Bedfordshire family? By that means, may be, I could be informed of his
intention of coming hither, and when I enclose you a letter of a
deceitful wretch; for I can trust you with any thing; poor John Arnold.
Its contents will tell why I enclose it. Perhaps by his means,
something may be discovered; for he seems willing to atone for his
treachery to me, by the intimation of future service. I leave the hint
to you to improve upon, and am,
‘Reverend Sir,
‘Your for ever obliged, and thankful servant.’
‘I hope, sir, by your favour, I could send a little packet, now and
then, some how, to my poor father and mother. I have a little stock of
money, about five or six guineas: Shall I put half in your hands, to
defray the charge of a man and horse, or any other incidents?’
I had but just time to transcribe this, before I was called to dinner;
and I put that for Mr. Williams, with a wafer in it, in my bosom, to
get an opportunity to lay it in the dear place.
O good sirs, of all the flowers in the garden, the sunflower, sure, is
the loveliest!—It is a propitious one to me! How nobly my plot
succeeds! But I begin to be afraid my writings may be discovered; for
they grow large: I stitch them hitherto in my under-coat, next my
linen. But if this brute should search me—I must try to please her, and
then she won’t.
Well, I am but just come off from a walk in the garden, and have
deposited my letter by a simple wile. I got some horse-beans; and we
took a turn in the garden, to angle, as Mrs. Jewkes had promised me.
She baited the hook, and I held it, and soon hooked a lovely carp. Play
it, play it, said she: I did, and brought it to the bank. A sad thought
just then came into my head; and I took it, and threw it in again; and
O the pleasure it seemed to have, to flounce in, when at liberty!—Why
this? says she. O Mrs. Jewkes! said I, I was thinking this poor carp
was the unhappy Pamela. I was likening you and myself to my naughty
master. As we hooked and deceived the poor carp, so was I betrayed by
false baits; and when you said, Play it, play it, it went to my heart,
to think I should sport with the destruction of the poor fish I had
betrayed; and I could not but fling it in again: and did you not see
the joy with which the happy carp flounced from us? O! said I, may some
good merciful body procure me my liberty in the same manner; for to be
sure, I think my danger equal!
Lord bless thee! said she, what a thought is there!—Well, I can angle
no more, added I. I’ll try my fortune, said she, and took the rod. Do,
answered I; and I will plant life, if I can, while you are destroying
it. I have some horse-beans here, and will go and stick them in one of
the borders, to see how long they will be coming up; and I will call
them my garden.
So you see, dear father and mother, (I hope now you will soon see; for,
may be, if I can’t get away so soon myself, I may send my papers some
how; I say you will see,) that this furnishes me with a good excuse to
look after my garden another time; and if the mould should look a
little freshish, it won’t be so much suspected. She mistrusted nothing
of this; and I went and stuck in here and there my beans, for about the
length of five ells, of each side of the sunflower; and easily
deposited my letter. And not a little proud am I of this contrivance.
Sure something will do at last!
Friday, Saturday.
I have just now told you a trick of mine; now I’ll tell you a trick of
this wicked woman’s. She comes up to me: Says she, I have a bill I
cannot change till to-morrow; and a tradesman wants his money most
sadly: and I don’t love to turn poor trades-folks away without their
money: Have you any about you? I have a little, replied I: How much
will do? Oh! said she, I want eight pounds. Alack! said I, I have but
between five and six. Lend me that, said she, till to-morrow. I did so;
and she went down stairs: and when she came up, she laughed, and said,
Well, I have paid the tradesman. Said I, I hope you’ll give it me again
to-morrow. At that, the assurance, laughing loud, said, Why, what
occasion have you for money? To tell you the truth, lambkin, I didn’t
want it. I only feared you might make a bad use of it; and now I can
trust Nan with you a little oftener, especially as I have got the key
of your portmanteau; so that you can neither corrupt her with money,
nor fine things. Never did any body look more silly than I.—O how I
fretted, to be so foolishly outwitted!—And the more, as I had hinted to
Mr. Williams, that I would put some in his hands to defray the charges
of my sending to you. I cried for vexation.—And now I have not five
shillings left to support me, if I can get away.—Was ever such a fool
as I! I must be priding myself in my contrivances, indeed! said I. Was
this your instructions, wolfkin? (for she called me lambkin). Jezebel,
you mean, child! said she.—Well, I now forgive you heartily; let’s buss
and be friends.—Out upon you said I; I cannot bear you!—But I durst not
call her names again; for I dread her huge paw most sadly. The more I
think of this thing, the more do I regret it, and blame myself.
