can I think to stay. But I must resolve. The gardener was in sight last
time; so made me come up again. But I’ll contrive to send him out of
the way, if I can:—For if I never should have such another opportunity,
I could not forgive myself. Once more I’ll venture. God direct my
footsteps, and make smooth my path and my way to safety!
Well, here I am, come back again! frightened, like a fool, out of all
my purposes! O how terrible every thing appears to me! I had got twice
as far again, as I was before, out of the back-door: and I looked and
saw the bull, as I thought, between me and the door; and another bull
coming towards me the other way: Well, thought I, here is double
witchcraft, to be sure! Here is the spirit of my master in one bull,
and Mrs. Jewkes’s in the other. And now I am gone, to be sure! O help!
cried I, like a fool, and ran back to the door, as swift as if I flew.
When I had got the door in my hand, I ventured to look back, to see if
these supposed bulls were coming; and I saw they were only two poor
cows, a grazing in distant places, that my fears had made all this rout
about. But as every thing is so frightful to me, I find I am not fit to
think of my escape: for I shall be as much frightened at the first
strange man that I meet with: and I am persuaded that fear brings one
into more dangers, than the caution, that goes along with it, delivers
one from.
I then locked the door, and put the key in my pocket, and was in a sad
quandary; but I was soon determined; for the maid Nan came in sight,
and asked, if any thing was the matter, that I was so often up and down
stairs? God forgive me, (but I had a sad lie at my tongue’s end,) said
I; Though Mrs. Jewkes is sometimes a little hard upon me, yet I know
not where I am without her: I go up, and I come down to walk about in
the garden; and, not having her, know scarcely what to do with myself.
Ay, said the ideot, she is main good company, madam, no wonder you miss
her.
So here I am again, and here likely to be; for I have no courage to
help myself any where else. O why are poor foolish maidens tried with
such dangers, when they have such weak minds to grapple with them!—I
will, since it is so, hope the best: but yet I cannot but observe how
grievously every thing makes against me: for here are the robbers;
though I fell not into their hands myself, yet they gave me as much
terror, and had as great an effect upon my fears, as if I had: And here
is the bull; it has as effectually frightened me, as if I had been hurt
by it instead of the cook-maid; and so these joined together, as I may
say, to make a very dastard of me. But my folly was the worst of all,
because that deprived me of my money: for had I had that, I believe I
should have ventured both the bull and the robbers.
Monday afternoon.
So, Mrs. Jewkes is returned from her visit: Well, said she, I would
have you set your heart at rest; for Mr. Williams will do very well
again. He is not half so bad as he fancied. O these scholars, said she,
they have not the hearts of mice! He has only a few scratches on his
face; which, said she, I suppose he got by grappling among the gravel
at the bottom of the dam, to try to find a hole in the ground, to hide
himself from the robbers. His shin and his knee are hardly to be seen
to ail any thing. He says in his letter, he was a frightful spectacle:
He might be so, indeed, when he first came in a doors; but he looks
well enough now: and, only for a few groans now and then, when he
thinks of his danger, I see nothing is the matter with him. So, Mrs.
Pamela, said she, I would have you be very easy about it. I am glad of
it, said I, for all your jokes, to Mrs. Jewkes.
Well, said she, he talks of nothing but you: and when I told him I
would fain have persuaded you to come with me, the man was out of his
wits with his gratitude to me: and so has laid open all his heart to
me, and told me all that has passed, and was contriving between you
two. This alarmed me prodigiously; and the rather, as I saw, by two or
three instances, that his honest heart could keep nothing, believing
every one as undesigning as himself. I said, but yet with a heavy
heart, Ah! Mrs. Jewkes, Mrs. Jewkes, this might have done with me, had
he had any thing that he could have told you of. But you know well
enough, that had we been disposed, we had no opportunity for it, from
your watchful care and circumspection. No, said she, that’s very true,
Mrs. Pamela; not so much as for that declaration that he owned before
me, he had found opportunity, for all my watchfulness, to make you.
Come, come, said she, no more of these shams with me! You have an
excellent head-piece for your years; but may be I am as cunning as
you.—However, said she, all is well now; because my watchments are now
over, by my master’s direction. How have you employed yourself in my
absence?
