and that by such a vile dog as I. Little did I think it would come to
this. But I must say, if ever there was a rogue in the world, it is me.
I have all along shewed your letters to my master: He employed me for
that purpose; and he saw every one, before I carried them to your
father and mother; and then scaled them up, and sent me with them. I
had some business that way, but not half so often as I pretended: and
as soon as I heard how it was, I was ready to hang myself. You may well
think I could not stand in your presence. O vile, vile wretch, to bring
you to this! If you are ruined, I am the rogue that caused it. All the
justice I can do you, is to tell you, you are in vile hands; and I am
afraid will be undone in spite of all your sweet innocence; and I
believe I shall never live, after I know it. If you can forgive me, you
are exceeding good; but I shall never forgive myself, that’s certain.
Howsomever, it will do you no good to make this known; and may-hap I
may live to do you service. If I can, I will: I am sure I ought.—Master
kept your last two or three letters, and did not send them at all. I am
the most abandoned wretch of wretches. ‘J. ARNOLD.’
‘You see your undoing has been long hatching. Pray take care of your
sweet self. Mrs. Jewkes is a devil: but in my master’s t’other house
you have not one false heart, but myself. Out upon me for a villain!’
My dear father and mother, when you come to this place, I make no doubt
your hair will stand on end as mine does!—O the deceitfulness of the
heart of man!—This John, that I took to be the honestest of men; that
you took for the same; that was always praising you to me, and me to
you, and for nothing so much as for our honest hearts; this very fellow
was all the while a vile hypocrite, and a perfidious wretch, and
helping to carry on my ruin.
But he says so much of himself, that I will only sit down with this sad
reflection, That power and riches never want tools to promote their
vilest ends, and there is nothing so hard to be known as the heart of
man:—I can but pity the poor wretch, since he seems to have great
remorse, and I believe it best to keep his wickedness secret. If it
lies in my way, I will encourage his penitence; for I may possibly make
some discoveries by it.
One thing I should mention in this place; he brought down, in a
portmanteau, all the clothes and things my lady and master had given
me, and moreover two velvet hoods, and a velvet scarf, that used to be
worn by my lady; but I have no comfort in them, or any thing else.
Mrs. Jewkes had the portmanteau brought into my closet, and she shewed
me what was in it; but then locked it up, and said, she would let me
have what I would out of it, when I asked; but if I had the key, it
might make me want to go abroad, may be; and so the confident woman put
it in her pocket.
I gave myself over to sad reflections upon this strange and surprising
discovery of John’s, and wept much for him, and for myself too; for now
I see, as he says, my ruin has been long hatching, that I can make no
doubt what my master’s honourable professions will end in. What a heap
of hard names does the poor fellow call himself! But what must they
deserve, then, who set him to work? O what has this wicked master to
answer for, to be so corrupt himself, and to corrupt others, who would
have been all innocent; and to carry on a poor plot, I am sure for a
gentleman, to ruin a poor creature, who never did him harm, nor wished
him any; and who can still pray for his happiness, and his repentance?
I can’t but wonder what these gentlemen, as they are called, can think
of themselves for these vile doings! John had some inducement; for he
hoped to please his master, who rewarded him and was bountiful to him;
and the same may be said, bad as she is, for this same odious Mrs.
Jewkes. But what inducement has my master for taking so much pains to
do the devil’s work for him?—If he loves me, as ’tis falsely called,
must he therefore lay traps for me, to ruin me and make me as bad as
himself? I cannot imagine what good the undoing of such a poor creature
as I can procure him.—To be sure, I am a very worthless body. People,
indeed, say I am handsome; but if I was so, should not a gentleman
prefer an honest servant to a guilty harlot? And must he be more
earnest to seduce me, because I dread of all things to be seduced, and
would rather lose my life than my honesty?
Well, these are strange things to me! I cannot account for them, for my
share; but sure nobody will say, that these fine gentlemen have any
tempter but their own wicked wills!—his naughty master could run away
from me, when he apprehended his servants might discover his vile
attempts upon me in that sad closet affair; but is it not strange that
he should not be afraid of the all-seeing eye, from which even that
base plotting heart of his, in its most secret motions, could not be
hid?—But what avail me these sorrowful reflections? He is and will be
wicked, and designs me a victim to his lawless attempts, if the God in
whom I trust, and to whom I hourly pray, prevent it not.
Tuesday and Wednesday.
I have been hindered by this wicked woman’s watching me so close, from
writing on Tuesday; and so I will put both these days together. I have
been a little turn with her for an airing, in the chariot, and walked
several times in the garden; but have always her at my heels.