This night the man from the post-house brought a letter for Mrs.
Jewkes, in which was one enclosed for me: She brought it me up. Said
she, Well, my good master don’t forget us. He has sent you a letter:
and see what he writes to me. So she read, That he hoped her fair
charge was well, happy, and contented. Ay, to be sure, said I, I can’t
choose—That he did not doubt her care and kindness to me: that I was
very dear to him, and she could not use me too well; and the like.
There’s a master for you! said she: sure you will love and pray for
him. I desired her to read the rest. No, no, said she, but I won’t.
Said I, Are there any orders for taking my shoes away, and for beating
me? No, said she, nor about Jezebel neither. Well, returned I, I cry
truce; for I have no mind to be beat again. I thought, said she, we had
forgiven one another.
My letter is as follows:
‘MY DEAR PAMELA,
‘I begin to repent already, that I have bound myself, by promise, not
to see you till you give me leave; for I think the time very tedious.
Can you place so much confidence in me, as to invite me down? Assure
yourself, that your generosity shall not be thrown away upon me. I the
rather would press this, as I am uneasy for your uneasiness; for Mrs.
Jewkes acquaints me, that you take your restraint very heavily; and
neither eat, drink, nor rest well; and I have too great interest in
your health, not to wish to shorten the time of this trial; which will
be the consequence of my coming down to you. John, too, has intimated
to me your concern, with a grief that hardly gave him leave for
utterance; a grief that a little alarmed my tenderness for you. Not
that I fear any thing, but that your disregard to me, which yet my
proud heart will hardly permit me to own, may throw you upon some
rashness, that might encourage a daring hope: But how poorly do I
descend, to be anxious about such a menial as he!—I will only say one
thing, that if you will give me leave to attend you at the Hall,
(consider who it is that requests this from you as a favour,) I
solemnly declare, that you shall have cause to be pleased with this
obliging mark of your confidence in me, and consideration for me; and
if I find Mrs. Jewkes has not behaved to you with the respect due to
one I so dearly love, I will put it entirely into your power to
discharge her the house, if you think proper; and Mrs. Jervis, or who
else you please, shall attend you in her place. This I say on a hint
John gave me, as if you resented something from that quarter. Dearest
Pamela, answer favourably this earnest request of one that cannot live
without you, and on whose honour to you, you may absolutely depend; and
so much the more, as you place a confidence in it. I am, and assuredly
ever will be,
‘Your faithful and affectionate, etc.’
‘You will be glad, I know, to hear your father and mother are well, and
easy upon your last letter. That gave me a pleasure that I am resolved
you shall not repent. Mrs. Jewkes will convey to me your answer.’
I but slightly read this letter for the present, to give way to one I
had hopes of finding by this time from Mr. Williams. I took an evening
turn, as I called it, in Mrs. Jewkes’s company: and walking by the
place, I said, Do you think, Mrs. Jewkes, any of my beans can have
struck since yesterday? She laughed, and said, You are a poor gardener:
but I love to see you divert yourself. She passing on, I found my good
friend had provided for me; and, slipping it in my bosom, (for her back
was towards me,) Here, said I, (having a bean in my hand,) is one of
them; but it has not stirred. No, to be sure, said she, and turned upon
me a most wicked jest, unbecoming the mouth of a woman, about planting,
etc. When I came in, I hied to my closet, and read as follows:
‘I am sorry to tell you that I have had a repulse from Lady Jones. She
is concerned at your case, she says, but don’t care to make herself
enemies. I applied to Lady Darnford, and told her in the most pathetic
manner I could, your sad story, and shewed her your more pathetic
letter. I found her well disposed, but she would advise with Sir Simon,
who by the by is not a man of an extraordinary character for virtue;
but he said to his lady in my presence, ‘Why, what is all this, my
dear, but that our neighbour has a mind to his mother’s waiting-maid!
And if he takes care she wants for nothing, I don’t see any great
injury will be done her. He hurts no family by this:’ (So, my dear
father and mother, it seems that poor people’s honesty is to go for
nothing) ‘And I think, Mr. Williams, you, of all men, should not engage
in this affair, against your friend and patron.’ He spoke this in so
determined a manner, that the lady had done; and I had only to beg no
notice should be taken of the matter as from me.
