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.