I was so troubled at what might have passed between Mr. Williams and
her, that I could not hide it; and she said, Well, Mrs. Pamela, since
all matters are likely to be so soon and so happily ended, let me
advise you to be a little less concerned at his discoveries; and make
me your confidant, as he has done, and I shall think you have some
favour for me, and reliance upon me; and perhaps you might not repent
it.
She was so earnest, that I mistrusted she did this to pump me; and I
knew how, now, to account for her kindness to Mr. Williams in her visit
to him; which was only to get out of him what she could. Why, Mrs.
Jewkes, said I, is all this fishing about for something, where there is
nothing, if there be an end of your watchments, as you call them?
Nothing, said she, but womanish curiosity, I’ll assure you; for one is
naturally led to find out matters, where there is such privacy
intended. Well, said I, pray let me know what he has said; and then
I’ll give you an answer to your curiosity. I don’t care, said she,
whether you do or not for I have as much as I wanted from him; and I
despair of getting out of you any thing you ha’n’t a mind I should
know, my little cunning dear.—Well, said I, let him have said what he
would, I care not: for I am sure he can say no harm of me; and so let
us change the talk.
I was the easier, indeed, because, for all her pumps, she gave no hints
of the key and the door, etc. which, had he communicated to her, she
would not have forborne giving me a touch of.—And so we gave up one
another, as despairing to gain our ends of each other. But I am sure he
must have said more than he should.—And I am the more apprehensive all
is not right, because she has now been actually, these two hours, shut
up a writing; though she pretended she had given me up all her stores
of papers, etc. and that I should write for her. I begin to wish I had
ventured every thing and gone off, when I might. O when will this state
of doubt and uneasiness end!
She has just been with me, and says she shall send a messenger to
Bedfordshire; and he shall carry a letter of thanks for me, if I will
write it for my master’s favour to me. Indeed, said I, I have no thanks
to give, till I am with my father and mother: and besides, I sent a
letter, as you know; but have had no answer to it. She said, she
thought that his letter to Mr. Williams was sufficient; and the least I
could do was to thank him, if but in two lines. No need of it, said I;
for I don’t intend to have Mr. Williams: What then is that letter to
me? Well, said she, I see thou art quite unfathomable!
I don’t like all this. O my foolish fears of bulls and robbers!—For now
all my uneasiness begins to double upon me. O what has this incautious
man said! That, no doubt, is the subject of her long letter.
I will close this day’s writing, with just saying, that she is mighty
silent and reserved, to what she was: and says nothing but No, or Yes,
to what I ask. Something must be hatching, I doubt!—I the rather think
so, because I find she does not keep her word with me, about lying by
myself, and my money; to both which points she returned suspicious
answers, saying, as to the one, Why, you are mighty earnest for your
money; I shan’t run away with it. And to the other, Good-lack! you need
not be so willing, as I know of, to part with me for a bed-fellow, till
you are sure of one you like better. This cut me to the heart; and, at
the same time, stopped my mouth.
Tuesday, Wednesday.
Mr. Williams has been here; but we have had no opportunity to talk
together: He seemed confounded at Mrs. Jewkes’s change of temper, and
reservedness, after her kind visit, and their freedom with one another,
and much more at what I am going to tell you. He asked, If I would take
a turn in the garden with Mrs. Jewkes and him. No, said she, I can’t
go. Said he, May not Mrs. Pamela take a walk?—No, said she; I desire
she won’t. Why, Mrs. Jewkes? said he: I am afraid I have somehow
disobliged you. Not at all, replied she; but I suppose you will soon be
at liberty to walk together as much as you please: and I have sent a
messenger for my last instructions, about this and more weighty
matters; and when they come I shall leave you to do as you both will;
but, till then, it is no matter how little you are together. This
alarmed us both; and he seemed quite struck of a heap, and put on, as I
thought, a self-accusing countenance. So I went behind her back, and
held my two hands together, flat, with a bit of paper, I had, between
them, and looked at him: and he seemed to take me as I intended;
intimating the renewing of the correspondence by the tiles.
I left them both together, and retired to my closet to write a letter
for the tiles; but having no time for a copy, I will give you the
substance only.