‘I have hinted your case to Mr. Peters, the minister of this parish;
but I am concerned to say, that he imputed selfish views to me, as if I
would make an interest in your affections by my zeal. And when I
represented the duties of our function, and the like, and protested my
disinterestedness, he coldly said, I was very good; but was a young
man, and knew little of the world. And though it was a thing to be
lamented, yet when he and I should set about to reform mankind in this
respect, we should have enough upon our hands; for, he said, it was too
common and fashionable a case to be withstood by a private clergyman or
two: and then he uttered some reflections upon the conduct of the
present fathers of the church, in regard to the first personages of the
realm, as a justification of his coldness on this score.
‘I represented the different circumstances of your affair; that other
women lived evilly by their own consent, but to serve you, was to save
an innocence that had but few examples; and then I shewed him your
letter.
‘He said it was prettily written: and he was sorry for you; and that
your good intentions ought to be encouraged: But what, said he, would
you have me do, Mr. Williams? Why suppose, sir, said I, you give her
shelter in your house, with your spouse and niece, till she can get to
her friends.—What! and embroil myself with a man of Mr. B——’s power and
fortune! No, not I, I’ll assure you!—And I would have you consider what
you are about. Besides, she owns, continued he, that he promises to do
honourably by her; and her shyness will procure her good terns enough;
for he is no covetous nor wicked gentleman, except in this case; and
’tis what all young gentlemen will do.
‘I am greatly concerned for him, I assure you: but I am not discouraged
by this ill success, let what will come of it, if I can serve you.
‘I don’t hear, as yet, that Mr. B—— is coming. I am glad of your hint
as to that unhappy fellow John Arnold. Something, perhaps, will strike
out from that, which may be useful. As to your packets, if you seal
them up, and lay them in the usual place, if you find it not suspected,
I will watch an opportunity to convey them; but if they are large, you
had best be very cautious. This evil woman, I find, mistrusts me much.
‘I just hear, that the gentleman is dying, whose living Mr. B—— has
promised me. I have almost a scruple to take it, as I am acting so
contrary to his desires: but I hope he will one day thank me for it. As
to money, don’t think of it at present. Be assured you may command all
in my power to do for you without reserve.
‘I believe, when we hear he is coming, it will be best to make use of
the key, which I shall soon procure you; and I can borrow a horse for
you, I believe, to wait within half a mile of the back-door, over the
pasture; and will contrive, by myself, or somebody, to have you
conducted some miles distant, to one of the villages thereabouts; so
don’t be discomforted, I beseech you. I am, excellent Mrs. Pamela,
‘Your faithful friend, etc.’
I made a thousand sad reflections upon the former part of this honest
gentleman’s kind letter; and but for the hope he gave me at last,
should have given up my case as quite desperate. I then wrote to thank
him most gratefully for his kind endeavours; to lament the little
concern the gentry had for my deplorable case; the wickedness of the
world, first to give way to such iniquitous fashions, and then plead
the frequency of them, against the attempt to amend them; and how
unaffected people were with the distresses of others. I recalled my
former hint as to writing to Lady Davers, which I feared, I said, would
only serve to apprise her brother, that she knew his wicked scheme, and
more harden him in it, and make him come down the sooner, and to be the
more determined on my ruin; besides that it might make Mr. Williams
guessed at, as a means of conveying my letter: And being very fearful,
that if that good lady would interest herself in my behalf, (which was
a doubt, because she both loved and feared her brother,) it would have
no effect upon him; and that therefore I would wait the happy event I
might hope for from his kind assistance in the key, and the horse. I
intimated my master’s letter, begging to be permitted to come down: was
fearful it might be sudden; and that I was of opinion no time was to be
lost; for we might let slip all our opportunities; telling him the
money trick of this vile woman, etc.
I had not time to take a copy of this letter, I was so watched. And
when I had it ready in my bosom, I was easy. And so I went to seek out
Mrs. Jewkes, and told her, I would have her advice upon the letter I
had received from my master; which point of confidence in her pleased
her not a little. Ay, said she, now this is something like: and we’ll
take a turn in the garden, or where you please. I pretended it was
indifferent to me; and so we walked into the garden. I began to talk to
her of the letter; but was far from acquainting her with all the
contents; only that he wanted my consent to come down, and hoped she
used me kindly, and the like. And I said, Now, Mrs. Jewkes, let me have
your advice as to this. Why then, said she, I will give it you freely;
E’en send to him to come down. It will highly oblige him, and I dare
say you’ll fare the better for it. How the better? said I.—I dare say,
you think yourself, that he intends my ruin. I hate, said she, that
foolish word, your ruin!—Why, ne’er a lady in the land may live happier
than you if you will, or be more honourably used.
