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.