I expostulated with him on his too great openness and easiness to fall
into Mrs. Jewkes’s snares: told him my apprehensions of foul play; and
gave briefly the reasons which moved me: begged to know what he had
said; and intimated, that I thought there was the highest reason to
resume our prospect of the escape by the back-door. I put this in the
usual place in the evening; and now wait with impatience for an answer.
Thursday.
I have the following answer:
‘DEAREST MADAM,
‘I am utterly confounded, and must plead guilty to all your just
reproaches. I wish I were master of all but half your caution and
discretion! I hope, after all, this is only a touch of this ill woman’s
temper, to shew her power and importance: For I think Mr. B—— neither
can nor dare deceive me in so black a manner. I would expose him all
the world over if he did. But it is not, cannot be in him. I have
received a letter from John Arnold, in which he tells me, that his
master is preparing for his London journey; and believes, afterwards,
he will come into these parts: But he says, Lady Davers is at their
house, and is to accompany her brother to London, or meet him there, he
knows not which. He professes great zeal and affection to your service:
and I find he refers to a letter he sent me before, but which is not
come to my hand. I think there can be no treachery; for it is a
particular friend at Gainsborough, that I have ordered him to direct
to; and this is come safe to my hands by this means; for well I know, I
durst trust nothing to Brett, at the post-house here. This gives me a
little pain; but I hope all will end well, and we shall soon hear, if
it be necessary to pursue our former intentions. If it be, I will lose
no time to provide a horse for you, and another for myself; for I can
never do either God or myself better service, though I were to forego
all my expectations for it here, I am ‘Your most faithful humble
servant.’
‘I was too free indeed with Mrs. Jewkes, led to it by her
dissimulation, and by her pretended concern to make me happy with you.
I hinted, that I would not have scrupled to have procured your
deliverance by any means; and that I had proposed to you, as the only
honourable one, marriage with me. But I assured her, though she would
hardly believe me, that you discouraged my application: which is too
true! But not a word of the back-door key, etc.’
Mrs. Jewkes continues still sullen and ill-natured, and I am almost
afraid to speak to her. She watches me as close as ever, and pretends
to wonder why I shun her company as I do.
I have just put under the tiles these lines inspired by my fears, which
are indeed very strong; and, I doubt, not without reason.
‘SIR,
‘Every thing gives me additional disturbance. The missed letter of John
Arnold’s makes me suspect a plot. Yet am I loath to think myself of so
much importance, as to suppose every one in a plot against me. Are you
sure, however, the London journey is not to be a Lincolnshire one? May
not John, who has been once a traitor, be so again?—Why need I be thus
in doubt?—If I could have this horse, I would turn the reins on his
neck, and trust to Providence to guide him for my safeguard! For I
would not endanger you, now just upon the edge of your preferment. Yet,
sir, I fear your fatal openness will make you suspected as accessary,
let us be ever so cautious.
‘Were my life in question, instead of my honesty, I would not wish to
involve you, or any body, in the least difficulty, for so worthless a
poor creature. But, O sir! my soul is of equal importance with the soul
of a princess; though my quality is inferior to that of the meanest
slave.
‘Save then my innocence, good Heaven! and preserve my mind spotless;
and happy shall I be to lay down my worthless life; and see an end to
all my troubles and anxieties.
‘Forgive my impatience: But my presaging mind bodes horrid mischiefs!
Every thing looks dark around me; and this woman’s impenetrable
sullenness and silence, without any apparent reason, from a conduct so
very contrary, bid me fear the worst.—blame me, sir, if you think me
wrong; and let me have your advice what to do; which will oblige
‘Your most afflicted servant.’
Friday.
I have this half-angry answer; but, what is more to me than all the
letters in the world could be, yours, my dear father, enclosed.
‘MADAM,
‘I think you are too apprehensive by much; I am sorry for your
uneasiness. You may depend upon me, and all I can do. But I make no
doubt of the London journey, nor of John’s contrition and fidelity. I
have just received, from my Gainsborough friend, this letter, as I
suppose, from your good father, in a cover, directed for me, as I had
desired. I hope it contains nothing to add to your uneasiness. Pray,
dearest madam, lay aside your fears, and wait a few days for the issue
of Mrs. Jewkes’s letter, and mine of thanks to Mr. B——. Things, I hope,
must be better than you expect. Providence will not desert such piety
and innocence: and be this your comfort and reliance: Which is the best
advice that can at present be given, by
‘Your most faithful humble servant.’
