pass, which, even had the first motive to their union been
affection, as usually it is not, would have effaced all manner of
tender impressions on both sides.

Appeals to parents or guardians often ensue. If, by mediation of
friends, a reconciliation takes place, it hardly ever holds: for why?
The fault is in the minds of both, and neither of them will think so;
so that the wound (not permitted to be probed) is but skinned over, and
rankles still at the bottom, and at last breaks out with more pain and
anguish than before. Separate beds are often the consequence; perhaps
elopements: if not, an unconquerable indifference, possibly aversion.
And whenever, for appearance-sake, they are obliged to be together,
every one sees, that the yawning husband, and the vapourish wife, are
truly insupportable to one another; but separate, have freer spirits,
and can be tolerable company.

Now, my dear, I would have you think, and I hope you will have no other
reason, that had I married the first lady in the land, I would not have
treated her better than I will my Pamela. For my wife is my wife; and I
was the longer in resolving on the state, because I knew its
requisites, and doubted my conduct in it.

I believe I am more nice than many gentlemen; but it is because I have
been a close observer of the behaviour of wedded folks, and hardly ever
have seen it to be such as I could like in my own case. I shall,
possibly, give you instances of a more particular nature of this, as we
are longer, and, perhaps, I might say, better acquainted.

Had I married with the views of many gentlemen, and with such as my
good sister (supplying the place of my father and mother,) would have
recommended, I had wedded a fine lady, brought up pretty much in my own
manner, and used to have her will in every thing.

Some gentlemen can come into a compromise; and, after a few struggles,
sit down tolerably contented. But, had I married a princess, I could
not have done so. I must have loved her exceedingly well, before I had
consented to knit the knot with her, and preferred her to all her sex;
for without this, Pamela, indifferences, if not disgusts, will arise in
every wedded life, that could not have made me happy at home; and there
are fewer instances, I believe, of men’s loving better, after
matrimony, than of women’s; the reason of which ’tis not my present
purpose to account for.

Then I must have been morally sure, that she preferred me to all men;
and, to convince me of this, she must have lessened, not aggravated, my
failings: She must have borne with my imperfections; she must have
watched and studied my temper; and if ever she had any points to carry,
any desire of overcoming, it must have been by sweetness and
complaisance; and yet not such a slavish one, as should make her
condescension seem to be rather the effect of her insensibility, than
judgment or affection.

She should not have given cause for any part of my conduct to her to
wear the least aspect of compulsion or force. The word command, on my
side, or obedience on hers, I would have blotted from my vocabulary.
For this reason I should have thought it my duty to have desired
nothing of her, that was not significant, reasonable, or just; and that
then she should, on hers, have shewn no reluctance, uneasiness, or
doubt, to oblige me, even at half a word.

I would not have excused her to let me twice enjoin the same thing,
while I took so much care to make her compliance with me reasonable,
and such as should not destroy her own free agency, in points that
ought to be allowed her: And if I was not always right, that yet she
would bear with me, if she saw me set upon it; and expostulate with me
on the right side of compliance; for that would shew me, (supposing
small points in dispute, from which the greatest quarrels, among
friends, generally arise,) that she differed from me, not for
contradiction-sake, but desired to convince me for my own; and that I
should, another time, take better resolutions.

This would be so obliging a conduct, that I should, in justice, have
doubled my esteem for one, who, to humour me, could give up her own
judgment; and I should see she could have no other view in her
expostulations, after her compliance had passed, than to rectify my
motions for the future; and it would have been impossible then, but I
must have paid the greater deference to her opinion and advice in more
momentous matters.

In all companies she must have shewn, that she had, whether I deserved
it altogether or not, a high regard and opinion of me; and this the
rather, as such a conduct in her would be a reputation and security to
herself: For if we rakes attempt a married lady, our first
encouragement, exclusive of our own vanity, arises from the indifferent
opinion, slight, or contempt, she expresses of her husband.

I should expect, therefore, that she should draw a kind veil over my
faults; that such as she could not hide, she would extenuate; that she
would place my better actions in an advantageous light, and shew that I
had her good opinion, at least, whatever liberties the world took with
my character.

She must have valued my friends for my sake; been cheerful and easy,
whomsoever I had brought home with me; and, whatever faults she had
observed in me, have never blamed me before company; at least, with
such an air of superiority, as should have shewn she had a better
opinion of her own judgment, than of mine.

Now, my Pamela, this is but a faint sketch of the conduct I must have
expected from my wife, let her quality have been what it would; or have
lived with her on bad terms. Judge then, if to me a lady of the modish
taste could have been tolerable.

The perverseness and contradiction I have too often seen, in some of my
visits, even among people of sense, as well as condition, had
prejudiced me to the married state; and, as I knew I could not bear it,
surely I was in the right to decline it: And you see, my dear, that I
have not gone among this class of people for a wife; nor know I,
indeed, where, in any class, I could have sought one, or had one
suitable to my mind, if not you: For here is my misfortune; I could not
have been contented to have been but moderately happy in a wife.

Judge you, from all this, if I could very well bear that you should
think yourself so well secured of my affection, that you could take the
faults of others upon yourself; and, by a supposed supererogatory
merit, think your interposition sufficient to atone for the faults of
others.

Yet am I not perfect myself: No, I am greatly imperfect. Yet will I not
allow, that my imperfections shall excuse those of my wife, or make her
think I ought to bear faults in her, that she can rectify, because she
bears greater from me.

Upon the whole, I may expect, that you will bear with me, and study my
temper, till, and only till, you see I am capable of returning insult
for obligation; and till you think, that I shall be of a gentler
deportment, if I am roughly used, than otherwise. One thing more I will
add, That I should scorn myself, if there was one privilege of your
sex, that a princess might expect, as my wife, to be indulged in, that
I would not allow to my Pamela; for you are the wife of my affections:
I never wished for one before you, nor ever do I hope to have another.

I hope, sir, said I, my future conduct—Pardon me, said he, my dear, for
interrupting you; but it is to assure you, that I am so well convinced
of your affectionate regard for me, that I know I might have spared the
greatest part of what I have said: And, indeed, it must be very bad for
both of us, if I should have reason to think it necessary to say so
much. But one thing has brought on another; and I have rather spoken
what my niceness has made me observe in other families, than what I
fear in my own. And, therefore, let me assure you, I am thoroughly
satisfied with your conduct hitherto. You shall have no occasion to
repent it: And you shall find, though greatly imperfect, and
passionate, on particular provocations, (which yet I will try to
overcome,) that you have not a brutal or ungenerous husband, who is
capable of offering insult for condescension, or returning evil for
good.

I thanked him for these kind rules, and generous assurances: and
assured him, that they had made so much impression on my mind, that
these, and his most agreeable injunctions before given me, and such as
he should hereafter be pleased to give me, should be so many rules for
my future behaviour.

And I am glad of the method I have taken of making a Journal of all
that passes in these first stages of my happiness, because it will sink
the impression still deeper; and I shall have recourse to them for my
better regulation, as often as I shall mistrust my memory.

Let me see: What are the rules I am to observe from this awful lecture?
Why these:

1. That I must not, when he is in great wrath with any body, break in
upon him without his leave. Well, I’ll remember it, I warrant. But yet
I think this rule is almost peculiar to himself.

2. That I must think his displeasure the heaviest thing that can befall
me. To be sure I shall.

3. And so that I must not wish to incur it, to save any body else. I’ll
be further if I do.

4. That I must never make a compliment to any body at his expense.

5. That I must not be guilty of any acts of wilful meanness. There is a
great deal meant in this; and I’ll endeavour to observe it all. To be
sure, the occasion on which he mentions this, explains it; that I must
say nothing, though in anger, that is spiteful or malicious; that is
disrespectful or undutiful, and such-like.

6. That I must bear with him, even when I find him in the wrong. This
is a little hard, as the case may be!

I wonder whether poor Miss Sally Godfrey be living or dead!

7. That I must be as flexible as the reed in the fable, lest, by
resisting the tempest, like the oak, I be torn up by the roots. Well,
I’ll do the best I can!—There is no great likelihood, I hope, that I
should be too perverse; yet sure, the tempest will not lay me quite
level with the ground, neither.

8. That the education of young people of condition is generally wrong.
Memorandum; That if any part of children’s education fall to my lot, I
never indulge and humour them in things that they ought to be
restrained in.

9. That I accustom them to bear disappointments and control.

10. That I suffer them not to be too much indulged in their infancy.

11. Nor at school.

12. Nor spoil them when they come home.

13. For that children generally extend their perverseness from the
nurse to the schoolmaster: from the schoolmaster to the parents:

14. And, in their next step, as a proper punishment for all, make their
ownselves unhappy.

15. That undutiful and perverse children make bad husbands and wives:
And, collaterally, bad masters and mistresses.

16. That, not being subject to be controlled early, they cannot, when
married, bear one another.

17. That the fault lying deep, and in the minds of each other, neither
will mend it.

18. Whence follow misunderstandings, quarrels, appeals, ineffectual
reconciliations, separations, elopements; or, at best, indifference;
perhaps, aversion.—Memorandum; A good image of unhappy wedlock, in the
words YAWNING HUSBAND, and VAPOURISH WIFE, when together: But separate,
both quite alive.

19. Few married persons behave as he likes. Let me ponder this with awe
and improvement.

20. Some gentlemen can compromise with their wives, for quietness sake;
but he can’t. Indeed I believe that’s true; I don’t desire he should.

21. That love before marriage is absolutely necessary.

22. That there are fewer instances of men’s than women’s loving better
after marriage. But why so? I wish he had given his reasons for this! I
fancy they would not have been to the advantage of his own sex.

23. That a woman give her husband reason to think she prefers him
before all men. Well, to be sure this should be so.

24. That if she would overcome, it must be by sweetness and
complaisance; that is, by yielding, he means, no doubt.

25. Yet not such a slavish one neither, as should rather seem the
effect of her insensibility, than judgment or affection.

26. That the words COMMAND and OBEY shall be blotted out of the
Vocabulary. Very good!

27. That a man should desire nothing of his wife, but what is
significant, reasonable, just. To be sure, that is right.

28. But then, that she must not shew reluctance, uneasiness, or doubt,
to oblige him; and that too at half a word; and must not be bid twice
to do one thing. But may not there be some occasions, where this may be
a little dispensed with? But he says afterwards, indeed,

29. That this must be only while he took care to make her compliance
reasonable, and consistent with her free agency, in points that ought
to be allowed her. Come, this is pretty well, considering.

30. That if the husband be set upon a wrong thing, she must not dispute
with him, but do it and, expostulate afterwards. Good sirs! I don’t
know what to say to this! It looks a little hard, methinks! This would
bear a smart debate, I fancy, in a parliament of women. But then he
says,

31. Supposing they are only small points that are in dispute. Well,
this mends it a little. For small points, I think, should not be stood
upon.

32. That the greatest quarrels among friends (and wives and husbands
are, or should be, friends) arise from small matters. I believe this is
very true; for I had like to have had anger here, when I intended very
well.

33. That a wife should not desire to convince her husband for
CONTRADICTION sake, but for HIS OWN. As both will find their account in
this, if one does, I believe ’tis very just.

34. That in all companies a wife must shew respect and love to her
husband.

35. And this for the sake of her own reputation and security; for,

36. That rakes cannot have a greater encouragement to attempt a married
lady’s virtue, than her slight opinion of her husband. To be sure this
stands to reason, and is a fine lesson.

37. That a wife should therefore draw a kind veil over her husband’s
faults.

38. That such as she could not conceal, she should extenuate.

39. That his virtues she should place in an advantageous light

40. And shew the world, that he had HER good opinion at least.

41. That she must value his friends for his sake.

42. That she must be cheerful and easy in her behaviour, to whomsoever
he brings home with him.

43. That whatever faults she sees in him, she never blame him before
company.

44. At least, with such an air of superiority, as if she had a less
opinion of his judgment than her own.

45. That a man of nice observation cannot be contented to be only
moderately happy in a wife.

46. That a wife take care how she ascribe supererogatory merit to
herself; so as to take the faults of others upon her.

Indeed, I think it is well if we can bear our own! This is of the same
nature with the third; and touches upon me, on the present occasion,
for this wholesome lecture.

47. That his imperfections must not be a plea for hers. To be sure,
’tis no matter how good the women are; but ’tis to be hoped men will
allow a little. But, indeed, he says,

48. That a husband, who expects all this, is to be incapable of
returning insult for obligation, or evil for good; and ought not to
abridge her of any privilege of her sex.

Well, my dear parents, I think this last rule crowns the rest, and
makes them all very tolerable; and a generous man, and a man of sense,
cannot be too much obliged. And, as I have this happiness, I shall be
very unworthy, if I do not always so think, and so act.

Yet, after all, you’ll see I have not the easiest task in the world.
But I know my own intentions, that I shall not wilfully err; and so
fear the less.

Not one hint did he give, that I durst lay hold of, about poor Miss
Sally Godfrey. I wish my lady had not spoken of it: for it has given me
a curiosity that is not quite so pretty in me; especially so early in
my nuptials, and in a case so long ago past. Yet he intimated too, to
his sister, that he had had other faults, (of this sort, I suppose,)
that had not come to her knowledge!—But I make no doubt he has seen his
error, and will be very good for the future. I wish it, and pray it may
be so, for his own dear sake!

Wednesday, the seventh.

When I arose in the morning, I went to wait on Lady Davers, seeing her
door open; and she was in bed, but awake, and talking to her woman. I
said, I hope I don’t disturb your ladyship. Not at all, said she; I am
glad to see you. How do you do? Well, added she, when do you set out
for Bedfordshire?—I said, I can’t tell, madam; it was designed as
to-day, but I have heard no more of it.

Sit down, said she, on the bed-side.—I find, by the talk we had
yesterday and last night, you have had but a poor time of it, Pamela,
(I must call you so yet, said she,) since you were brought to this
house, till within these few days. And Mrs. Jewkes too has given Beck
such an account, as makes me pity you.

