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!