N. B. The father’s letter was as follows:
‘My DEAREST DAUGHTER,
‘Our prayers are at length heard, and we are overwhelmed with joy. O
what sufferings, what trials, hast thou gone through! Blessed be the
Divine goodness, which has enabled thee to withstand so many
temptations! We have not yet had leisure to read through your long
accounts of all your hardships. I say long, because I wonder how you
could find time and opportunity for them: but otherwise they are the
delight of our spare hours; and we shall read them over and over, as
long as we live, with thankfulness to God, who has given us so virtuous
and so discreet a daughter. How happy is our lot in the midst of our
poverty! O let none ever think children a burden to them; when the
poorest circumstances can produce so much riches in a Pamela! Persist,
my dear daughter, in the same excellent course; and we shall not envy
the highest estate, but defy them to produce such a daughter as ours.
‘I said, we had not read through all yours in course. We were too
impatient, and so turned to the end; where we find your virtue within
view of its reward, and your master’s heart turned to see the folly of
his ways, and the injury he had intended to our dear child: For, to be
sure, my dear, he would have ruined you, if he could. But seeing your
virtue, his heart is touched; and he has, no doubt, been awakened by
your good example.
‘We don’t see that you can do any way so well, as to come into the
present proposal, and make Mr. Williams, the worthy Mr. Williams! God
bless him!—happy. And though we are poor, and can add no merit, no
reputation, no fortune, to our dear child, but rather must be a
disgrace to her, as the world will think; yet I hope I do not sin in my
pride, to say, that there is no good man, of a common degree,
(especially as your late lady’s kindness gave you such good
opportunities, which you have had the grace to improve,) but may think
himself happy in you. But, as you say, you had rather not marry at
present, far be it from us to offer violence to your inclination! So
much prudence as you have shewn in all your conduct, would make it very
wrong in us to mistrust it in this, or to offer to direct you in your
choice. But, alas! my child, what can we do for you?—To partake our
hard lot, and involve yourself into as hard a life, would not help us,
but add to your afflictions. But it will be time enough to talk of
these things, when we have the pleasure you now put us in hope of, of
seeing you with us; which God grant. Amen, amen, say ‘Your most
indulgent parents. Amen!’
‘Our humblest service and thanks to the worthy Mr. Williams. Again we
say, God bless him for ever!
‘O what a deal we have to say to you! God give us a happy meeting! We
understand the ’squire is setting out for London. He is a fine
gentleman, and has wit at will. I wish he was as good. But I hope he
will now reform.’
O what inexpressible comfort, my dear father, has your letter given
me!—You ask, What can you do for me?—What is it you cannot do for your
child!—You can give her the advice she has so much wanted, and still
wants, and will always want: You can confirm her in the paths of
virtue, into which you first initiated her; and you can pray for her,
with hearts so sincere and pure, that are not to be met with in
palaces!—Oh! how I long to throw myself at your feet, and receive from
your own lips the blessings of such good parents! But, alas! how are my
prospects again overclouded, to what they were when I closed my last
parcel!—More trials, more dangers, I fear, must your poor Pamela be
engaged in: But through the Divine goodness, and your prayers, I hope,
at last, to get well out of all my difficulties; and the rather, as
they are not the effect of my own vanity or presumption!
But I will proceed with my hopeless story. I saw Mr. Williams was a
little nettled at my impatience; and so I wrote to assure him I would
be as easy as I could, and wholly directed by him; especially as my
father, whose respects I mentioned, had assured me my master was
setting out for London, which he must have somehow from his own family
or he would not have written me word of it.
Saturday, Sunday.
Mr. Williams has been here both these days, as usual; but is very
indifferently received still by Mrs. Jewkes; and, to avoid suspicion, I
left them together, and went up to my closet, most of the time he was
here. He and she, I found by her, had a quarrel: and she seems quite
out of humour with him: but I thought it best not to say any thing: and
he said, he would very little trouble the house till he had an answer
to his letter from Mr. B——. And she returned, The less, the better.