Indeed, madam, said I, if your ladyship knew all, you would pity me;
for never poor creature was so hard put to it. But I ought to forget it
all now, and be thankful.

Why, said she, as far as I can find, ’tis a mercy you are here now. I
was sadly moved with some part of your story and you have really made a
noble defence, and deserve the praises of all our sex.

It was God enabled me, madam, replied I. Why, said she, ’tis the more
extraordinary, because I believe, if the truth was known, you loved the
wretch not a little. While my trials lasted, madam, said I, I had not a
thought of any thing, but to preserve my innocence, much less of love.

But, tell me truly, said she, did you not love him all the time? I had
always, madam, answered I, a great reverence for my master, and thought
all his good actions doubly good and for his naughty ones, though I
abhorred his attempts upon me, yet I could not hate him; and always
wished him well; but I did not know that it was love. Indeed I had not
the presumption.

Sweet girl! said she; that’s prettily said: But when he found he could
not gain his ends, and began to be sorry for your sufferings, and to
admire your virtue, and to profess honourable love to you, what did you
think?

Think! Indeed, madam, I did not know what to think! could neither hope
nor believe so great an honour would fall to my lot, and feared more
from his kindness, for some time, than I had done from his unkindness:
And, having had a private intimation, from a kind friend, of a sham
marriage, intended by means of a man who was to personate a minister,
it kept my mind in too much suspense, to be greatly overjoyed at his
kind declaration.

Said she, I think he did make two or three attempts upon you in
Bedfordshire? Yes, madam, said I; he was very naughty, to be sure.

And here he proposed articles to you, I understand? Yes, madam, replied
I; but I abhorred so much the thoughts of being a kept creature, that I
rejected them with great boldness; and was resolved to die before I
would consent to them.

He afterwards attempted you, I think: Did he not? O yes, madam, said I,
a most sad attempt he made! and I had like to have been lost; for Mrs.
Jewkes was not so good as she should have been. And so I told her
ladyship that sad affair, and how I fell into fits; and that they
believing me dying, forbore.—Any attempts after this base one? she
said.

He was not so good as he should have been, returned I, once in the
garden, afterwards; but I was so watchful, and so ready to take the
alarm!

But, said she, did he not threaten you, at times, and put on his stern
airs, every now and then?—Threaten, madam, replied I; yes, I had enough
of that! I thought I should have died for fear several times.—How could
you bear that? said she: for he is a most daring and majestic mortal!
He has none of your puny hearts, but is as courageous as a lion; and,
boy and man, never feared any thing. I myself, said she, have a pretty
good spirit; but, when I have made him truly angry, I have always been
forced to make it up with him, as well as I could: for, child, he is
not one that is easily reconciled, I assure you.

But, after he had professed honourable love to you, did he never
attempt you again?—No, indeed, madam, he did not. But he was a good
while struggling with himself, and with his pride, as he was pleased to
call it, before he could stoop so low; and considered, and considered
again: and once, upon my saying but two or three words, that displeased
him, when he was very kind to me, he turned me out of doors, in a
manner, at an hour’s warning; for he sent me above a day’s journey
towards my father’s; and then sent a man and horse, post-haste, to
fetch me back again; and has been exceedingly kind and gracious to me
ever since, and made me happy.

That sending you away, said she, one hour, and sending after you the
next, is exactly like my brother; and ’tis well if he don’t turn you
off twice or thrice before a year comes about, if you vex him: and he
would have done the same by the first lady in the land, if he had been
married to her. Yet has he his virtues, as well as his faults; for he
is generous; nay, he is noble in his spirit; hates little dirty
actions: he delights in doing good; but does not pass over a wilful
fault easily. He is wise, prudent, sober, and magnanimous, and will not
tell a lie, nor disguise his faults; but you must not expect to have
him all to yourself, I doubt.

But I’ll no more harp upon this string: You see how he was exasperated
at me; and he seemed to be angry at you too; though something of it was
art, I believe.

Indeed, madam, said I, he has been pleased to give me a most noble
lecture; and I find he was angry with me in earnest, and that it will
not be an easy task to behave unexceptionably to him: for he is very
nice and delicate in his notions, I perceive; but yet, as your ladyship
says, exceeding generous.

Well, said she, I’m glad thou hadst a little bit of his anger; else I
should have thought it art; and I don’t love to be treated with low
art, any more than he; and I should have been vexed if he had done it
by me.

But I understand, child, said she, that you keep a journal of all
matters that pass, and he has several times found means to get at it:
Should you care I should see it? It could not be to your disadvantage;
for I find it had no small weight with him in your favour; and I should
take great pleasure to read all his stratagems, attempts, contrivances,
menaces, and offers to you, on one hand, and all your pretty
counter-plottings, which he much praises; your resolute resistance, and
the noble stand you have made to preserve your virtue; and the steps by
which his pride was subdued, and his mind induced to honourable love,
till you were made what you now are: for it must be a rare and uncommon
story; and will not only give me great pleasure in reading, but will
entirely reconcile me to the step he has taken: and that, let me tell
you, is what I never thought to be; for I had gone a great way in
bringing about a match with him and Lady Betty—; and had said so much
of it, that the earl, her father, approved of it: and so did the Duke
of ——, her uncle; and Lady Betty herself was not averse: and now I
shall be hunted to death about it; and this has made me so outrageous
as you have seen me upon the matter. But when I can find, by your
writings, that your virtue is but suitably rewarded, it will be not
only a good excuse for me, but for him, and make me love you. There is
nothing that I would not do, said I, to oblige your ladyship; but my
poor father and mother (who would rather have seen me buried quick in
the earth, than to be seduced by the greatest of princes) have them in
their hands at present; and your dear brother has bespoken them, when
they have done reading them: but, if he gives me leave, I will shew
them to your ladyship, with all my heart; not doubting your generous
allowances, as I have had his; though I have treated him very freely
all the way, while he had naughty views; and that your ladyship would
consider them as the naked sentiments of my heart, from time to time
delivered to those, whose indulgence I was sure of; and for whose sight
only they were written.

Give me a kiss now, said her ladyship, for your cheerful compliance:
for I make no doubt my brother will consent I shall see them, because
they must needs make for your honour; and I see he loves you better
than any one in the world.

I have heard, continued her ladyship, a mighty good character of your
parents, as industrious, honest, sensible, good folks, who know the
world; and, as I doubt not my brother’s generosity, I am glad they will
make no ill figure in the world’s eye.

Madam, said I, they are the honestest, the lovingest, and the most
conscientious couple breathing. They once lived creditably; and brought
up a great family, of which I am the youngest; but had misfortunes,
through their doing beyond their power for two unhappy brothers, who
are both dead, and whose debts they stood bound for; and so became
reduced, and, by harsh creditors, (where most of the debts were, not of
their own contracting,) turned out of all; and having, without success,
tried to set up a little country-school; (for my father understood a
little of accounts, and wrote a pretty good hand;) forced to take to
hard labour; but honest all the time; contented; never repining; and
loving to one another; and, in the midst of their poverty and
disappointments, above all temptation; and all their fear was, that I
should be wicked, and yield to temptation for the sake of worldly
riches and to God’s grace, and their good lessons, and those I imbibed
from my dear good lady, your ladyship’s mother, it is that I owe the
preservation of my innocence,—and the happy station I am exalted to.

She was pleased to kiss me again, and said, There is such a noble
simplicity in thy story, such an honest artlessness in thy mind, and
such a sweet humility in thy deportment, notwithstanding thy present
station, that I believe I shall be forced to love thee, whether I will
or not: and the sight of your papers, I dare say, will crown the work;
will disarm my pride, banish my resentment on Lady Betty’s account, and
justify my brother’s conduct; and, at the same time, redound to your
own everlasting honour, as well as to the credit of our sex: and so I
make no doubt but my brother will let me see them.

Worden, said my lady, I can say any thing before you; and you will take
no notice of our conversation; but I see you are much touched with it:
Did you ever hear any thing prettier, more unaffected, sincere, free,
easy?—No, never, madam, answered she, in my life; and it is a great
pleasure to see so happy a reconciliation taking place, where there is
so much merit.

I said, I have discovered so much prudence in Mrs. Worden, that, as
well for that, as for the confidence your ladyship places in her, I
have made no scruple of speaking my mind freely before her; and of
blaming my dear master while he was blameworthy, as well as
acknowledging his transcendent goodness to me since; which, I am sure,
exceeds all I can ever deserve. May be not, said my lady; I hope you’ll
be very happy in one another; and I’ll now rise, and tell him my
thoughts, and ask him to let me have the reading of your papers; for I
promise myself much pleasure in them; and shall not grudge a journey
and a visit to you, to the other house, to fetch them.

Your ladyship’s favour, said I, was all I had to wish for; and if I
have that, and the continuance of your dear brother’s goodness to me, I
shall be easy under whatever else may happen.

And so I took my leave, and withdrew; and she let me hear her say to
Mrs. Worden, ’Tis a charming creature, Worden!—I know not which excels;
her person, or her mind!—And so young a creature too!—Well may my
brother love her!

I am afraid, my dear father and mother, I shall now be too proud
indeed.

I had once a good mind to have asked her ladyship about Miss Sally
Godfrey; but I thought it was better let alone, since she did not
mention It herself. May be I shall hear it too soon. But I hope not. I
wonder, though, whether she be living or dead.

We breakfasted together with great good temper; and my lady was very
kind, and, asking my good master, he gave leave very readily, she
should see all my papers, when you returned them to me; and he said, He
was sure, when she came to read them, she would say, that I had well
deserved the fortune I had met with: and would be of opinion, that all
the kindness of his future life would hardly be a sufficient reward for
my virtue, and make me amends for my sufferings.

My lady resolving to set out the next morning to return to her lord, my
master ordered every thing to be made ready for his doing the like to
Bedfordshire; and this evening our good neighbours will sup with us, to
take leave of my lady and us.

Wednesday night.

Nothing particular having passed at dinner or supper, but the most
condescending goodness, on my lady’s side, to me; and the highest
civilities from Mr. Peters’s family, from Lady Jones, from Sir Simon’s
family, etc. and reciprocal good wishes all around; and a promise
obtained from my benefactor, that he would endeavour to pass a
fortnight or three weeks in these parts, before the winter set in; I
shall conclude this day with observing, that I disposed of the money my
master was so good to put into my hands, in the manner he was pleased
to direct; and I gave Mrs. Jewkes hers in such a manner as highly
pleased her; and she wished me, with tears, all kinds of happiness; and
prayed me to forgive her all her wickedness to me, as she herself
called it. I begged leave of my master to present Mrs. Worden with five
guineas for a pair of gloves; which he said was well thought of.

I should have mentioned, that Miss Darnford and I agreed upon a
correspondence, which will be no small pleasure to me; for she is an
admirable young lady, whom I prefer to every one I have seen; and I
shall, I make no doubt, improve by her letters; for she is said to have
a happy talent in writing, and is well read, for so young a lady.

Saturday.

On Thursday morning my lady set out for her own seat; and my best
friend and I, attended by Mr. Colbrand, Abraham, and Thomas, for this
dear house. Her ladyship parted with her brother and me with great
tenderness, and made me promise to send her my papers; which I find she
intends to entertain Lady Betty with, and another lady or two, her
intimates, as also her lord; and hopes to find, as I believe, in the
reading of them, some excuse for her brother’s choice.

My dearest master has been all love and tenderness on the road, as he
is in every place, and on every occasion. And oh, what a delightful
change was this journey, to that which, so contrary to all my wishes,
and so much to my apprehensions, carried me hence to the Lincolnshire
house! And how did I bless God at every turn, and at every stage!

We did not arrive here till yesterday noon. Abraham rode before, to let
them know we were coming: and I had the satisfaction to find every body
there I wished to see.

When the chariot entered the court-yard, I was so strongly impressed
with the favour and mercies of God Almighty, on remembering how I was
sent away the last time I saw this house; the leave I took; the dangers
I had encountered; a poor cast-off servant girl; and now returning a
joyful wife, and the mistress, through his favour, of the noble house I
was turned out of; that I was hardly able to support the joy I felt in
my mind on the occasion. He saw how much I was moved, and tenderly
asked me, Why I seemed so affected? I told him, and lifted his dear
hand to my lips, and said, O sir! God’s mercies, and your goodness to
me on entering this dear, dear place, are above my expression; I can
hardly bear the thoughts of them!—He said, Welcome, thrice welcome, joy
of my life! to your own house; and kissed my hand in return. All the
common servants stood at the windows, as unseen as they could, to
observe us. He took my hand, with the most condescending goodness in
the world; and, with great complaisance, led me into the parlour, and
kissed me with the greatest ardour. Welcome again, my dearest life!
said he, a thousand times welcome to the possession of a house that is
not more mine than yours!

I threw myself at his feet: Permit me, dear sir, thus to bless God, and
thank you, for all his mercies and your goodness. O may I so behave, as
not to be utterly unworthy; and then how happy shall I be! God give me,
my dearest, said he, life and health to reward all your sweetness! and
no man can be so blest as I.

Where (said he to Abraham, who passed by the door), where is Mrs.
Jervis?—She bolted in: Here, good sir! said she; here, good madam! am
I, waiting impatiently, till called for, to congratulate you both.—I
ran to her, and clasped my arms about her neck, and kissed her; O my
dear Mrs. Jervis! said I, my other dear mother! receive your happy,
happy Pamela; and join with me to bless God, and bless our master, for
all these great things!—I was ready to sink in her arms through excess
of joy, to see the dear good woman, who had been so often a mournful
witness of my distress, as now of my triumph.—Dearest madam, said she,
you do me too much honour. Let my whole life shew the joy I take in
your deserved good fortune, and in my duty to you, for the early
instance I received of your goodness in your kind letter. O Mrs.
Jervis! replied I, there all thanks are due, both from you and me: for
our dear master granted me this blessing, as I may justly call it, the
very first moment I begged it of him. Your goodness, sir, said she, I
will for ever acknowledge; and I beg pardon for the wrong step I made
in applying to my Lady Davers.—He was so good as to salute her, and
said, All is over now, Mrs. Jervis; and I shall not remember you ever
disobliged me. I always respected you, and shall now more and more
value you, for the sake of that dear good creature, whom, with joy
unfeigned, I can call my wife. God bless your honour for ever! said
she; and many many happy years may ye live together, the envy and
wonder of all who know you!