Mr. Williams came to see us, and took a walk with us once; and while
her back was just turned, (encouraged by the hint he had before given
me,) I said, Sir, I see two tiles upon that parsley-bed; might not one
cover them with mould, with a note between them, on occasion?—A good
hint, said he; let that sunflower by the back-door of the garden be the
place; I have a key to the door; for it is my nearest way to the town.
So I was forced to begin. O what inventions will necessity push us
upon! I hugged myself at the thought; and she coming to us, he said, as
if he was continuing a discourse we were in: No, not extraordinary
pleasant. What’s that? what’s that? said Mrs. Jewkes.—Only, said he,
the town, I’m saying, is not very pleasant. No, indeed, said she, it is
not; it is a poor town, to my thinking. Are there any gentry in it?
said I. And so we chatted on about the town, to deceive her. But my
deceit intended no hurt to any body.
We then talked of the garden, how large and pleasant, and the like; and
sat down on the tufted slope of the fine fish-pond, to see the fishes
play upon the surface of the water; and she said, I should angle if I
would.
I wish, said I, you’d be so kind to fetch me a rod and baits. Pretty
mistress! said she—I know better than that, I’ll assure you, at this
time.—I mean no harm, said I, indeed. Let me tell you, said she. I know
none who have their thoughts more about them than you. A body ought to
look to it where you are. But we’ll angle a little to-morrow. Mr.
Williams, who is much afraid of her, turned the discourse to a general
subject. I sauntered in, and left them to talk by themselves; but he
went away to town, and she was soon after me.
I had got to my pen and ink; and I said, I want some paper, Mrs.
Jewkes, (putting what I was about in my bosom:) You know I have written
two letters, and sent them by John. (O how his name, poor guilty
fellow, grieves me!) Well, said she, you have some left; one sheet did
for those two letters. Yes, said I; but I used half another for a
cover, you know; and see how I have scribbled the other half; and so I
shewed her a parcel of broken scraps of verses, which I had tried to
recollect, and had written purposely that she might see, and think me
usually employed to such idle purposes. Ay, said she, so you have;
well, I’ll give you two sheets more; but let me see how you dispose of
them, either written or blank. Well, thought I, I hope still, Argus, to
be too hard for thee. Now Argus, the poets say, had a hundred eyes, and
was set to watch with them all, as she does.
She brought me the paper, and said, Now, madam, let me see you write
something. I will, said I; and took the pen and wrote, ‘I wish Mrs.
Jewkes would be so good to me, as I would be to her, if I had it in my
power.’—That’s pretty now, said she; well, I hope I am; but what then?
‘Why then (wrote I) she would do me the favour to let me know, what I
have done to be made her prisoner; and what she thinks is to become of
me.’ Well, and what then? said she. ‘Why then, of consequence,
(scribbled I,) she would let me see her instructions, that I may know
how far to blame, or to acquit her.’
Thus I fooled on, to shew her my fondness for scribbling; for I had no
expectation of any good from her; that so she might suppose I employed
myself, as I said, to no better purpose at other times: for she will
have it, that I am upon some plot, I am so silent, and love so much to
be by myself.—She would have made me write on a little further. No,
said I; you have not answered me. Why, said she, what can you doubt,
when my master himself assures you of his honour? Ay, said I; but lay
your hand to your heart, Mrs. Jewkes, and tell me, if you yourself
believe him. Yes, said she, to be sure I do. But, said I, what do you
call honour? Why, said she, what does he call honour, think you?—Ruin!
shame! disgrace! said I, I fear.—Pho! pho! said she; if you have any
doubt about it, he can best explain his own meaning:—I’ll send him word
to come and satisfy you, if you will.—Horrid creature! said I, all in a
fright—Can’st thou not stab me to the heart? I’d rather thou would’st,
than say such another word!—But I hope there is no such thought of his
coming.
She had the wickedness to say, No, no; he don’t intend to come, as I
know of—But if I was he, I would not be long away. What means the
woman? said I.—Mean! said she, (turning it off;) why I mean, I would
come, if I was he, and put an end to all your fears—by making you as
happy as you wish. It is out of his power, said I, to make me happy,
great and rich as he is! but by leaving me innocent, and giving me
liberty to go to my dear father and mother.
She went away soon after, and I ended my letter, in hopes to have an
opportunity to lay it in the appointed place. So I went to her, and
said; I suppose, as it is not dark, I may take another turn in the
garden. It is too late, said she; but if you will go, don’t stay; and,
Nan, see and attend madam, as she called me.