Well, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, I shall not, at this time, dispute with you
about the words ruin and honourable: for I find we have quite different
notions of both: But now I will speak plainer than ever I did. Do you
think he intends to make proposals to me as to a kept mistress, or kept
slave rather, or do you not?—Why, lambkin, said she, what dost thou
think thyself?—I fear, said I, he does. Well, said she, but if he does,
(for I know nothing of the matter, I assure you,) you may have your own
terms—I see that; for you may do any thing with him.
I could not bear this to be spoken, though it was all I feared of a
long time; and began to exclaim most sadly. Nay, said she, he may marry
you, as far as I know.—No, no, said I, that cannot be.—I neither desire
nor expect it. His condition don’t permit me to have such a thought;
and that, and the whole series of his conduct, convinces me of the
contrary; and you would have me invite him to come down, would you? Is
not this to invite my ruin?
’Tis what I would do, said she, in your place; and if it was to be as
you think, I should rather be out of my pain, than live in continual
frights and apprehensions, as you do. No, replied I, an hour of
innocence is worth an age of guilt; and were my life to be made ever so
miserable by it, I should never forgive myself, if I were not to
lengthen out to the longest minute my happy time of honesty. Who knows
what Providence may do for me!
Why, may be, said she, as he loves you so well, you may prevail upon
him by your prayers and tears; and for that reason, I should think,
you’d better let him come down. Well, said I, I will write him a
letter, because he expects an answer, or may be he will make a pretence
to come down. How can it go?
I’ll take care of that, said she; it is in my instructions.—Ay, thought
I, so I doubt, by the hint Mr. Williams gave me about the post-house.
The gardener coming by, I said, Mr. Jacob, I have planted a few beans,
and I call the place my garden. It is just by the door out yonder: I’ll
shew it you; pray don’t dig them up. So I went on with him; and when we
had turned the alley, out of her sight and were near the place said I,
Pray step to Mrs. Jewkes, and ask her if she has any more beans for me
to plant? He smiled, I suppose at my foolishness; and I popped the
letter under the mould, and stepped back, as if waiting for his return;
which, being near, was immediate; and she followed him. What should I
do with beans? said she,—and sadly scared me; for she whispered me, I
am afraid of some fetch! You don’t use to send on such simple
errands.—What fetch? said I: It is hard I can neither stir, nor speak,
but I must be suspected.—Why, said she, my master writes, that I must
have all my eyes about me; for though you are as innocent as a dove,
yet you are as cunning as a serpent. But I’ll forgive you, if you cheat
me.
Then I thought of my money, and could have called her names, had I
dared: And I said, Pray Mrs. Jewkes, now you talk of forgiving me, if I
cheat you, be so kind as to pay me my money; for though I have no
occasion for it, yet I know you was but in jest, and intended to give
it me again. You shall have it in a proper time, said she; but, indeed,
I was in earnest to get it out of your hands, for fear you should make
an ill use of it. And so we cavilled upon this subject as we walked in,
and I went up to write my letter to my master; and, as I intended to
shew it her, I resolved to write accordingly as to her part of it; for
I made little account of his offer of Mrs. Jervis to me, instead of
this wicked woman, (though the most agreeable thing that could have
befallen me, except my escape from hence,) nor indeed any thing he
said. For to be honourable, in the just sense of the word, he need not
have caused me to be run away with, and confined as I am. I wrote as
follows:
‘HONOURED SIR,
‘When I consider how easily you might make me happy, since all I desire
is to be permitted to go to my poor father and mother; when I reflect
upon your former proposal to me in relation to a certain person, not
one word of which is now mentioned; and upon my being in that strange
manner run away with, and still kept here a miserable prisoner; do you
think, sir, (pardon your poor servant’s freedom; my fears make me bold;
do you think, I say,) that your general assurances of honour to me, can
have the effect upon me, that, were it not for these things, all your
words ought to have?—O, good sir! I too much apprehend that your
notions of honour and mine are very different from one another: and I
have no other hopes but in your continued absence. If you have any
proposals to make me, that are consistent with your honourable
professions, in my humble sense of the word, a few lines will
communicate them to me, and I will return such an answer as befits me.