But where, said my dear master, is honest Longman? and where is
Jonathan?—Come, Mrs. Jervis, said I, you shall shew me them, and all
the good folks, presently; and let me go up with you to behold the dear
apartments, which I have seen before with such different emotions to
what I shall now do.

We went up; and in every room, the chamber I took refuge in, when my
master pursued me, my lady’s chamber, her dressing-room, Mrs. Jervis’s
room, not forgetting her closet, my own little bed-chamber, the
green-room, and in each of the others, I blessed God for my past
escapes, and present happiness; and the good woman was quite affected
with the zeal and pleasure with which I made my thankful
acknowledgments to the divine goodness. O my excellent lady! said she,
you are still the same good, pious, humble soul I knew you; and your
marriage has added to your graces, as I hope it will to your blessings.

Dear Mrs. Jervis, said I, you know not what I have gone through! You
know not what God has done for me! You know not what a happy creature I
am now! I have a thousand thousand things to tell you; and a whole week
will be too little, every moment of it spent in relating to you what
has befallen me, to make you acquainted with it all. We shall be
sweetly happy together, I make no doubt. But I charge you, my dear Mrs.
Jervis, whatever you call me before strangers, that when we are by
ourselves you call me nothing but your Pamela. For what an ungrateful
creature should I be, who have received so many mercies, if I
attributed them not to the divine goodness, but assumed to myself
insolent airs upon them! No, I hope I shall be, more and more thankful,
as I am more and more blest! and more humble, as God, the author of all
my happiness, shall more distinguish me.

We went down again to the parlour, to my dear master. Said he, Call
Longman in again; he longs to see you, my dear. He came in: God bless
you, my sweet lady, said he; as now, Heaven be praised, I may call you!
Did I not tell you, madam, that Providence would find you out? O, Mr.
Longman, said I, God be praised for all his mercies! I am rejoiced to
see you; and I laid my hand on his, and said, Good Mr. Longman, how do
you do?—I must always value you; and you don’t know how much of my
present happiness I owe to the sheets of paper, and pens and ink, you
furnished me with. I hope my dear sir and you are quite reconciled.—O,
madam, said he, how good you are! Why, I cannot contain myself for joy!
and then he wiped his eyes; good man!

Said my master, Yes, I have been telling Longman that I am obliged to
him for his ready return to me; and that I will entirely forget his
appeal to Lady Davers; and I hope he’ll find himself quite as easy and
happy as he wishes. My dear partner here, Mr. Longman, I dare promise
you, will do all she can to make you so.—Heaven bless you both
together! said he. ’Tis the pride of my heart to see this! I returned
with double delight, when I heard the blessed news; and I am sure, sir,
said he, (mark old Longman’s words,) God will bless you for this every
year more and more! You don’t know how many hearts you have made happy
by this generous deed!—I am glad of it, said my dear master; I am sure
I have made my own happy: and, Longman, though I must think you
SOMEBODY, yet, as you are not a young man, and so won’t make me
jealous, I can allow you to wish my dear wife joy in the tenderest
manner. Adad! sir, said he, I am sure you rejoice me with your favour:
’Tis what I longed for, but durst not presume. My dear, said my master,
receive the compliment of one of the honestest hearts in England, that
always revered your virtues!—and the good man saluted me with great
respect, and said, God in Heaven bless you both! and kneeled on one
knee. I must quit your presence! Indeed I must!—And away he went.

Your goodness, sir, said I, knows no bounds: O may my gratitude never
find any!—I saw, said my master, when the good man approached you, that
he did it with so much awe and love mingled together, that I fancied he
longed to salute my angel; and I could not but indulge his honest
heart. How blessed am I! said I, and kissed his hand.—And indeed I make
nothing now of kissing his dear hand, as if it was my own!

When honest old Mr. Jonathan come in to attend at dinner, so clean, so
sleek, and so neat, as he always is, with his silver hair, I said,
Well, Mr. Jonathan, how do you do? I am glad to see you.—You look as
well as ever, thank God! O, dear madam! said he, better than ever, to
have such a blessed sight! God bless you and my good master!—and I
hope, sir, said he, you’ll excuse all my past failings. Ay, that I
will, Jonathan, said he; because you never had any, but what your
regard for my dear wife here was the occasion of. And now I can tell
you, you can never err, because you cannot respect her too much. O sir,
said he, your honour is exceeding good! I’m sure I shall always pray
for you both.

After dinner, Mr. Longman coming in, and talking of some affairs under
his care, he said afterwards, All your honour’s servants are now happy;
for Robert, who left you, had a pretty little fortune fallen to him, or
he never would have quitted your service. He was here but yesterday, to
inquire when you and my lady returned hither; and hoped he might have
leave to pay his duty to you both. Ay, said my master, I shall be glad
to see honest Robert; for that’s another of your favourites, Pamela. It
was high time, I think, I should marry you, were it but to engage the
respects of all my family to myself.—There are, sir, said I, ten
thousand reasons why I should rejoice in your goodness.

But I was going to say, said Mr. Longman, That all your honour’s old
servants are now happy, but one. You mean John Arnold? said my master.
I do, indeed, said he, if you’ll excuse me, sir. O, said I, I have had
my prayer for poor John answered, as favourably as I could wish.—Why,
said Mr. Longman, to be sure poor John has acted no very good part,
take it altogether; but he so much honoured you, sir, and so much
respected you, madam, that he would have been glad to have been
obedient to both; and so was faithful to neither. But, indeed, the poor
fellow’s heart is almost broke, and he won’t look out for any other
place; and says, he must live in your honour’s service, or he must die
wretched very shortly. Mrs. Jervis was there when this was said:
Indeed, said she, the poor man has been here every day since he heard
the tidings, that have rejoiced us all; and he says, he hopes he shall
yet be forgiven. Is he in the house now? said my master. He is, sir;
and was here when your honour came in, and played at hide and seek to
have one look at you both when you alighted; and was ready to go out of
his wits for joy, when we saw your honour hand my lady in. Pamela, said
my dear master, you’re to do with John as you please. You have full
power. Then pray, sir, said I, let poor John come in.

The poor fellow came in, with so much confusion, that I have never seen
a countenance that expressed so lively a consciousness of his faults,
and mingled joy and shame. How do you do, John? said I; I hope you are
very well!—The poor fellow could hardly speak, and looked with awe upon
my master, and pleasure upon me. Said my master, Well, John, there is
no room to say any thing to a man that has so much concern already: I
am told you will serve me whether I will or not; but I turn you over
altogether to my spouse here: and she is to do by you as she pleases.
You see, John, said I, your good master’s indulgence. Well may I
forgive, that have so generous an example. I was always persuaded of
your honest intentions, if you had known how to distinguish between
your duty to your master, and your good-will to me: You will now have
no more puzzles on that account, from the goodness of your dear master.
I shall be but too happy I said the poor man. God bless your honour!
God bless you, madam!—I now have the joy of my soul, in serving you
both; and I will make the best of servants, to my power. Well, then,
John, said I, your wages will go on, as if you had not left your
master: May I not say so, sir? said I. Yes, surely, my dear, replied
he; and augment them too, if you find his duty to you deserves it. A
thousand millions of thanks, said the poor man: I am very well
satisfied, and desire no augmentation. And so he withdrew, overjoyed;
and Mrs. Jervis and Mr. Longman were highly pleased; for though they
were incensed against him for his fault to me, when matters looked
badly for me, yet they, and all his fellow-servants, always loved John.

When Mr. Longman and Mrs. Jervis had dined, they came in again, to know
if he had any commands; and my dear master, filling a glass of wine,
said, Longman, I am going to toast the happiest and honestest couple in
England, my dear Pamela’s father and mother.—Thank you, dear sir, said
I.

I think, continued he, that little Kentish purchase wants a manager;
and as it is a little out of your way, Longman, I have been purposing,
if I thought Mr. Andrews would accept it, that he should enter upon
Hodge’s farm that was, and so manage for me that whole little affair;
and we will well stock the farm for him, and make it comfortable; and I
think, if he will take that trouble upon him, it will be an ease to
you, and a favour to me.

Your honour, said he, cannot do a better thing; and I have had some
inkling given me, that you may, if you please, augment that estate, by
a purchase, of equal amount, contiguous to it; and as you have so much
money to spare, I can’t see your honour can do better. Well, said he,
let me have the particulars another time, and we will consider about
it. But, my dear, added he, you’ll mention this to your father, if you
please.

I have too much money, Longman, continued he, lies useless; though,
upon this occasion, I shall not grudge laying out as much in liveries
and other things, as if I had married a lady of a fortune equal, if
possible, to my Pamela’s merit; and I reckon you have a good deal in
hand. Yes, sir, said he, more than I wish I had. But I have a mortgage
in view, if you don’t buy that Kentish thing, that I believe will
answer very well; and when matters are riper, will mention it to your
honour.

I took with me, to Lincolnshire, said my master, upwards of six hundred
guineas, and thought to have laid most of them out there: (Thank God,
thought I, you did not! for he offered me five hundred of them, you
know:) but I have not laid out above two hundred and fifty of them; so
two hundred I left there in my escritoire; because I shall go again for
a fortnight or so, before winter; and two hundred I have brought with
me: and I have money, I know not what, in three places here, the
account of which is in my pocket-book, in my library.

You have made some little presents, Pamela, to my servants there, on
our nuptials; and these two hundred that I have brought up, I will put
into your disposal, that, with some of them, you shall do here as you
did there.

I am ashamed, good sir, said I, to be so costly, and so worthless!
Pray, my dear, replied he, say not a word of that. Said Mr. Longman,
Why, madam, with money in stocks, and one thing or another, his honour
could buy half the gentlemen around him. He wants not money, and lays
up every year. And it would have been pity but his honour should have
wedded just as he has. Very true, Longman, said my master; and, pulling
out his purse, said, Tell out, my dear, two hundred guineas, and give
me the rest.—I did so. Now, said he, take them yourself, for the
purposes I mentioned. But, Mr. Longman, do you, before sunset, bring my
dear girl fifty pounds, which is due to her this day, by my promise;
and every three months, from this day, pay her fifty pounds; which will
be two hundred pounds per annum; and this is for her to lay out at her
own discretion, and without account, in such a way as shall derive a
blessing upon us all: for she was my mother’s almoner, and shall be
mine, and her own too.—I’ll go for it this instant, said Mr. Longman.

When he was done, I looked upon my dear generous master, and on Mrs.
Jervis, and he gave me a nod of assent; and I took twenty guineas, and
said, Dear Mrs. Jervis, accept of this, which is no more than my
generous master ordered me to present to Mrs. Jewkes, for a pair of
gloves, on my happy nuptials; and so you, who are much better entitled
to them by the love I bear you, must not refuse them.

Said she, Mrs. Jewkes was on the spot, madam, at the happy time. Yes,
said my master; but Pamela would have rejoiced to have had you there
instead of her. That I should, sir, replied I, or instead of any body,
except my own mother. She gratefully accepted them, and thanked us
both: But I don’t know what she should thank me for; for I was not
worth a fourth of them myself.

I’d have you, my dear, said he, in some handsome manner, as you know
how, oblige Longman to accept of the like present.

Mr. Longman returned from his office, and brought me the fifty pounds,
saying, I have entered this new article with great pleasure: ‘To my
Lady fifty pounds: to be paid the same sum quarterly.’ O sir! said I,
what will become of me, to be so poor in myself, and so rich in your
bounty!—It is a shame to take all that your profuse goodness would heap
upon me thus: But indeed it shall not be without account.—Make no
words, my dear, said he: Are you not my wife? And have I not endowed
you with my goods; and, hitherto, this is a very small part.

Mr. Longman, said I, and Mrs. Jervis, you both see how I am even
oppressed with unreturnable obligations. God bless the donor, and the
receiver too! said Mr. Longman: I am sure they will bring back good
interest; for, madam, you had ever a bountiful heart; and I have seen
the pleasure you used to take to dispense my late lady’s alms and
donations.

I’ll warrant, Mr. Longman, said I, notwithstanding you are so willing
to have me take large sums for nothing at all, I should affront you, if
I asked you to accept from me a pair of gloves only, on account of my
happy nuptials. He seemed not readily to know how to answer; and my
master said, If Longman refuse you, my dear, he may be said to refuse
your first favour. On that I put twenty guineas in his hand; but he
insisted upon it, that he would take but five. I said, I must desire
you to oblige me, Mr. Longman, or I shall think I have affronted you.
Well, if I must, said he, I know what I know. What is that, Mr.
Longman? said I.—Why, madam, said he, I will not lay it out till my
young master’s birth-day, which I hope will be within this twelvemonth.

Not expecting anything like this from the old gentleman, I looked at my
master, and then blushed so, I could not hold up my head. Charmingly
said, Longman! said my master, and clasped me in his arms: O, my dear
life! God send it may be so!—You have quite delighted me, Longman!
Though I durst not have said such a thing for the world.—Madam, said
the old gentleman, I beg your pardon; I hope no offence: but I’d speak
it ten times in a breath to have it so, take it how you please, as long
as my good master takes it so well. Mrs. Jervis, said my master, this
is an over-nice dear creature; you don’t know what a life I have had
with her, even on this side matrimony.—Said Mrs. Jervis, I think Mr.
Longman says very well; I am sure I shall hope for it too.

Mr. Longman, who had struck me of a heap, withdrawing soon after, my
master said, Why, my dear, you can’t look up! The old man said nothing
shocking. I did not expect it, though, from him, said I. I was not
aware but of some innocent pleasantry. Why, so it was, said he, both
innocent and pleasant: and I won’t forgive you, if you don’t say as he
says. Come, speak before Mrs. Jervis. May every thing happen, sir, said
I, that will give you delight!—That’s my dearest love, said he, and
kissed me with great tenderness.