So I went towards the pond, the maid following me, and dropt purposely
my hussy: and when I came near the tiles, I said, Mrs. Anne, I have
dropt my hussy; be so kind as to look for it; I had it by the pond
side. She went back to look, and I slipt the note between the tiles,
and covered them as quick as I could with the light mould, quite
unperceived; and the maid finding the hussy, I took it, and sauntered
in again, and met Mrs. Jewkes coming to see after me. What I wrote was
this:
‘REVEREND SIR,
‘The want of an opportunity to speak my mind to you, I am sure will
excuse this boldness in a poor creature that is betrayed hither, I have
reason to think, for the worst of purposes. You know something, to be
sure, of my story, my native poverty, which I am not ashamed of, my
late lady’s goodness, and my master’s designs upon me. It is true he
promises honour, and all that; but the honour of the wicked is disgrace
and shame to the virtuous: And he may think he keeps his promises,
according to the notions he may allow himself to hold; and yet,
according to mine and every good body’s, basely ruin me.
‘I am so wretched, and ill-treated by this Mrs. Jewkes, and she is so
ill-principled a woman, that, as I may soon want the opportunity which
the happy hint of this day affords to my hopes, I throw myself at once
upon your goodness, without the least reserve; for I cannot be worse
than I am, should that fail me; which, I dare say, to your power, it
will not: For I see it, sir, in your looks, I hope it from your cloth,
and I doubt it not from your inclination, in a case circumstanced as my
unhappy one is. For, sir, in helping me out of my present distress, you
perform all the acts of religion in one; and the highest mercy and
charity, both to the body and soul of a poor wretch, that, believe me,
sir, has, at present, not so much as in thought swerved from her
innocence.
‘Is there not some way to be found out for my escape, without danger to
yourself? Is there no gentleman or lady of virtue in this
neighbourhood, to whom I may fly, only till I can find a way to get to
my poor father and mother? Cannot Lady Davers be made acquainted with
my sad story, by your conveying a letter to her? My poor parents are so
low in the world, they can do nothing but break their hearts for me;
and that, I fear, will be the end of it.
‘My master promises, if I will be easy, as he calls it, in my present
lot, he will not come down without my consent. Alas! sir, this is
nothing: For what’s the promise of a person who thinks himself at
liberty to act as he has done by me? If he comes, it must be to ruin
me; and come to be sure he will, when he thinks he has silenced the
clamours of my friends, and lulled me, as no doubt he hopes, into a
fatal security.
‘Now, therefore, sir, is all the time I have to work and struggle for
the preservation of my honesty. If I stay till he comes, I am undone.
You have a key to the back garden door; I have great hopes from that.
Study, good sir, and contrive for me. I will faithfully keep your
secret.—Yet I should be loath to have you suffer for me! I say no more,
but commit this to the happy tiles, in the bosom of that earth, where,
I hope, my deliverance will take root, and bring forth such fruit, as
may turn to my inexpressible joy, and your eternal reward, both here
and hereafter: As shall ever pray, ‘Your oppressed humble servant.’
Thursday.
This completes a terrible week since my setting out, as I hoped to see
you, my dear father and mother. O how different were my hopes then,
from what they are now! Yet who knows what these happy tiles may
produce!
But I must tell you, first, how I have been beaten by Mrs. Jewkes! It
is very true!—And thus it came about:
My impatience was great to walk in the garden, to see if any thing had
offered, answerable to my hopes. But this wicked Mrs. Jewkes would not
let me go without her; and said, she was not at leisure. We had a great
many words about it; for I told her, it was very hard I could not be
trusted to walk by myself in the garden for a little air, but must be
dogged and watched worse than a thief.
She still pleaded her instructions, and said she was not to trust me
out of her sight: And you had better, said she, be easy and contented,
I assure you; for I have worse orders than you have yet found. I
remember, added she, your asking Mr. Williams, If there were any gentry
in the neighbourhood? This makes me suspect you want to get away to
them, to tell your sad dismal story, as you call it.
My heart was at my mouth; for I feared, by that hint, she had seen my
letter under the tiles: O how uneasy I was! At last she said, Well,
since you take on so, you may take a turn, and I will be with you in a
minute.
When I was out of sight of her window, I speeded towards the hopeful
place; but was soon forced to slacken my pace, by her odious voice:
Hey-day, why so nimble, and whither so fast? said she: What! are you
upon a wager? I stopt for her, till her pursy sides were waddled up to
me; and she held by my arm, half out of breath: So I was forced to pass
by the dear place, without daring to look at it.