Poor man! he has got but little by his openness, making Mrs. Jewkes his
confidant, as she bragged, and would have had me to do likewise.
I am more and more satisfied there is mischief brewing; and shall begin
to hide my papers, and be circumspect. She seems mighty impatient for
an answer to her letter to my master.
Monday, Tuesday, the 25th and 26th days of my heavy restraint.
Still more and more strange things to write! A messenger is returned,
and now all is out! O wretched, wretched Pamela! What, at last, will
become of me!—Such strange turns and trials sure never poor creature,
of my years, experienced. He brought two letters, one to Mrs. Jewkes,
and one to me: but, as the greatest wits may be sometimes mistaken,
they being folded and sealed alike, that for me was directed to Mrs.
Jewkes; and that for her was directed to me. But both are stark naught,
abominably bad! She brought me up that directed for me, and said,
Here’s a letter for you: Long-looked-for is come at last. I will ask
the messenger a few questions, and then I will read mine. So she went
down, and I broke it open in my closet, and found it directed To MRS.
PAMELA ANDREWS. But when I opened it, it began, Mrs. Jewkes. I was
quite confounded; but, thought I, this may be a lucky mistake; I may
discover something: And so I read on these horrid contents:
‘MRS. JEWKES,
‘What you write me, has given me no small disturbance. This wretched
fool’s play-thing, no doubt, is ready to leap at any thing that offers,
rather than express the least sense of gratitude for all the benefits
she has received from my family, and which I was determined more and
more to heap upon her. I reserve her for my future resentment; and I
charge you double your diligence in watching her, to prevent her
escape. I send this by an honest Swiss, who attended me in my travels;
a man I can trust; and so let him be your assistant: for the artful
creature is enough to corrupt a nation by her seeming innocence and
simplicity; and she may have got a party, perhaps, among my servants
with you, as she has here. Even John Arnold, whom I confided in, and
favoured more than any, has proved an execrable villain; and shall meet
his reward for it.
‘As to that college novice, Williams, I need not bid you take care he
sees not this painted bauble: for I have ordered Mr. Shorter, my
attorney, to throw him instantly into gaol, on an action of debt, for
money he has had of me, which I had intended never to carry to account
against him; for I know all his rascally practices, besides what you
write me of his perfidious intrigue with that girl, and his
acknowledged contrivances for her escape; when he knew not, for
certain, that I designed her any mischief; and when, if he had been
guided by a sense of piety, or compassion for injured innocence, as he
pretends, he would have expostulated with me, as his function, and my
friendship for him, might have allowed him. But to enter into a vile
intrigue with the amiable gewgaw, to favour her escape in so base a
manner, (to say nothing of his disgraceful practices against me, in Sir
Simon Darnford’s family, of which Sir Simon himself has informed me),
is a conduct that, instead of preferring the ungrateful wretch, as I
had intended, shall pull down upon him utter ruin.
‘Monsieur Colbrand, my trusty Swiss, will obey you without reserve, if
my other servants refuse.
‘As for her denying that she encouraged his declaration, I believe it
not. It is certain the speaking picture, with all that pretended
innocence and bashfulness, would have run away with him. Yes, she would
run away with a fellow that she had been acquainted with (and that not
intimately, if you were as careful as you ought to be) but a few days;
at a time when she had the strongest assurances of my honour to her.
‘Well, I think, I now hate her perfectly: and though I will do nothing
to her myself, yet I can bear, for the sake of my revenge, and my
injured honour and slighted love, to see any thing, even what she most
fears, be done to her; and then she may be turned loose to her evil
destiny, and echo to the woods and groves her piteous lamentations for
the loss of her fantastical innocence, which the romantic ideot makes
such a work about. I shall go to London, with my sister Davers; and the
moment I can disengage myself, which, perhaps, may be in three weeks
from this time, I will be with you, and decide her fate, and put an end
to your trouble. Mean time be doubly careful; for this innocent, as I
have warned you, is full of contrivances. I am ‘Your friend.’