But, oh! What proposals can one in your high station have to make to
one in my low one! I know what belongs to your degree too well, to
imagine, that any thing can be expected but sad temptations, and utter
distress, if you come down; and you know not, sir, when I am made
desperate, what the wretched Pamela dares to do!
‘Whatever rashness you may impute to me, I cannot help it; but I wish I
may not be forced upon any, that otherwise would never enter into my
thoughts. Forgive me, sir, my plainness; I should be loath to behave to
my master unbecomingly; but I must needs say, sir, my innocence is so
dear to me, that all other considerations are, and, I hope, shall ever
be, treated by me as niceties, that ought, for that, to be dispensed
with. If you mean honourably, why, sir, should you not let me know it
plainly? Why is it necessary to imprison me, to convince me of it? And
why must I be close watched, and attended, hindered from stirring out,
from speaking to any body, from going so much as to church to pray for
you, who have been, till of late, so generous a benefactor to me? Why,
sir, I humbly ask, why all this, if you mean honourably?—It is not for
me to expostulate so freely, but in a case so near to me, with you,
sir, so greatly my superior. Pardon me, I hope you will; but as to
seeing you, I cannot bear the dreadful apprehension. Whatever you have
to propose, whatever you intend by me, let my assent be that of a free
person, mean as I am, and not of a sordid slave, who is to be
threatened and frightened into a compliance with measures, which your
conduct to her seems to imply would be otherwise abhorred by her.—My
restraint is indeed hard upon me: I am very uneasy under it. Shorten
it, I beseech you, or—but I will not dare to say more, than that I am
‘Your greatly oppressed unhappy servant.’
After I had taken a copy of this, I folded it up; and Mrs. Jewkes,
coming just as I had done, sat down by me; and said, when she saw me
direct it, I wish you would tell me if you have taken my advice, and
consented to my master’s coming down. If it will oblige you, said I, I
will read it to you. That’s good, said she; then I’ll love you
dearly.—Said I, Then you must not offer to alter one word. I won’t,
replied she. So I read it to her, and she praised me much for my
wording it; but said she thought I pushed the matter very close; and it
would better bear talking of, than writing about. She wanted an
explanation or two, as about the proposal to a certain person; but I
said, she must take it as she heard it. Well, well, said she, I make no
doubt you understand one another, and will do so more and more. I
sealed up the letter, and she undertook to convey it.
Sunday.
For my part, I knew it in vain to expect to have leave to go to church
now, and so I did not ask; and I was the more indifferent, because, if
I might have had permission, the sight of the neighbouring gentry, who
had despised my sufferings, would have given me great regret and
sorrow; and it was impossible I should have edified under any doctrine
preached by Mr. Peters: So I applied myself to my private devotions.
Mr. Williams came yesterday, and this day, as usual, and took my
letter; but, having no good opportunity, we avoided one another’s
conversation, and kept at a distance: But I was concerned I had not the
key; for I would not have lost a moment in that case, had I been he,
and he I. When I was at my devotion, Mrs. Jewkes came up, and wanted me
sadly to sing her a psalm, as she had often on common days importuned
me for a song upon the spinnet: but I declined it, because my spirits
were so low I could hardly speak, nor cared to be spoken to; but when
she was gone, I remembering the cxxxviith psalm to be a little
touching, turned to it, and took the liberty to alter it, somewhat
nearer to my case. I hope I did not sin in it; but thus I turned it:
I.
When sad I sat in B——n Hall,
All guarded round about,
And thought of ev’ry absent friend,
The tears for grief burst out.
II.
My joys and hopes all overthrown,
My heart-strings almost broke,
Unfit my mind for melody,
Much more to bear a joke.
III.
Then she to whom I pris’ner was,
Said to me, tauntingly,
Now cheer your heart, and sing a song
And tune your mind to joy.
IV.
Alas! said I, how can I frame
My heavy heart to sing,
Or tune my mind, while thus enthrall’d
By such a wicked thing!
V.
But yet, if from my innocence
I, ev’n in thought, should slide,
Then let my fingers quite forget
The sweet spinnet to guide.
VI.
And let my tongue within my mouth
Be lock’d for ever fast,
If I rejoice, before I see
My full deliv’rance past.
VII.
And thou, Almighty, recompense
The evils I endure,
From those who seek my sad disgrace,
So causeless, to procure.
VIII.
Remember, Lord, this Mrs. Jewkes,