When the servants had dined, I desired to see the maidens; and all four
came up together. You are welcome home, madam, said Rachel; we rejoice
all to see you here, and more to see you our lady. O my good old
acquaintances, said I, I joy to see you! How do you do, Rachel? How do
you all do? And I took each of them by the hand, and could have kissed
them. For, said I to myself, I kissed you all, last time I saw you, in
sorrow; why should I not kiss you all with joy? But I forbore, in
honour of their master’s presence.

They seemed quite transported with me: and my good master was pleased
with the scene. See here, my lasses, said he, your mistress! I need not
bid you respect her; for you always loved her; and she’ll have it as
much in her power as inclination to be kind to the deserving. Indeed,
said I, I shall always be a kind friend to you; and your dear master
has ordered me to give each of you this, that you may rejoice with me
on my happiness. And so I gave them five guineas a-piece, and said, God
bless you every one! I am overjoyed to see you! And they withdrew with
the greatest gratitude and pleasure, praying for us both.

I turned to my dear master: ’Tis to you, dear sir, said I, next to God,
who put it into your generous heart, that all my happiness is owing!
That my mind thus overflows with joy and gratitude! And I would have
kissed his hand; but he clasped me in his arms, and said, You deserve
it, my dear: You deserve it all. Mrs. Jervis came in. Said she, I have
seen a very affecting sight; you have made your maidens quite happy,
madam, with your kindness and condescension! I saw them all four, as I
came by the hall-door, just got up from their knees, praising and
praying for you both! Dear good bodies! said I; and did Jane pray too?
May their prayers be returned upon themselves, I say!

My master sent for Jonathan, and I held up all the fingers of my two
hands; and my master giving a nod of approbation as he came in, I said,
Well, Mr. Jonathan, I could not be satisfied without seeing you in
form, as it were, and thanking you for all your past good-will to me.
You’ll accept of that, for a pair of gloves, on this happy occasion;
and I gave him ten guineas, and took his honest hand between both mine:
God bless you, said I, with your silver hairs, so like my dear
father!—I shall always value such a good old servant of the best of
masters!—He said, O such goodness! Such kind words! It is balm to my
heart! Blessed be God I have lived to this day!—And his eyes swam in
tears, and he withdrew.—My dear, said my master, you make every one
happy!—O, sir, said I, ’tis you, ’tis you! And let my grateful heart
always spring to my lips, to acknowledge the blessings you heap upon
me.

Then in came Harry, and Isaac, and Benjamin, and the two grooms of this
house, and Arthur the gardener; for my dear master had ordered them, by
Mrs. Jervis, thus to be marshalled out: and he said, Where’s John? Poor
John was ashamed, and did not come in till he heard himself called for.
I said to them, How do you do, my old friends and fellow-servants? I am
glad to see you all.

My master said, I have given you a mistress, my lads, that is the joy
of my heart: You see her goodness and condescension! Let your respects
to her be but answerable, and she’ll be proportionately as great a
blessing to you all, as she is to me. Harry said, In the names of all
your servants, sir, I bless your honour, and your good lady: and it
shall be all our studies to deserve her ladyship’s favours, as well as
your honour’s. And so I gave every one five guineas, to rejoice, as I
said, in my happiness.

When I came to John, I said, I saw you before, John; but I again tell
you, I am glad to see you. He said, he was quite ashamed and
confounded. O, said I, forget every thing that’s past, John!—Your dear
good master will, and so will I. For God has wonderfully brought about
all these things, by the very means I once thought most grievous. Let
us, therefore, look forward, and be only ashamed to commit faults for
the time to come: for they may not always be attended with like happy
consequences.

Arthur, said my master, I have brought you a mistress that is a great
gardener. She’ll shew you a new way to plant beans: And never any body
had such a hand at improving a sun-flower as she!—O sir, sir, said I,
(but yet a little dashed,) all my improvements in every kind of thing
are owing to you, I am sure!—And so I think I was even with the dear
man, and yet appeared grateful before his servants. They withdrew,
blessing us both, as the rest had done. And then came in the postilion,
and two helpers, (for my master has both here, and at Lincolnshire,
fine hunting horses; and it is the chief sport he takes delight in,) as
also the scullion-boy: And I said, How do all of you? And how dost do,
Tommy? I hope you’re very good. Here your dear master has ordered you
something a-piece, in honour of me. And my master holding three fingers
to me, I gave the postilion and helpers three guineas each, and the
little boy two; and bid him let his poor mother lay it out for him, for
he must not spend it idly. Mr. Colbrand, Abraham, and Thomas, I had
before presented at t’other house.

And when they were all gone but Mrs. Jervis, I said, And now, dearest
sir, permit me, on my knees, thus to bless you, and pray for you. And
oh, may God crown you with length of days, and increase of honour; and
may your happy, happy Pamela, by her grateful heart, appear always
worthy in your dear eyes, though she cannot be so in her own, nor in
those of any others!

Mrs. Jervis, said my master, you see the excellency of this sweet
creature! And when I tell you that the charms of her person, all lovely
as she is, bind me not so strongly to her, as the graces of her mind;
congratulate me, that my happiness is built on so stable a basis.
Indeed I do, most sincerely, sir, said she: This is a happy day to me!

I stept into the library, while he was thus pouring out his kindness
for me to Mrs. Jervis; and blessed God there on my knees, for the
difference I now found to what I had once known in it.—And when I have
done the same in the first scene of my fears, the once frightful
summer-house, I shall have gone through most of my distressful scenes
with gratitude; but shall never forbear thanking God in my mind, for
his goodness to me in every one. Mrs. Jervis, I find, had whispered him
what I had done above, and he saw me upon my knees, with my back
towards him, unknown to me; but softly put to the door again, as he had
opened it a little way. And I said, not knowing he had seen me, You
have some charming pictures here, sir.—Yes, said he, my dear life, so I
have; but none equal to that which your piety affords me; And may the
God you delight to serve, bless more and more my dear angel!—Sir, said
I, you are all goodness!—I hope, replied he, after your sweet example,
I shall be better and better.

Do you think, my dear father and mother, there ever was so happy a
creature as I? To be sure it would be very ungrateful to think with
uneasiness, or any thing but compassion, of poor Miss Sally Godfrey.

He ordered Jonathan to let the evening be passed merrily, but wisely,
as he said, with what every one liked, whether wine or October.

He was pleased afterwards to lead me up stairs, and gave me possession
of my lady’s dressing-room and cabinet, and her fine repeating-watch
and equipage; and, in short, of a complete set of diamonds, that were
his good mother’s; as also of the two pair of diamond ear-rings, the
two diamond rings, and diamond necklace, he mentioned in his naughty
articles, which her ladyship had intended for presents to Miss Tomlins,
a rich heiress, that was proposed for his wife, when he was just come
from his travels; but which went off, after all was agreed upon on both
the friends’ sides, because he approved not her conversation; and she
had, as he told his mother, too masculine an air; and he never could be
brought to see her but once, though the lady liked him very well. He
presented me also with her ladyship’s books, pictures, linen, laces,
etc. that were in her apartments; and bid me call those apartments
mine. O give me, my good God! humility and gratitude.

Sunday night.

This day, as matters could not be ready for our appearance at a better
place, we staid at home; and my dear master employed himself a good
deal in his library: And I have been taken up pretty much, I hope, as I
ought to be, in thankfulness, prayer and meditation, in my
newly-presented closet And I hope God will be pleased to give a
blessing to me; for I have the pleasure to think I am not puffed up
with this great alteration; and yet am I not wanting to look upon all
these favours and blessings in the light wherein I ought to receive
them, both at the hands of Heaven, and my dear benefactor.

We dined together with great pleasure; and I had, in every word and
action, all the instances of kindness and affection that the most
indulged heart could wish. He said he would return to his closet again;
and at five o’clock would come and take a walk with me in the garden:
And so retired as soon as he had dined, and I went up to mine.

About six, he was pleased to come up to me, and said, Now, my dear, I
will attend you for a little walk in the garden; and I gave him my hand
with great pleasure.

This garden is much better cultivated than the Lincolnshire one; but
that is larger, and has nobler walks in it; and yet there is a pretty
canal in this, and a fountain and cascade. We had a deal of sweet
conversation as we walked; and, after we had taken a turn round, I bent
towards the little garden; and when I came near the summer-house, took
the opportunity to slip from him, and just whipt up the steps of this
once frightful place, and kneeled down, and said, I bless thee, O God!
for my escapes, and for thy mercies! O let me always possess a
grateful, humble heart! and I whipt down again and joined him; and he
hardly missed me.

Several of the neighbouring gentry sent their compliments to him on his
return, but not a word about his marriage; particularly Mr. Arthur, Mr.
Towers, Mr. Brooks, and Mr. Martin of the Grove.

Monday.

I had a good deal of employment in choosing patterns for my new
clothes. He thought nothing too good; but I thought every thing I saw
was; and he was so kind to pick out six of the richest for me to choose
three suits out of, saying, We would furnish ourselves with more in
town, when we went thither. One was white, flowered with silver most
richly; and he was pleased to say, that, as I was a bride, I should
make my appearance in that the following Sunday. And so we shall have
in two or three days, from several places, nothing but mantua-makers
and tailors at work. Bless me! what a chargeable and what a worthless
hussy I am to the dear gentleman!—But his fortune and station require a
great deal of it; and his value for me will not let him do less, than
if he had married a fortune equal to his own: and then, as he says, it
would be a reflection upon him, if he did.—And so I doubt it will be,
as it is: For either way the world will have something to say. He made
me also choose some very fine laces, and linen; and has sent a message
on purpose, with his orders, to hasten all down, what can be done in
town, as the millinery matters, etc. to be completed there, and sent by
particular messengers, as done. All to be here, and finished by
Saturday afternoon, without fail.

I sent away John this morning, with some more of my papers to you, and
with the few he will give you separate. My desire is, that you will
send me all the papers you have done with, that I may keep my word with
Lady Davers; to beg the continuance of your prayers and blessings; to
hope you will give me your answer about my dear benefactor’s proposal
of the Kentish farm; to beg you to buy, two suits of clothes each; of
the finest cloth for you, my dear father; and of a creditable silk for
my dear mother; and good linen, and every thing answerable; and that
you will, as my best friend bid me say, let us see you here as soon as
possible; and he will have his chariot come for you, when you tell John
the day. Oh! how I long to see you both, my dear good parents, and to
share with you my felicities!

You will have, I’m sure, the goodness to go to all your creditors,
which are chiefly those of my poor unhappy brothers, and get an account
of all you are bound for; and every one shall be paid to the utmost
farthing, and interest besides, though some of them have been very
cruel and unrelenting.—But they are entitled to their own, and shall be
thankfully paid.

Now I think of it, John shall take my papers down to this place; that
you may have something to amuse you, of your dear child’s, instead of
those you part with; and I will continue writing till I am settled, and
you are determined; and then I shall apply myself to the duties of the
family, in order to become as useful to my dear benefactor, as my small
abilities will let me.

If you think a couple of guineas will be of use to Mrs. Mumford, who, I
doubt, has not much aforehand, pray give them to her, from me, (and I
will return them to you,) as for a pair of gloves on my nuptials: And
look through your poor acquaintances and neighbours, and let me have a
list of such honest industrious poor, as may be true objects of
charity, and have no other assistance; particularly such as are blind,
lame, or sickly, with their several cases; and also such poor families
and housekeepers as are reduced by misfortunes, as ours was, and where
a great number of children may keep them from rising to a state of
tolerable comfort: And I will choose as well as I can; for I long to be
making a beginning, with the kind quarterly benevolence my dear good
benefactor has bestowed upon me for such good purposes.

I am resolved to keep account of all these matters, and Mr. Longman has
already furnished me with a vellum book of white paper; some sides of
which I hope soon to fill with the names of proper objects: And though
my dear master has given me all this without account, yet shall he see
(but nobody else) how I lay it out, from quarter to quarter; and I
will, if any be left, carry it on, like an accomptant, to the next
quarter, and strike a balance four times a year, and a general balance
at every year’s end.—And I have written in it, Humble RETURNS for
DIVINE MERCIES; and locked it up safe in my newly-presented cabinet.

I intend to let Lady Davers see no farther of my papers, than to her
own angry letter to her brother; for I would not have her see my
reflections upon it; and she’ll know, down to that place, all that’s
necessary for her curiosity, as to my sufferings, and the stratagems
used against me, and the honest part I have been enabled to act: And I
hope, when she has read them all, she will be quite reconciled: for she
will see it is all God Almighty’s doings; and that a gentleman of his
parts and knowledge was not to be drawn in by such a poor young body as
me.

I will detain John no longer. He will tell you to read this last part
first, and while he stays. And so, with my humble duty to you both, and
my dear Mr. B——’s kind remembrance, I rest

Your ever-dutiful and gratefully happy DAUGHTER.

Wednesday evening.

HONOURED FATHER AND MOTHER!

I will now proceed with my journal.

On Tuesday morning, my dear sir rode out, and brought with him to
dinner, Mr. Martin of the Grove, and Mr. Arthur, and Mr. Brooks, and
one Mr. Chambers; and he stept up to me, and said he had rode out too
far to return to breakfast; but he had brought with him some of his old
acquaintance, to dine with me. Are you sorry for it, Pamela? said he. I
remembered his lessons, and said No, sure, sir; I cannot be angry at
any thing you are pleased to do. Said he, You know Mr. Martin’s
character, and have severely censured him in one of your letters, as
one of my brother rakes, and for his three lyings-in.

He then gave me the following account, how he came to bring them. Said
he, ‘I met them all at Mr. Arthur’s; and his lady asked me, if I was
really married? I said, Yes, really. And to whom? said Mr. Martin. Why,
replied I, bluntly, to my mother’s waiting-maid. They could not tell
what to say to me hereupon, and looked one upon another. And I saw I
had spoiled a jest, from each. Mrs. Arthur said, You have, indeed, sir,
a charming creature, as ever I saw; and she has mighty good luck. Ay,
said I, and so have I. But I shall say the less, because a man never
did any thing of this nature, that he did not think he ought, if it
were but in policy, to make the best of it. Nay, said Mr. Arthur, if
you have sinned, it is with your eyes open: for you know the world as
well as any gentleman of your years in it.’