The gardener was at work a little farther, and so we looked upon him,
and I began to talk about his art; but she said, softly, My
instructions are, not to let you be so familiar with the servants. Why,
said I, are you afraid I should confederate with them to commit a
robbery upon my master? May be I am, said the odious wretch; for to rob
him of yourself, would be the worst that could happen to him, in his
opinion.
And pray, said I, walking on, how came I to be his property? What right
has he in me, but such as a thief may plead to stolen goods?—Why, was
ever the like heard? says she.—This is downright rebellion, I
protest!—Well, well, lambkin, (which the foolish often calls me,) if I
was in his place, he should not have his property in you long
questionable. Why, what would you do, said I, if you were he?—Not stand
shill-I-shall-I, as he does; but put you and himself both out of your
pain.—Why, Jezebel, said I, (I could not help it,) would you ruin me by
force?—Upon this she gave me a deadly slap upon my shoulder: Take that,
said she; whom do you call Jezebel?
I was so surprised, (for you never beat me, my dear father and mother,
in your lives,) that I was like one thunder-struck; and looked round,
as if I wanted somebody to help me; but, alas! I had nobody; and said,
at last, rubbing my shoulder, Is this also in your instructions?—Alas!
for me! am I to be beaten too? And so fell a crying, and threw myself
upon the grass-walk we were upon.—Said she, in a great pet, I won’t be
called such names, I’ll assure you. Marry come up! I see you have a
spirit: You must and shall be kept under. I’ll manage such little
provoking things as you, I warrant ye! Come, come, we’ll go in a’doors,
and I’ll lock you up, and you shall have no shoes, nor any thing else,
if this be the case.
I did not know what to do. This was a cruel thing to me, and I blamed
myself for my free speech; for now I have given her some pretence: and
O! thought I, here I have, by my malapertness, ruined the only project
I had left.
The gardener saw this scene: but she called to him, Well, Jacob, what
do you stare at? Pray mind what you’re upon. And away he walked, to
another quarter, out of sight.
Well, thought I, I must put on the dissembler a little, I see. She took
my hand roughly; Come, get up, said she, and come in a’doors!—I’ll
Jezebel you, I will so!—Why, dear Mrs. Jewkes, said I.—None of your
dears, and your coaxing! said she; why not Jezebel again?—She was in a
fearful passion, I saw, and I was out of my wits. Thought I, I have
often heard women blamed for their tongues; I wish mine had been
shorter. But I can’t go in, said I, indeed I can’t!—Why, said she,
can’t you? I’ll warrant I can take such a thin body as you under my
arm, and carry you in, if you won’t walk. You don’t know my
strength.—Yes, but I do, said I, too well; and will you not use me
worse when I come in?—So I arose, and she muttered to herself all the
way, She to be a Jezebel with me, that had used me so well! and such
like.
When I came near the house, I said, sitting down upon a settle-bench,
Well, I will not go in, till you say you forgive me, Mrs. Jewkes.—If
you will forgive my calling you that name, I will forgive your beating
me.—She sat down by me, and seemed in a great pucker, and said, Well,
come, I will forgive you for this time: and so kissed me, as a mark of
reconciliation.—But pray, said I, tell me where I am to walk and go,
and give me what liberty you can; and when I know the most you can
favour me with, you shall see I will be as content as I can, and not
ask you for more.
Ay, said she, this is something like: I wish I could give you all the
liberty you desire; for you must think it is no pleasure to me to tie
you to my petticoat, as it were, and not let you stir without me.—But
people that will do their duties, must have some trouble: and what I
do, is to serve as good a master, to be sure, as lives.—Yes, said I, to
every body but me! He loves you too well, to be sure, returned she; and
that’s the reason: so you ought to bear it. I say, love! replied I.
Come, said she, don’t let the wench see you have been crying, nor tell
her any tales: for you won’t tell them fairly, I am sure: and I’ll send
her, and you shall take another walk in the garden, if you will: May be
it will get you a stomach to your dinner: for you don’t eat enough to
keep life and soul together. You are beauty to the bone, added the
strange wretch, or you could not look so well as you do, with so little
stomach, so little rest, and so much pining and whining for nothing at
all. Well, thought I, say what thou wilt, so I can be rid of thy bad
tongue and company: and I hope to find some opportunity now to come at
my sunflower. But I walked the other way, to take that in my return, to
avoid suspicion.
I forced my discourse to the maid; but it was all upon general things;
for I find she is asked after every thing I say and do. When I came
near the place, as I had been devising, I said, Pray step to the
gardener, and ask him to gather a sallad for me to dinner. She called
out, Jacob! said I, He can’t hear you so far off; and pray tell him, I
should like a cucumber too, if he has one. When she had stept about a
bow-shot from me, I popt down, and whipt my fingers under the upper
tile, and pulled out a letter without direction, and thrust it in my
bosom, trembling for joy. She was with me, before I could well secure
it; and I was in such a taking that I feared I should discover myself.
