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.