‘Why, really, gentlemen, said I, I should be glad to please all my
friends; but I can’t expect, till they know my motives and inducements,
that it will be so immediately. But I do assure you, I am exceedingly
pleased myself; and that, you know, is most to the purpose.’

‘Said Mr. Brooks, I have heard my wife praise your spouse that is, so
much for person and beauty, that I wanted to see her of all things.
Why, replied I, if you’ll all go and take a dinner with me, you shall
see her with all my heart. And, Mrs. Arthur, will you bear us company?
No, indeed, sir, said she. What, I’ll warrant, my wife will not be able
to reconcile you to my mother’s waiting-maid; is not that it? Tell
truth, Mrs. Arthur. Nay, said she, I shan’t be backward to pay your
spouse a visit, in company of the neighbouring ladies; but for one
single woman to go, on such a sudden motion too, with so many
gentlemen, is not right. But that need not hinder you, gentlemen. So,
said he, the rest sent, that they should not dine at home; and they and
Mr. Chambers, a gentleman lately settled in these parts, one and all
came with me: And so, my dear, concluded he, when you make your
appearance next Sunday, you’re sure of a party in your favour; for all
that see you must esteem you.’

He went to them; and when I came down to dinner, he was pleased to take
me by the hand, at my entrance into the parlour, and said, My dear, I
have brought some of my good neighbours to dine with you. I said, You
are very good, sir.—My dear, this gentleman is Mr. Chambers; and so he
presented every one to me; and they saluted me, and wished us both joy.

I, for my part, said Mr. Brooks, wish you joy most heartily. My wife
told me a good deal of the beauties of your person; but I did not think
we had such a flower in our country. Sir, said I, your lady is very
partial to me; and you are so polite a gentleman, that you will not
contradict your good lady.

I’ll assure you, madam, returned he, you have not hit the matter at
all; for we contradict one another twice or thrice a day. But the
devil’s in’t if we are not agreed in so clear a case!

Said Mr. Martin, Mr. Brooks says very true, madam, in both respects;
(meaning his wife’s and his own contradiction to one another, as well
as in my favour;) for, added he, they have been married some years.

As I had not the best opinion of this gentleman, nor his jest, I said,
I am almost sorry, sir, for the gentleman’s jest upon himself and his
lady; but I think it should have relieved him from a greater jest, your
pleasant confirmation of it.—But still the reason you give that it may
be so, I hope, is the reason that may be given that it is not so; to
wit, that they have been married some years.

Said Mr. Arthur, Mr. Martin, I think the lady has very handsomely
reproved you. I think so too, said Mr. Chambers; and it was but a very
indifferent compliment to a bride. Said Mr. Martin, Compliment or not,
gentlemen, I have never seen a matrimony of any time standing, that it
was not so, little or much: But I dare say it will never be so here.

To be sure, sir, said I, if it was, I must be the ungratefullest person
in the world, because I am the most obliged person in it. That notion,
said Mr. Arthur, is so excellent, that it gives a moral certainty it
never can.

Sir, said Mr. Brooks to my dear master, softly, You have a most
accomplished lady, I do assure you, as well in her behaviour and wit,
as in her person, call her what you please. Why, my dear friend, said
my master, I must tell you, as I have said before now, that her person
made me her lover, but her mind made her my wife.

The first course coming in, my dear sir led me himself to my place; and
set Mr. Chambers, as the greatest stranger, at my right hand, and Mr.
Brooks at my left; and Mr. Arthur was pleased to observe, much to my
advantage, on the ease and freedom with which I behaved myself, and
helped them; and said, he would bring his lady to be a witness, and a
learner both, of my manners. I said, I should be proud of any honour
Mrs. Arthur would vouchsafe to do me; and if once I could promise
myself the opportunity of his good lady’s example, and those of the
other gentlemen present, I should have the greater opinion of my
worthiness to sit in the place I filled at present with much
insufficiency.

Mr. Arthur drank to my health and happiness, and said, My wife told
your spouse, madam, you had very good luck in such a husband; but I now
see who has the best of it. Said Mr. Brooks, Come, come, let’s make no
compliments; for the plain truth of the matter is, our good neighbour’s
generosity and judgment have met with so equal a match in his lady’s
beauty and merit, that I know not which has the best luck. But may you
be both long happy together, say I! And so he drank a glass of wine.

My best friend, who always takes delight to have me praised, seemed
much pleased with our conversation; and he said the kindest, tenderest,
and most respectful things in the world to me. Insomuch, that the rough
Mr. Martin said, Did you ever think our good friend here, who used to
ridicule matrimony so much, would have made so complaisant a husband?
How long do you intend, sir, that this shall hold? As long as my good
girl deserves it, said he; and that, I hope, will be for ever. But,
continued the kind gentleman, you need not wonder I have changed my
mind as to wedlock; for I never expected to meet with one whose
behaviour and sweetness of temper were so well adapted to make me
happy.

After dinner, and having drank good healths to each of their ladies, I
withdrew; and they sat and drank two bottles of claret a-piece, and
were very merry; and went away, full of my praises, and vowing to bring
their ladies to see me.

John having brought me your kind letter, my dear father, I told my good
master, after his friends were gone, how gratefully you received his
generous intentions as to the Kentish farm, and promised your best
endeavours to serve him in that estate; and that you hoped your
industry and care would be so well employed in it, that you should be
very little troublesome to him,—as to the liberal manner in which he
had intended to add to a provision, that of itself exceeded all you
wished. He was very well pleased with your cheerful acceptance of it.

I am glad your engagements in the world lie in so small a compass. As
soon as you have gotten an account of them exactly, you will be pleased
to send it me, with the list of the poor folks you are so kind to
promise to procure me.

I think, as my dear master is so generous, you should account nothing
that is plain, too good. Pray don’t be afraid of laying out upon
yourselves. My dear sir intends that you shall not, when you come to
us, return to your old abode; but stay with us, till you set out for
Kent; and so you must dispose of yourselves accordingly. And I hope, my
dear father, you have quite left off all slavish business. As farmer
Jones has been kind to you, as I have heard you say, pray, when you
take leave of them, present them with three guineas worth of good
books; such as a family bible, a common prayer, a whole duty of man, or
any other you think will be acceptable; for they live a great way from
church; and in winter the ways from their farm thither are impassable.

He has brought me my papers safe: and I will send them to Lady Davers
the first opportunity, down to the place I mentioned in my last.

My dear Mr. B—— just now tells me, that he will carry me, in the
morning, a little airing, about ten miles off, in his chariot and four,
to breakfast at a farm-house, noted for a fine dairy, and where, now
and then, the neighbouring gentry, of both sexes, resort for that
purpose.

Thursday.

We set out at about half an hour after six, accordingly; and driving
pretty smartly, got at this truly neat house at half an hour after
eight; and I was much pleased with the neatness of the good woman, and
her daughter and maid; and he was so good as to say he would now and
then take a turn with me to the same place, and on the same occasion,
as I seemed to like it; for that it would be a pretty exercise, and
procure us appetites to our breakfasts, as well as our return would to
our dinners. But I find this was not, though a very good reason, the
only one for which he gave me this agreeable airing; as I shall
acquaint you.

We were prettily received and entertained here, and an elegancy ran
through every thing, persons as well as furniture, yet all plain. And
my master said to the good housewife, Do your young boarding-school
ladies still at times continue their visits to you, Mrs. Dobson? Yes,
sir, said she, I expect three or four of them every minute.

There is, my dear, said he, within three miles of this farm, a very
good boarding-school for ladies. The governess of it keeps a chaise and
pair, which is to be made a double chaise at pleasure; and in summer
time, when the misses perform their tasks to satisfaction, she favours
them with an airing to this place, three or four at a time; and after
they have breakfasted, they are carried back. And this serves both for
a reward, and for exercise; and the misses who have this favour are not
a little proud of it; and it brings them forward in their respective
tasks.

A very good method, sir, said I. And just as we were talking, the
chaise came in with four misses, all pretty much of a size, and a
maid-servant to attend them. They were shewn another little neat
apartment, that went through ours; and made their honours very
prettily, as they passed by us. I went into the room to them, and asked
them questions about their work, and their lessons; and what they had
done to deserve such a fine airing and breakfasting; and they all
answered me very prettily. And pray, little ladies, said I, what may I
call your names? One was called Miss Burdoff, one Miss Nugent, one Miss
Booth, and the fourth Miss Goodwin. I don’t know which, said I, is the
prettiest; but you are all best, my little dears; and you have a very
good governess, to indulge you with such a fine airing, and such
delicate cream, and bread and butter. I hope you think so too.

My master came in, and I had no mistrust in the world; and he kissed
each of them; but looked more wishfully on Miss Goodwin, than on any of
the others; but I thought nothing just then: Had she been called Miss
Godfrey, I had hit upon it in a trice.

When we went from them, he said, Which do you think the prettiest of
those misses? Really, sir, replied I, it is hard to say: Miss Booth is
a pretty brown girl, and has a fine eye; Miss Burdoff has a great deal
of sweetness in her countenance, but is not so regularly featured. Miss
Nugent is very fair: and Miss Goodwin has a fine black eye, and is,
besides, I think, the genteelest shaped child; but they are all pretty.

The maid led them into the garden, to shew them the beehives; and Miss
Goodwin made a particular fine courtesy to my master; and I said, I
believe miss knows you, sir; and, taking her by the hand, I said, Do
you know this gentleman, my pretty dear?—Yes, madam, said she; it is my
own dear uncle. I clasped her in my arms: O why did you not tell me,
sir, said I, that you had a niece among these little ladies? And I
kissed her, and away she tript after the others.

But pray, sir, said I, how can this be?—You have no sister nor brother,
but Lady Davers.—How can this be?

He smiled: and then I said, O my dearest sir, tell me now the truth,
Does not this pretty miss stand in a nearer relation to you, than as a
niece?—I know she does! I know she does! And I embraced him as he
stood.

’Tis even so, my dear, replied he; and you remember my sister’s
good-natured hint of Miss Sally Godfrey? I do well, sir, answered I.
But this is Miss Goodwin. Her mother chose that name for her, said he,
because she should not be called by her own.

Well, said I, excuse me, sir; I must go and have a little prattle with
her. I’ll send for her in again, replied he; and in she came in a
moment. I took her in my arms, and said, O my charming dear! will you
love me?—Will you let me be your aunt? Yes, madam, answered she, with
all my heart! and I will love you dearly: But I mustn’t love my uncle.
Why so? said he. Because, replied she, you would not speak to me at
first! And because you would not let me call you uncle (for it seems
she was bid not, that I might not guess at her presently): and yet,
said the pretty dear, I had not seen you a great while, so I hadn’t.

Well, Pamela, said he, now can you allow me to love this little
innocent? Allow you, sir, replied I; you would be very barbarous, if
you did not; and I should be more so, if I did not further it all I
could, and love the little lamb myself, for your sake and for her own
sake; and in compassion to her poor mother, though unknown to me: And
tears stood in my eyes.

Said he, Why, my love, are your words so kind, and your countenance so
sad?—I drew to the window from the child; and said, Sad it is not, sir;
but I have a strange grief and pleasure mingled at once in my breast,
on this occasion. It is indeed a twofold grief, and a twofold
pleasure.—As how, my dear? said he. Why, sir, replied I, I cannot help
being grieved for the poor mother of this sweet babe, to think, if she
be living, that she must call her chiefest delight her shame: If she be
no more, that she must have had such remorse on her poor mind, when she
came to leave the world, and her little babe: And, in the second place,
I grieve, that it must be thought a kindness to the dear little soul,
not to let her know how near the dearest relation she has in the world
is to her.—Forgive me, dear sir, I say not this to reproach you, in the
least. Indeed I don’t. And I have a twofold cause of joy; first, That I
have had the grace to escape the like unhappiness with this poor
gentlewoman: and next, That this discovery has given me an opportunity
to shew the sincerity of my grateful affection for you, sir, in the
love I will always express to this dear child.

And then I stept to her again, and kissed her; and said, Join with me,
my pretty love, to beg your dear uncle to let you come and live with
your new aunt: Indeed, my little precious, I’ll love you dearly.

Will you, sir? said the little charmer; will you let me go and live
with my aunt?

You are very good, my Pamela, said he. And I have not once been
deceived in the hopes my fond heart has entertained of your
prudence.—But will you, sir? said I; will you grant me this favour? I
shall most sincerely love the little charmer; and all I am capable of
doing for her, both by example and affection, shall most cordially be
done. My dearest sir, added I, oblige me in this thing! I think already
my heart is set upon it! What a sweet employment and companionship
shall I have!

We’ll talk of this some other time, replied he; but I must, in
prudence, put some bounds to your amiable generosity. I had always
intended to surprise you into this discovery; but my sister led the way
to it, out of a poorness in her spite, that I could not brook: And
though you have pleased me beyond expression, in your behaviour on this
occasion; yet I can’t say, that you have gone much beyond my
expectations; for I have such a high opinion of you, that I think
nothing could have shaken it, but a contrary conduct to this you have
expressed on so tender a circumstance.

Well, sir, said the dear little miss, then you will not let me go home
with my aunt, will you? I am sure she will love me. When you break up
next, my dear, said he, if you are a good girl, you shall pay your new
aunt a visit. She made a low courtesy. Thank you, sir, answered she.
Yes, my dear, said I, and I will get you some fine things against the
time. I would have brought you some now, had I known I should have seen
my pretty love. Thank you, madam, returned she.

How old, sir, said I, is miss? Between six and seven, answered he. Was
she ever, sir, said I, at your house? My sister, replied he, carried
her thither once, as a near relation of her lord’s. I remember, sir,
said I, a little miss; and Mrs. Jervis and I took her to be a relation
of Lord Davers.