You seem frightened, madam, said she; Why, said I, with a lucky
thought, (alas! your poor daughter will make an intriguer by and by;
but I hope an innocent one!) I stooped to smell at the sunflower, and a
great nasty worm ran into the ground, that startled me; for I can’t
abide worms. Said she, Sunflowers don’t smell. So I find, replied I.
And then we walked in; and Mrs. Jewkes said; Well, you have made haste
now.—You shall go another time.
I went up to my closet, locked myself in, and opening my letter, found
in it these words:
‘I am infinitely concerned for your distress. I most heartily wish it
may be in my power to serve and save so much innocence, beauty, and
merit. My whole dependance is upon Mr. B——, and I have a near view of
being provided for by his favour to me. But yet I would sooner forfeit
all my hopes in him, (trusting in God for the rest,) than not assist
you, if possible. I never looked upon Mr. B—— in the light he now
appears in to me, in your case. To be sure, he is no professed
debauchee. But I am entirely of opinion, you should, if possible, get
out of his hands; and especially as you are in very bad ones in Mrs.
Jewkes’s.
‘We have here the widow Lady Jones, mistress of a good fortune; and a
woman of virtue, I believe. We have also old Sir Simon Darnford, and
his lady, who is a good woman; and they have two daughters, virtuous
young ladies. All the rest are but middling people, and traders, at
best. I will try, if you please, either Lady Jones, or Lady Darnford,
if they’ll permit you to take refuge with them. I see no probability of
keeping myself concealed in this matter; but will, as I said, risk all
things to serve you; for I never saw a sweetness and innocence like
yours; and your hard case has attached me entirely to you; for I know,
as you so happily express, if I can serve you in this case, I shall
thereby perform all the acts of religion in one.
‘As to Lady Davers, I will convey a letter, if you please, to her; but
it must not be from our post-house, I give you caution; for the man
owes all his bread to Mr. B——, and his place too; and I believe, by
something that dropt from him, over a can of ale, has his instructions.
You don’t know how you are surrounded; all which confirms me in your
opinion, that no honour is meant you, let what will be professed; and I
am glad you want no caution on that head.
‘Give me leave to say, that I had heard much in your praise; but, I
think, greatly short of what you deserve, both as to person and mind:
My eyes convince me of the one, your letter of the other. For fear of
losing the present lucky opportunity, I am longer than otherwise I
should be. But I will not enlarge, any further than to assure you that
I am, to the best of my power,
‘Your faithful friend and servant,
‘ARTHUR WILLIAMS.’
‘I will come once every morning, and once every evening, after
school-time, to look for your letters. I’ll come in, and return without
going into the house, if I see the coast clear: Otherwise, to avoid
suspicion, I’ll come in.’
I instantly, in answer to this pleasing letter, wrote as follows:
‘REVEREND SIR,
‘O how suited to your function, and your character, is your kind
letter! God bless you for it! I now think I am beginning to be happy. I
should be sorry to have you suffer on my account: but I hope it will be
made up to you an hundred-fold, by that God whom you so faithfully
serve. I should be too happy, could I ever have it in my power to
contribute in the least to it. But, alas! to serve me, must be for
God’s sake only; for I am poor and lowly in fortune; though in mind, I
hope, too high to do a mean or unworthy deed to gain a kingdom. But I
lose time.——
‘Any way you think best, I should be pleased with; for I know not the
persons, nor in what manner it is best to apply to them. I am glad of
the hint you so kindly give me of the man at the post-house. I was
thinking of opening a way for myself by letter, when I could have
opportunity; but I see more and more that I am, indeed, strangely
surrounded with dangers; and that there is no dependance to be made on
my master’s honour.
‘I should think, sir, if either of those ladies would give leave, I
might some way get out by favour of your key: and as it is impossible,
watched as I am, to know when it can be, suppose, sir, you get one made
by it, and put it, the next opportunity, under the sunflower?—I am sure
no time is to be lost, because it is rather my wonder, that she is not
thoughtful about this key, than otherwise; for she forgets not the
minutest thing. But, sir, if I had this key, I could, if these ladies
would not shelter me, run away any where: and if I was once out of the
house, they could have no pretence to force me again; for I have done
no harm, and hope to make my story good to any compassionate body; and
by this way you need not to be known. Torture should not wring it from
me, I assure you.