My sister, returned he, knew the whole secret from the beginning; and
it made her a great merit with me, that she kept it from the knowledge
of my father, who was then living, and of my mother, to her dying-day;
though she descended so low in her rage, to hint the matter to you.

The little misses took their leaves soon after: and I know not how, but
I am strangely affected with this dear child. I wish he would be so
good as to let me have her home. It would be a great pleasure to have
such a fine opportunity, obliged as I am, to shew my love for himself,
in my fondness for his dear miss.

As we came home together in the chariot, he gave me the following
particulars of this affair, additional to what he had before mentioned:

That this lady was of a good family, and the flower of it but that her
mother was a person of great art and address, and not altogether so
nice in the particular between himself and miss, as she ought to have
been: That, particularly, when she had reason to find him unsettled and
wild, and her daughter in more danger from him, than he was from her,
yet she encouraged their privacies; and even, at last, when she had
reason to apprehend, from their being surprised together, in a way not
so creditable to the lady, that she was far from forbidding their
private meetings; on the contrary, that, on a certain time, she had set
one that had formerly been her footman, and a half-pay officer, her
relation, to watch an opportunity, and to frighten him into a marriage
with the lady: That, accordingly, when they had surprised him in her
chamber, just as he had been let in, they drew their swords upon him,
and threatened instantly to kill him, if he did not promise marriage on
the spot; and that they had a parson ready below stairs, as he found
afterwards: That then he suspected, from some strong circumstances,
that miss was in the plot; which so enraged him, with their menaces
together, that he drew, and stood upon his defence; and was so much in
earnest, that the man he pushed into the arm, and disabled; and
pressing pretty forward upon the other, as he retreated, he rushed in
upon him near the top of the stairs, and pushed him down one pair, and
he was much hurt by the fall: Not but that, he said, he might have paid
for his rashness; but that the business of his antagonists was rather
to frighten than to kill him: That, upon this, in the sight of the old
lady, the parson she had provided, and her other daughters, he went out
of their house, with bitter execrations against them all.

That after this, designing to break off all correspondence with the
whole family, and miss too, she found means to engage him to give her a
meeting at Woodstock, in order to clear herself: That, poor lady! she
was there obliged, naughty creature as he was! to make herself quite
guilty of a worse fault, in order to clear herself of a lighter: That
they afterwards met at Godstow often, at Woodstock, and every
neighbouring place to Oxford, where he was then studying, as it proved,
guilty lessons, instead of improving ones; till, at last, the effect of
their frequent interviews grew too obvious to be concealed: That the
young lady then, when she was not fit to be seen, for the credit of the
family, was confined, and all manner of means were used, to induce him
to marry her: That, finding nothing would do, they at last resolved to
complain to his father and mother; but that he made his sister
acquainted with the matter, who then happened to be at home; and, by
her management and spirit, their intentions of that sort were
frustrated; and, seeing no hopes, they agreed to Lady Davers’s
proposals, and sent poor miss down to Marlborough, where, at her
expense, which he answered to her again, she was provided for, and
privately lay-in: That Lady Davers took upon herself the care of the
little one, till it came to be fit to be put to the boarding-school,
where it now is: And that he had settled upon the dear little miss such
a sum of money, as the interest of it would handsomely provide for her:
and the principal would be a tolerable fortune, fit for a gentlewoman,
when she came to be marriageable. And this, my dear, said he, is the
story in brief. And I do assure you, Pamela, added he, I am far from
making a boast of, or taking a pride in, this affair: But since it has
happened, I can’t say but I wish the poor child to live, and be happy;
and I must endeavour to make her so.

Sir, said I, to be sure you should; and I shall take a very great pride
to contribute to the dear little soul’s felicity, if you will permit me
to have her home.—But, added I, does miss know any thing who are her
father and mother? I wanted him to say if the poor lady was living or
dead.—No, answered he. Her governess has been told, by my sister, that
she is the daughter of a gentleman and his lady, who are related, at a
distance, to Lord Davers, and now live in Jamaica; and she calls me
uncle, only because I am the brother to Lady Davers, whom she calls
aunt, and who is very fond of her: as is also my lord, who knows the
whole matter; and they have her, at all her little school recesses, at
their house, and are very kind to her.

I believe, added he, the truth of the matter is very little known or
suspected; for, as her mother is of no mean family, her friends
endeavour to keep it secret, as much as I: and Lady Davers, till her
wrath boiled over, t’other day, has managed the matter very dexterously
and kindly.

The words, mother is of no mean family, gave me not to doubt the poor
lady was living. And I said, But how, sir, can the dear miss’s poor
mother be content to deny herself the enjoyment of so sweet a child?
Ah, Pamela, replied he, now you come in; I see you want to know what’s
become of the poor mother. ’Tis natural enough you should; but I was
willing to see how the little suspense would operate upon you.—Dear
sir, said I.—Nay, replied he, ’tis very natural, my dear! I think you
have had a great deal of patience, and are come at this question so
fairly that you deserve to be answered.

You must know then, there is some foundation for saying, that her
mother, at least, lives in Jamaica; for there she does live, and very
happily too. For I must observe, that she suffered so much in
child-bed, that nobody expected her life; and this, when she was up,
made such an impression upon her, that she dreaded nothing so much as
the thoughts of returning to her former fault; and, to say the truth, I
had intended to make her a visit as soon as her month was well up. And
so, unknown to me, she engaged herself to go to Jamaica, with two young
ladies, who were born there; and were returning to their friends, after
they had been four years in England for their education: and,
recommending to me, by a very moving letter, her little baby, and that
I would not suffer it to be called by her name, but Goodwin, that her
shame might be the less known, for hers and her family’s sake; she got
her friends to assign her five hundred pounds, in full of all her
demands upon her family, and went up to London, and embarked, with her
companions, at Gravesend, and so sailed to Jamaica; where she is since
well and happily married, passing to her husband for a young widow,
with one daughter, which her husband’s friends take care of, and
provide for. And so you see, Pamela, that in the whole story on both
sides, the truth is as much preserved as possible.

Poor lady! said I; how her story moves me! I am glad she is so happy at
last!—And, my dear, said he, are you not glad she is so far off too?—As
to that, sir, said I, I cannot be sorry, to be sure, as she is so
happy; which she could not have been here. For, sir, I doubt you would
have proceeded with your temptations, if she had not gone; and it
shewed she was much in earnest to be good, that she could leave her
native country, leave all her relations, leave you, whom she so well
loved, leave her dear baby, and try a new fortune, in a new world,
among quite strangers, and hazard the seas; and all to preserve herself
from further guiltiness! Indeed, indeed, sir, said I, I bleed for what
her distresses must be, in this case I am grieved for her poor mind’s
remorse, through her childbed terrors, which could have so great and so
worthy an effect upon her afterwards; and I honour her resolution; and
would rank such a returning dear lady in the class of those who are
most virtuous; and doubt not God Almighty’s mercy to her; and that her
present happiness is the result of his gracious providence, blessing
her penitence and reformation.—But, sir, said I, did you not once see
the poor lady after her lying-in?

I did not believe her so much in earnest, answered he; and I went down
to Marlborough, and heard she was gone from thence to Calne. I went to
Calne, and heard she was gone to Reading, to a relation’s there.
Thither I went, and heard she was gone to Oxford. I followed; and there
she was; but I could not see her.

She at last received a letter from me, begging a meeting with her; for
I found her departure with the ladies was resolved on, and that she was
with her friends, only to take leave of them, and receive her agreed on
portion: And she appointed the Saturday following, and that was
Wednesday, to give me a meeting at the old place, at Woodstock.

Then, added he, I thought I was sure of her, and doubted not I should
spoil her intended voyage. I set out on Thursday to Gloucester, on a
party of pleasure; and on Saturday I went to the place appointed, at
Woodstock: But when I came thither, I found a letter instead of my
lady; and when I opened it, it was to beg my pardon for deceiving me;
expressing her concern for her past fault; her affection for me; and
the apprehension she had, that she should be unable to keep her good
resolves, if she met me: that she had set out on the Thursday for her
embarkation; for that she feared nothing else could save her; and had
appointed this meeting on Saturday, at the place of her former guilt,
that I might be suitably impressed upon the occasion, and pity and
allow for her; and that she might get three or four days start of me,
and be quite out of my reach. She recommended again, as upon the spot
where the poor little one owed its being, my tenderness to it, for her
sake; and that was all she had to request of me, she said; but would
not forget to pray for me in all her own dangers, and in every
difficulty she was going to encounter.

I wept at this moving tale. And did not this make a deep impression
upon you, sir? said I. Surely such an affecting lesson as this, on the
very guilty spot too, (I admire the dear lady’s pious contrivance!)
must have had a great effect upon you. One would have thought, sir, it
was enough to reclaim you for ever! All your naughty purposes, I make
no doubt, were quite changed?

Why, my dear, said he, I was much moved, you may be sure, when I came
to reflect: But, at first, I was so assured of being a successful
tempter, and spoiling her voyage, that I was vexed, and much out of
humour; but when I came to reflect, as I said, I was quite overcome
with this instance of her prudence, her penitence, and her resolution;
and more admired her than I ever had done. Yet I could not bear she
should so escape me neither; so much overcome me, as it were, in an
heroical bravery; and I hastened away, and got a bill of credit of Lord
Davers, upon his banker in London, for five hundred pounds; and set out
for that place, having called at Oxford, and got what light I could, as
to where I might hear of her there.

When I arrived in town, which was not till Monday morning, I went to a
place called Crosby-square, where the friends of the two ladies lived.
She had set out in the flying-coach on Tuesday; got to the two ladies
that very night; and, on Saturday, had set out with them for Gravesend,
much about the time I was expecting her at Woodstock.

You may suppose that I was much affected, my dear, with this. However,
I got my bill of credit converted into money; and I set out with my
servant on Monday afternoon, and reached Gravesend that night; and
there I understood that she and the two ladies had gone on board from
the very inn I put up at, in the morning; and the ship waited only for
the wind, which then was turning about in its favour.

I got a boat directly, and went on board the ship, and asked for Mrs.
Godfrey. But judge you, my dear Pamela, her surprise and confusion,
when she saw me! She had like to have fainted away. I offered any money
to put off the sailing till next day, but it would not be complied
with; and fain would I have got her on shore, and promised to attend
her, if she would go over land, to any part of England the ship would
touch at. But she was immovable.

Every one concluded me her humble servant, and were touched at the
moving interview; the young ladies, and their female attendants,
especially. With great difficulty, upon my solemn assurances of honour,
she trusted herself with me in one of the cabins; and there I tried,
what I could, to prevail upon her to quit her purpose; but all in vain:
She said, I had made her quite unhappy by this interview! She had
difficulties enough upon her mind before; but now I had embittered all
her voyage, and given her the deepest distress.

I could prevail upon her but for one favour, and that with the greatest
reluctance; which was, to accept of the five hundred pounds, as a
present from me; and she promised, at my earnest desire, to draw upon
me for a greater sum, as a person that had her effects in my hands,
when she arrived, if she should find it convenient for her. In short,
this was all the favour I could procure; for she would not promise so
much as to correspond with me, and was determined on going: and, I
believe, if I would have married her, which yet I had not in my head,
she would not have deviated from her purpose.

But how, sir, said I, did you part? I would have sailed with her,
answered he, and been landed at the first port in England or Ireland, I
cared not which, they should put in at; but she was too full of
apprehensions to admit it; And the rough fellow of a master, captain
they called him, (but, in my mind, I could have thrown him overboard,)
would not stay a moment, the wind and tide being quite fair; and was
very urgent with me to go a-shore, or to go the voyage; and being
impetuous in my temper, (spoiled, you know, my dear, by my mother,) and
not used to control, I thought it very strange that wind or tide, or
any thing else, should be preferred to me and my money: But so it was;
I was forced to go; and so took leave of the ladies, and the other
passengers; wished them a good voyage; gave five guineas among the
ship’s crew, to be good to the ladies, and took such a leave as you may
better imagine than I express. She recommended once more to me, the
dear guest, as she called her, the ladies being present; and thanked me
for all these instances of my regard, which, she said, would leave a
strong impression on her mind; and, at parting, she threw her arms
about my neck, and we took such a leave, as affected every one present,
men, as well as ladies.

So, with a truly heavy heart, I went down the ship’s side to my boat;
and stood up in it, looking at her, as long as I could see her, and she
at me, with her handkerchief at her eyes; and then I gazed at the ship,
till, and after I had landed, as long as I could discern the least
appearance of it; for she was under sail, in a manner, when I left her;
and so I returned highly disturbed to my inn.

I went to bed, but rested not; returned to London the next morning; and
set out that afternoon again for the country. And so much, my dear, for
poor Sally Godfrey.—She sends, I understand, by all opportunities, with
the knowledge of her husband, to learn how her child, by her first
husband, does; and has the satisfaction to know she is happily provided
for. And, about half a year ago, her spouse sent a little negro boy, of
about ten years old, as a present, to wait upon her. But he was taken
ill of the small-pox, and died in a month after he was landed.

Sure, sir, said I, your generous mind must have been long affected with
this melancholy case, and all its circumstances.

It hung upon me, indeed, some time, said he; but I was full of spirit
and inconsideration. I went soon after to travel; a hundred new objects
danced before my eyes, and kept reflection from me. And, you see, I had
five or six years afterwards, and even before that, so thoroughly lost
all the impressions you talk of, that I doubted not to make my Pamela
change her name, without either act of parliament, or wedlock, and be
Sally Godfrey the second.

O you dear naughty man! said I, this seems but too true! but I bless
God that it is not so!—I bless God for your reformation, and that for
your own dear sake, as well as mine!

Well, my dear, said he, and I bless God for it too!—I do most
sincerely!—And ’tis my greater pleasure, because I have, as I hoped,
seen my error so early; and that with such a stock of youth and health
on my side, in all appearance, I can truly abhor my past liberties, and
pity poor Sally Godfrey, from the same motives that I admire my
Pamela’s virtues; and resolve to make myself as worthy of them as
possible: And I will hope, my dear, your prayers for my pardon, and my
perseverance, will be of no small efficacy on this occasion.

These agreeable reflections, on this melancholy but instructive story,
brought us in view of his own house; and we alighted, and took a walk
in the garden till dinner was ready. And now we are so busy about
making ready for our appearance, that I shall hardly have time to write
till that be over.

Monday morning.

Yesterday we set out, attended by John, Abraham, Benjamin, and Isaac,
in fine new liveries, in the best chariot, which had been new cleaned,
and lined, and new harnessed; so that it looked like a quite new one.
But I had no arms to quarter with my dear lord and master’s; though he
jocularly, upon my taking notice of my obscurity, said, that he had a
good mind to have the olive-branch, which would allude to his hopes,
quartered for mine. I was dressed in the suit I mentioned, of white
flowered with silver, and a rich head-dress, and the diamond necklace,
ear-rings, etc. I also mentioned before: And my dear sir, in a fine
laced silk waistcoat, of blue paduasoy, and his coat a pearl-coloured
fine cloth, with gold buttons and button-holes, and lined with white
silk; and he looked charmingly indeed. I said, I was too fine, and
would have laid aside some of the jewels; but he said, It would be
thought a slight to me from him, as his wife; and though as I
apprehended, it might be, that people would talk as it was, yet he had
rather they should say any thing, than that I was not put upon an equal
footing, as his wife, with any lady he might have married.

It seems the neighbouring gentry had expected us; and there was a great
congregation; for (against my wish) we were a little of the latest; so
that, as we walked up the church to his seat, we had abundance of
gazers and whisperers: But my dear master behaved with so intrepid an
air, and was so cheerful and complaisant to me, that he did credit to
his kind choice, instead of shewing as if he was ashamed of it: And as
I was resolved to busy my mind entirely with the duties of the day, my
intentness on that occasion, and my thankfulness to God, for his
unspeakable mercies to me, so took up my thoughts, that I was much less
concerned, than I should otherwise have been, at the gazings and
whisperings of the ladies and gentlemen, as well as of the rest of the
congregation, whose eyes were all turned to our seat.

When the sermon was ended, we staid the longer, because the church
should be pretty empty; but we found great numbers at the church-doors,
and in the church-porch; and I had the pleasure of hearing many
commendations, as well of my person, as my dress and behaviour, and not
one reflection, or mark of disrespect. Mr. Martin, who is single, Mr.
Chambers, Mr. Arthur, and Mr. Brooks, with their families, were all
there: And the four gentlemen came up to us, before we went into the
chariot, and, in a very kind and respectful manner, complimented us
both: and Mrs. Arthur and Mrs. Brooks were so kind as to wish me joy;
and Mrs. Brooks said, You sent Mr. Brooks, madam, home t’other day,
quite charmed with a manner, which, you have convinced a thousand
persons this day, is natural to you.

You do me great honour, madam, replied I. Such a good lady’s
approbation must make me too sensible of my happiness. My dear master
handed me into the chariot, and stood talking with Sir Thomas Atkyns,
at the door of it, (who was making him abundance of compliments, and is
a very ceremonious gentleman, a little too extreme in that way,) and, I
believe, to familiarize me to the gazers, which concerned me a little;
for I was dashed to hear the praises of the countrypeople, and to see
how they crowded about the chariot. Several poor people begged my
charity, and I beckoned John with my fan, and said, Divide in the
further church-porch, that money to the poor, and let them come
to-morrow morning to me, and I will give them something more, if they
don’t importune me now. So I gave him all the silver I had, which
happened to be between twenty and thirty shillings; and this drew away
from me their clamorous prayers for charity.

Mr. Martin came up to me on the other side of the chariot, and leaned
on the very door, while my master was talking to Sir Thomas, from whom
he could not get away; and said, By all that’s good, you have charmed
the whole congregation! Not a soul but is full of your praises! My
neighbour knew, better than any body could tell him, how to choose for
himself. Why, said he, the dean himself looked more upon you than his
book.

O sir, said I, you are very encouraging to a weak mind! I vow, said he,
I say no more than is truth: I’d marry to-morrow, if I was sure of
meeting with a person of but one-half the merit you have. You are,
continued he, and ’tis not my way to praise too much, an ornament to
your sex, an honour to your spouse, and a credit to religion.—Every
body is saying so, added he; for you have, by your piety, edified the
whole church.

As he had done speaking, the dean himself complimented me, that the
behaviour of so worthy a lady, would be very edifying to his
congregation, and encouraging to himself. Sir, said I, you are very
kind: I hope I shall not behave unworthy of the good instructions I
shall have the pleasure to receive from so worthy a divine. He bowed,
and went on.

Sir Thomas then applied to me, my master stepping into the chariot, and
said, I beg pardon, madam, for detaining your good spouse from you: but
I have been saying, he is the happiest man in the world. I bowed to
him, but I could have wished him further, to make me sit so in the
notice of every one; which, for all I could do, dashed me not a little.
Mr. Martin said to my master, If you’ll come to church every Sunday
with your charming lady, I will never absent myself, and she’ll give a
good example to all the neighbourhood. O, my dear sir! said I to my
master, you know not how much I am obliged to good Mr. Martin! He has,
by his kind expressions, made me dare to look up with pleasure and
gratitude.

Said my master, My dear love, I am very much obliged, as well as you,
to my good friend Mr. Martin. And he said to him, We will constantly go
to church, and to every other place, where we can have the pleasure of
seeing Mr. Martin.

Mr. Martin said, Gad, sir, you are a happy man; and I think your lady’s
example has made you more polite and handsome too, than I ever knew you
before, though we never thought you unpolite, neither. And so he bowed,
and went to his own chariot; and, as we drove away, the people kindly
blessed us, and called us a charming pair.

As I have no other pride, I hope, in repeating these things, than in
the countenance the general approbation gives to my dear master, for
his stooping so low, you will excuse me for it, I know.

In the afternoon we went again to church, and a little early, at my
request; but the church was quite full, and soon after even crowded; so
much does novelty (the more’s the pity!) attract the eyes of mankind.
Mr. Martin came in after us, and made up to our seat; and said, If you
please, my dear friend, I will take my seat with you this afternoon.
With all my heart, said my master. I was sorry for it; but was resolved
my duty should not be made second to bashfulness, or any other
consideration; and when divine service began, I withdrew to the farther
end of the pew, and left the gentlemen in the front, and they behaved
quite suitably, both of them, to the occasion. I mention this the
rather, because Mr. Martin was not very noted for coming to church, or
attention when there, before.

The dean preached again, which he was not used to do, out of compliment
to us; and an excellent sermon he made on the relative duties of
Christianity: And it took my particular attention; for he made many
fine observations on the subject. Mr. Martin addressed himself twice or
thrice to me, during the sermon; but he saw me so wholly engrossed with
hearkening to the good preacher, that he forbore interrupting me; yet I
took care, according to the lessons formerly given me, to observe to
him a cheerful and obliging behaviour, as one of Mr. B——’s friends and
intimates. My master asked him to give him his company to supper; and
he said, I am so taken with your lady, that you must not give me too
much encouragement; for I shall be always with you, if you do. He was
pleased to say, You cannot favour us with too much of your company; and
as I have left you in the lurch in your single state, I think you will
do well to oblige us as much as you can; and who knows but my happiness
may reform another rake? Who knows? said Mr. Martin: Why, I know; for I
am more than half reformed already.

At the chariot door, Mrs. Arthur, Mrs. Brooks, and Mrs. Chambers, were
brought to me, by their respective spouses; and presently the witty
Lady Towers, who bantered me before, (as I once told you,) joined them;
and Mrs. Arthur said, she wished me joy; and that all the good ladies,
my neighbours, would collect themselves together, and make me a visit.
This, said I, will be an honour, madam, that I can never enough
acknowledge. It will be very kind so to countenance a person who will
always study to deserve your favour, by the most respectful behaviour.

Lady Towers said, My dear neighbour, you want no countenance; your own
merit is sufficient. I had a slight cold, that kept me at home in the
morning; but I heard you so much talked of, and praised, that I
resolved not to stay away in the afternoon; and I join in the joy every
one gives you. She turned to my master, and said, You are a sly thief,
as I always thought you. Where have you stolen this lady? And now, how
barbarous is it, thus unawares, in a manner, to bring her here upon us,
to mortify and eclipse us all?—You are very kind, madam, said he, that
you and all my worthy neighbours see with my eyes. But had I not known
she had so much excellency of mind and behaviour, as would strike every
body in her favour at first sight, I should not have dared to class her
with such of my worthy neighbours, as now so kindly congratulate us
both.

I own, said she, softly, I was one of your censurers; but I never liked
you so well in my life, as for this action, now I see how capable your
bride is of giving distinction to any condition.—And, coming to me, My
dear neighbour, said she, excuse me for having but in my thought, the
remembrance that I have seen you formerly, when, by your sweet air and
easy deportment, you so much surpass us all, and give credit to your
present happy condition.

Dear good madam, said I, how shall I suitably return my
acknowledgments! But it will never be a pain to me to look back upon my
former days, now I have the kind allowance and example of so many
worthy ladies to support me in the honours to which the most generous
of men has raised me.

Sweetly said! she was pleased to say. If I was in another place, I
would kiss you for that answer. Oh! happy, happy Mr. B——! said she to
my master; what reputation have you not brought upon your judgment! I
won’t be long before I see you, added she, I’ll assure you, if I come
by myself. That shall be your own fault, madam, said Mrs. Brooks.

And so they took leave; and I gave my hand to my dear master, and said,
How happy have you made me, generous sir!—And the dean, who had just
come up, heard me, and said, And how happy you have made your spouse,
I’ll venture to pronounce, is hard to say, from what I observe of you
both. I courtesied, and blushed, not thinking any body heard me. And my
master telling him he should be glad of the honour of a visit from him;
he said, He would pay his respects to us the first opportunity, and
bring his wife and daughter to attend me. I said, That was doubly kind;
and I should be very proud of cultivating so worthy an acquaintance. I
thanked him for his kind discourse; and he thanked me for my attention,
which he called exemplary: and so my dear master handed me into the
chariot; and we were carried home, both happy, and both pleased, thank
God.

Mr. Martin came in the evening, with another gentleman, his friend, one
Mr. Dormer; and he entertained us with the favourable opinion, he said,
every one had of me, and of the choice my good benefactor had made.

This morning the poor came, according to my invitation; and I sent them
away with glad hearts to the number of twenty-five. There were not
above twelve or fourteen on Sunday, that John divided the silver among,
which I gave him for that purpose; but others got hold of the matter,
and made up to the above number.

Tuesday.

My generous master has given me, this morning, a most considerate, but
yet, from the nature of it, melancholy instance of his great regard for
my unworthiness, which I never could have wished, hoped for, or even
thought of.

He took a walk with me, after breakfast, into the garden; and a little
shower falling, he led me, for shelter, into the little summer-house,
in the private garden, where he formerly gave me apprehensions; and,
sitting down by me, he said, I have now finished all that lies on my
mind, my dear, and am very easy: For have you not wondered, that I have
so much employed myself in my library? Been so much at home, and yet
not in your company?—No, sir, said I; I have never been so impertinent
as to wonder at any thing you please to employ yourself about; nor
would give way to a curiosity that should be troublesome to you: And,
besides, I know your large possessions; and the method you take of
looking yourself into your affairs, must needs take up so much of your
time, that I ought to be very careful how I intrude upon you.

Well, said he, but I’ll tell you what has been my last work I have
taken it into my consideration, that, at present, my line is almost
extinct; and that the chief part of my maternal estate, in case I die
without issue, will go to another line, and great part of my personal
will fall into such hands, as I shall not care my Pamela should be at
the mercy of. I have, therefore, as human life is uncertain, made such
a disposition of my affairs, as will make you absolutely independent
and happy; as will secure to you the power of doing a great deal of
good, and living as a person ought to do, who is my relict; and shall
put it out of any body’s power to molest your father and mother, in the
provision I design them, for the remainder of their days: And I have
finished all this very morning, except to naming trustees for you; and
if you have any body you would confide in more than another, I would
have you speak.

I was so touched with this mournful instance of his excessive goodness
to me, and the thoughts necessarily flowing from the solemn occasion,
that I was unable to speak; and at last relieved my mind by a violent
fit of weeping; and could only say, clasping my arms around the dear
generous man, How shall I support this! So very cruel, yet so very
kind!

Don’t, my dear, said he, be concerned at what gives me pleasure. I am
not the nearer my end, for having made this disposition; but I think
the putting off these material points, when so many accidents every day
happen, and life is so precarious, is one of the most inexcusable
things in the world. And there are many important points to be thought
of, when life is drawing to its utmost verge; and the mind may be so
agitated and unfit, that it is a most sad thing to put off, to that
time, any of those concerns, which more especially require a
considerate and composed frame of temper, and perfect health and
vigour, to give directions about. My poor friend, Mr. Carlton, who died
in my arms so lately; and had a mind disturbed by worldly
considerations on one side; a weakness of body, through the violence of
his distemper, on another; and the concerns of still as much more
moment, as the soul is to the body, on a third; made so great an
impression upon me then, that I was the more impatient to come to this
house, where were most of my writings, in order to make the disposition
I have now perfected: And since it is grievous to my dear girl, I will
myself think of such trustees as shall be most for her benefit. I have
only, therefore, to assure you, my dear, that in this instance, as I
will do in any other I can think of, I have studied to make you quite
easy, free, and independent. And because I shall avoid all occasions,
for the future, which may discompose you, I have but one request to
make; which is, that if it please God, for my sins, to separate me from
my dearest Pamela, you will only resolve not to marry one person; for I
would not be such a Herod, as to restrain you from a change of
condition with any other, however reluctantly I may think of any other
person’s succeeding me in your esteem.

I could not answer, and thought my heart would have burst: And he
continued, To conclude at once a subject that is so grievous to you, I
will tell you, my Pamela, that this person is Mr. Williams. And now I
will acquaint you with my motive for this request; which is wholly
owing to my niceness, and to no dislike I have for him, or apprehension
of any likelihood that it will be so: but, methinks it would reflect a
little upon my Pamela, if she was to give way to such a conduct, as if
she had married a man for his estate, when she had rather have had
another, had it not been for that; and that now, the world will say,
she is at liberty to pursue her inclination, the parson is the man!—And
I cannot bear even the most distant apprehension, that I had not the
preference with you, of any man living, let me have been what I would,
as I have shewn my dear life, that I have preferred her to all her sex,
of whatever degree.

I could not speak, might I have had the world; and he took me in his
arms, and said, I have now spoken all my mind, and expect no answer;
and I see you too much moved to give me one. Only forgive me the
mention, since I have told you my motive; which as much affects your
reputation, as my niceness; and offer not at an answer;—only say, you
forgive me: And I hope I have not one discomposing thing to say to my
dearest, for the rest of my life; which I pray God, for both our sakes,
to lengthen for many happy years.

Grief still choaked up the passage of my words; and he said, The shower
is over, my dear: let us walk out again.—He led me out, and I would
have spoken; but he said, I will not hear my dear creature say any
thing! To hearken to your assurance of complying with my request, would
look as if I doubted you, and wanted it. I am confident I needed only
to speak my mind, to be observed by you; and I shall never more think
on the subject, if you don’t remind me of it. He then most sweetly
changed the discourse.

Don’t you with pleasure, my dear, said he, take in the delightful
fragrance that this sweet shower has given to these banks of flowers?
Your presence is so enlivening to me, that I could almost fancy, that
what we owe to the shower, is owing to that: And all nature, methinks,
blooms around me when I have my Pamela by my side. You are a poetess,
my dear; and I will give you a few lines, that I made myself on such an
occasion as this I am speaking of, the presence of a sweet companion,
and the fresh verdure, that, after a shower, succeeding a long drought,
shewed itself throughout all vegetable nature. And then, in a sweet and
easy accent, (with his dear arms about me as we walked,) he sung me the
following verses; of which he afterwards favoured me with a copy:


I.


    All nature blooms when you appear;
    The fields their richest liv’ries wear;
    Oaks, elms, and pines, blest with your view,
    Shoot out fresh greens, and bud anew.

       The varying seasons you supply;

       And, when you’re gone, they fade and die.




II.


    Sweet Philomel, in mournful strains,
   To you appeals, to you complains.
    The tow’ring lark, on rising wing,
    Warbles to you, your praise does sing;

       He cuts the yielding air, and flies

       To heav’n, to type your future joys.




III.


    The purple violet, damask rose,
    Each, to delight your senses, blows.
    The lilies ope’, as you appear;
    And all the beauties of the year

       Diffuse their odours at your feet,

       Who give to ev’ry flow’r its sweet.




IV.


    For flow’rs and women are allied;
    Both, nature’s glory, and her pride!
    Of ev’ry fragrant sweet possest,
    They bloom but for the fair one’s breast,

       And to the swelling bosom borne,

       Each other mutually adorn.




Thus sweetly did he palliate the woes, which the generosity of his
actions, mixed with the solemness of the occasion, and the strange
request he had vouchsafed to make me, had occasioned. And all he would
permit me to say, was, that I was not displeased with him!—Displeased
with you, dearest sir! said I: Let me thus testify my obligations, and
the force all your commands shall have upon me. And I took the liberty
to clasp my arms about his neck, and kissed him.

But yet my mind was pained at times, and has been to this hour.—God
grant that I may never see the dreadful moment, that shall shut up the
precious life of this excellent, generous benefactor of mine! And—but I
cannot bear to suppose—I cannot say more on such a deep subject.

Oh! what a poor thing is human life in its best enjoyments! subjected
to imaginary evils, when it has no real ones to disturb it; and that
can be made as effectually unhappy by its apprehensions of remote
contingencies, as if it was struggling with the pangs of a present
distress! This, duly reflected upon, methinks, should convince every
one, that this world is not a place for the immortal mind to be
confined to; and that there must be an hereafter, where the whole soul
shall be satisfied.

But I shall get out of my depth; my shallow mind cannot comprehend, as
it ought, these weighty subjects: Let me only therefore pray, that,
after having made a grateful use of God’s mercies here, I may, with my
dear benefactor, rejoice in that happy state, where is no mixture, no
unsatisfiedness; and where all is joy, and peace, and love, for
evermore!

I said, when we sat at supper, The charming taste you gave me, sir, of
your poetical fancy, makes me sure you have more favours of this kind
to delight me with, if you please; and may I beg to be indulged on this
agreeable head? Hitherto, said he, my life has been too much a life of
gayety and action, to be busied so innocently. Some little essays I
have now and then attempted; but very few have I completed. Indeed I
had not patience nor attention enough to hold me long to any one thing.
Now and then, perhaps, I may occasionally shew you what I have essayed.
But I never could please myself in this way.

Friday.

We were yesterday favoured with the company of almost all the
neighbouring gentlemen and their ladies, who, by appointment with one
another, met to congratulate our happiness. Nothing could be more
obliging, more free and affectionate, than the ladies; nothing more
polite than the gentlemen. All was performed (for they came to supper)
with decency and order, and much to every one’s satisfaction; which was
principally owing to good Mrs. Jervis’s care and skill; who is an
excellent manager.

For my part, I was dressed out only to be admired, as it seems: and
truly, if I had not known, that I did not make myself, as you, my dear
father, once hinted to me, and if I had had the vanity to think as well
of myself, as the good company was pleased to do, I might possibly have
been proud. But I know, as my Lady Davers said, though in anger, yet in
truth, that I am but a poor bit of painted dirt. All that I value
myself upon, is, that God has raised me to a condition to be useful, in
my generation, to better persons than myself. This is my pride: And I
hope this will be all my pride. For what was I of myself!—All the good
I can do, is but a poor third-hand good; for my dearest master himself
is but the second-hand. God, the all-gracious, the all-good, the
all-bountiful, the all-mighty, the all-merciful God, is the first: To
him, therefore, be all the glory!

As I expect the happiness, the unspeakable happiness, my ever-dear and
ever-honoured father and mother, of enjoying you both here, under this
roof, so soon, (and pray let it be as soon as you can,) I will not
enter into the particulars of the last agreeable evening: For I shall
have a thousand things, as well as that, to talk to you upon. I fear
you will be tired with my prattle when I see you!

I am to return these visits singly; and there were eight ladies here of
different families. Dear heart! I shall find enough to do!—I doubt my
time will not be so well filled up, as I once promised my dear
master!—But he is pleased, cheerful, kind, affectionate! O what a happy
creature am I!—May I be always thankful to God, and grateful to him!

When all these tumultuous visitings are over, I shall have my mind, I
hope, subside into a family calm, that I may make myself a little
useful to the household of my dear master; or else I shall be an
unprofitable servant indeed!

Lady Davers sent this morning her compliments to us both, very
affectionately; and her lord’s good wishes and congratulations: and she
desired my writings per bearer; and says, she will herself bring them
to me again, with thanks, as soon as she has read them; and she and her
lord will come and be my guests (that was her particularly kind word)
for a fortnight.

I have now but one thing to wish for; and then, methinks, I shall be
all ecstasy: and that is, your presence, both of you, and your
blessings; which I hope you will bestow upon me every morning and
night, till you are settled in the happy manner my dear Mr. B—— has
intended.

Methinks I want sadly your list of the honest and worthy poor; for the
money lies by me, and brings me no interest. You see I am become a mere
usurer; and want to make use upon use: and yet, when I have done all, I
cannot do so much as I ought. God forgive my imperfections!

I tell my dear spouse, I want another dairy-house visit. To be sure, if
he won’t, at present, permit it, I shall, if it please God to spare us,
tease him like any over-indulged wife, if, as the dear charmer grows
older, he won’t let me have the pleasure of forming her tender mind, as
well as I am able; lest, poor little soul, she fall into such snares,
as her unhappy dear mother fell into. I am providing a power of pretty
things for her, against I see her next, that I may make her love me, if
I can.

Just now I have the blessed news, that you will set out for this happy
house on Tuesday morning. The chariot shall be with you without fail.
God give us a happy meeting! O how I long for it! Forgive your
impatient daughter, who sends this to amuse you on your journey; and
desires to be Ever most dutifully yours.

Here end, at present, the letters of Pamela to her father and mother.
They arrived at their daughter’s house on Tuesday evening in the
following week, and were received by her with the utmost joy and duty;
and with great goodness and complaisance by Mr. B——. And having resided
there till every thing was put in order for them at the Kentish estate,
they were carried down thither by himself, and their daughter, and put
into possession of the pretty farm he had designed for them.

The reader will here indulge us in a few brief observations, which
naturally result from the story and characters; and which will serve as
so many applications of its most material incidents to the minds of
YOUTH of BOTH SEXES.

First, then, in the character of the GENTLEMAN, may be seen that of a
fashionable libertine, who allowed himself in the free indulgence of
his passions, especially to the fair sex; and found himself supported
in his daring attempts, by an affluent fortune in possession, a
personal bravery, as it is called, readier to give than take offence,
and an imperious will: yet as he betimes sees his errors, and reforms
in the bloom of youth, an edifying lesson may be drawn from it, for the
use of such as are born to large fortunes; and who may be taught, by
his example, the inexpressible difference between the hazards and
remorse which attend a profligate course of life, and the pleasures
which flow from virtuous love, and benevolent actions.

In the character of Lady DAVERS, let the proud, and the high-born, see
the deformity of unreasonable passion, and how weak and ridiculous such
persons must appear, who suffer themselves, as is usually the case, to
be hurried from the height of violence, to the most abject submission;
and subject themselves to be outdone by the humble virtue they so much
despise.

Let good CLERGYMEN, in Mr. WILLIAMS, see, that whatever displeasure the
doing of their duty may give, for a time, to their proud patrons,
Providence will, at last, reward their piety, and turn their distresses
to triumph; and make them even more valued for a conduct that gave
offence while the violence of passion lasted, than if they had meanly
stooped to flatter or soothe the vices of the great.

In the examples of good old ANDREWS and his WIFE, let those, who are
reduced to a low estate, see, that Providence never fails to reward
their honesty and integrity: and that God will, in his own good time,
extricate them, by means unforeseen, out of their present difficulties,
and reward them with benefits unhoped for.

The UPPER SERVANTS of great families may, from the odious character of
Mrs. JEWKES, and the amiable ones of Mrs. JERVIS, Mr. LONGMAN, etc.
learn what to avoid, and what to choose, to make themselves valued and
esteemed by all who know them.

And, from the double conduct of poor JOHN, the LOWER SERVANTS may learn
fidelity, and how to distinguish between the lawful and unlawful
commands of a superior.

The poor deluded female, who, like the once unhappy Miss GODFREY, has
given up her honour, and yielded to the allurements of her designing
lover, may learn from her story, to stop at the first fault; and, by
resolving to repent and amend, see the pardon and blessing which await
her penitence, and a kind Providence ready to extend the arms of its
mercy to receive and reward her returning duty: While the prostitute,
pursuing the wicked courses, into which, perhaps, she was at first
inadvertently drawn, hurries herself into filthy diseases, and an
untimely death; and, too probably, into everlasting perdition.

Let the desponding heart be comforted by the happy issue which the
troubles and trials of PAMELA met with, when they see, in her case,
that no danger nor distress, however inevitable, or deep to their
apprehensions, can be out of the power of Providence to obviate or
relieve; and which, as in various instances in her story, can turn the
most seemingly grievous things to its own glory, and the reward of
suffering innocence; and that too, at a time when all human prospects
seem to fail.

Let the rich, and those who are exalted from a low to a high estate,
learn from her, that they are not promoted only for a single good; but
that Providence has raised them, that they should dispense to all
within their reach, the blessings it has heaped upon them; and that the
greater the power is to which God hath raised them, the greater is the
good that will be expected from them.

From the low opinion she every where shews of herself, and her
attributing all her excellencies to pious education, and her lady’s
virtuous instructions and bounty; let persons, even of genius and
piety, learn not to arrogate to themselves those gifts and graces,
which they owe least of all to themselves: Since the beauties of person
are frail; and it is not in our power to give them to ourselves, or to
be either prudent, wise, or good, without the assistance of divine
grace.

From the same good example, let children see what a blessing awaits
their duty to their parents, though ever so low in the world; and that
the only disgrace, is to be dishonest; but none at all to be poor.

From the economy she purposes to observe in her elevation, let even
ladies of condition learn, that there are family employments, in which
they may and ought to make themselves useful, and give good examples to
their inferiors, as well as equals: and that their duty to God, charity
to the poor and sick, and the different branches of household
management, ought to take up the most considerable portions of their
time.

From her signal veracity, which she never forfeited, in all the
hardships she was tried with, though her answers, as she had reason to
apprehend, would often make against her; and the innocence she
preserved throughout all her stratagems and contrivances to save
herself from violation: Persons, even sorely tempted, may learn to
preserve a sacred regard to truth; which always begets a reverence for
them, even in the corruptest minds.

In short,


Her obliging behaviour to her equals, before her exaltation; her
kindness to them afterwards; her forgiving spirit, and her generosity;


Her meekness, in every circumstance where her virtue was not concerned;


Her charitable allowances for others, as in the case of Miss Godfrey,
for faults she would not have forgiven in herself;


Her kindness and prudence to the offspring of that melancholy
adventure;


Her maiden and bridal purity, which extended as well to her thoughts as
to her words and actions;


Her signal affiance in God;


Her thankful spirit;


Her grateful heart;


Her diffusive charity to the poor, which made her blessed by them
whenever she appeared abroad;


The cheerful ease and freedom of her deportment;


Her parental, conjugal, and maternal duty;


Her social virtues;

Are all so many signal instances of the excellency of her mind, which
may make her character worthy of the imitation of her sex. And the
Editor of these sheets will have his end, if it inspires a laudable
emulation in the minds of any worthy persons, who may thereby entitle
themselves to the rewards, the praises, and the blessings, by which
PAMELA was so deservedly distinguished.

THE END