will not go to bed this night, that’s certain!—Then, said she, you
shall be made to come to bed; and Nan and I will undress you. I knew
neither prayers nor tears would move this wicked woman: So I said, I am
sure you will let master in, and I shall be undone! Mighty piece of
undone! she said: but he was too much exasperated against me, to be so
familiar with me, she would assure me!—Ay, said she, you’ll be disposed
of another way soon, I can tell you for your comfort: and I hope your
husband will have your obedience, though nobody else can have it. No
husband in the world, said I, shall make me do an unjust or base
thing.—She said, That would be soon tried; and Nan coming in, What!
said I, am I to have two bed-fellows again, these warm nights? Yes,
said she, slippery-one, you are, till you can have one good one instead
of us. Said I, Mrs. Jewkes, don’t talk nastily to me: I see you are
beginning again; and I shall affront you, may be; for next to bad
actions, are bad words; for they could not be spoken, if they were not
in the heart.—Come to bed, purity! said she. You are a nonsuch, I
suppose. Indeed, said I, I can’t come to bed; and it will do you no
harm to let me stay all night in the great chair. Nan, said she,
undress my young lady. If she won’t let you, I’ll help you; and, if
neither of us can do it quietly, we’ll call my master to do it for us;
though, said she, I think it an office worthier of Monsieur
Colbrand!—You are very wicked, said I. I know it, said she; I am a
Jezebel, and a London prostitute, you know. You did great feats, said
I, to tell my master all this poor stuff; but you did not tell him how
you beat me. No, lambkin, said she, (a word I had not heard a good
while,) that I left for you to tell and you was going to do it if the
vulture had not taken the wolf’s part, and bid the poor innocent lamb
be silent!—Ay, said I, no matter for your fleers, Mrs. Jewkes; though I
can have neither justice nor mercy here, and cannot be heard in my
defence, yet a time will come, may be, when I shall be heard, and when
your own guilt will strike you dumb.—Ay! spirit, said she; and the
vulture too! Must we both be dumb? Why that, lambkin, will be
pretty!—Then, said the wicked one, you’ll have all the talk to
yourself!—Then how will the tongue of the pretty lambkin bleat out
innocence, and virtue, and honesty, till the whole trial be at an
end!—You’re a wicked woman, that’s certain, said I; and if you thought
any thing of another world, could not talk thus. But no wonder!—It
shews what hands I’m got into!—Ay, so it does, said she; but I beg
you’ll undress, and come to bed, or I believe your innocence won’t keep
you from still worse hands. I will come to bed, said I, if you will let
me have the keys in my own hand; not else, if I can help it. Yes, said
she, and then, hey for another contrivance, another escape!—No, no,
said I, all my contrivances are over, I’ll assure you! Pray let me have
the keys, and I will come to bed. She came to me, and took me in her
huge arms, as if I was a feather: Said she, I do this to shew you what
a poor resistance you can make against me, if I please to exert myself;
and so, lambkin, don’t say to your wolf, I won’t come to bed!—And set
me down, and tapped me on the neck: Ah! said she, thou art a pretty
creature, ’tis true; but so obstinate! so full of spirit! if thy
strength was but answerable to that, thou would’st run away with us
all, and this great house too on thy back!—But, undress, undress, I
tell you.
Well, said I, I see my misfortunes make you very merry, and very witty
too: but I will love you, if you will humour me with the keys of the
chamber-doors.—Are you sure you will love me? said she: Now speak your
conscience!—Why, said I, you must not put it so close; neither would
you, if you thought you had not given reason to doubt it!—But I will
love you as well as I can!—I would not tell a wilful lie: and if I did,
you would not believe me, after your hard usage of me. Well, said she,
that’s all fair, I own!—But Nan, pray pull off my young lady’s shoes
and stockings.—No, pray don’t, said I; I will come to bed presently,
since I must.
And so I went to the closet, and scribbled a little about this idle
chit-chat. And she being importunate, I was forced to go to bed; but
with some of my clothes on, as the former night; and she let me hold
the two keys; for there are two locks, there being a double door; and
so I got a little sleep that night, having had none for two or three
nights before.
I can’t imagine what she means; but Nan offered to talk a little once
or twice; and she snubbed her, and said, I charge you, wench, don’t
open your lips before me; and if you are asked any questions by Mrs.
Pamela, don’t answer her one word, while I am here!—But she is a lordly
woman to the maid-servants; and that has always been her character: O
how unlike good Mrs. Jervis in every thing.
Sunday morning.
A thought came into my head; I meant no harm; but it was a little bold.
For, seeing my master dressing to go to church; and his chariot getting
ready, I went to my closet, and I writ,
The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired for a gentleman
of great worth and honour, who labours under a temptation to exert his
great power to ruin a poor, distressed, worthless maiden:
And also,
The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired by a poor
distressed creature, for the preservation of her virtue and innocence.
Mrs. Jewkes came up: Always writing! said she; and would see it: And
strait, all that ever I could say, carried it down to my master.—He
looked upon it, and said, Tell her, she shall soon see how her prayers
are answered; she is very bold: but as she has rejected all my favours,
her reckoning for all is not far off. I looked after him out of the
window; and he was charmingly dressed: To be sure he is a handsome fine
gentleman!—What pity his heart is not as good as his appearance! Why
can’t I hate him?—But don’t be uneasy, if you should see this; for it
is impossible I should love him; for his vices all ugly him over, as I
may say.
My master sends word, that he shall not come home to dinner: I suppose
he dines with this Sir Simon Darnford. I am much concerned for poor Mr.
Williams. Mrs. Jewkes says, he is confined still, and takes on much.
All his trouble is brought upon him for my sake: This grieves me much.
My master, it seems, will have his money from him. This is very hard;
for it is three fifty pounds, he gave him, as he thought, as a salary
for three years that he has been with him: but there was no agreement
between them; and he absolutely depended on my master’s favour. To be
sure, it was the more generous of him to run these risks for the sake
of oppressed innocence: and I hope he will meet with his reward in due
time. Alas for me! I dare not plead for him; that would raise my
oppressor’s jealousy more. And I have not interest to save myself!
Sunday evening.
Mrs. Jewkes has received a line from my master: I wonder what it is,
for his chariot is come home without him. But she will tell me nothing;
so it is in vain to ask her. I am so fearful of plots and tricks, I
know not what to do!—Every thing I suspect; for, now my disgrace is
avowed, what can I think!—To be sure, the worst will be attempted! I
can only pour out my soul in prayer to God, for his blessed protection.
But, if I must suffer, let me not be long a mournful survivor!—Only let
me not shorten my own time sinfully!——
This woman left upon the table, in the chamber, this letter of my
master’s to her; and I bolted myself in, till I had transcribed it.
You’ll see how tremblingly, by the lines. I wish poor Mr. Williams’s
release at any rate; but this letter makes my heart ache. Yet I have
another day’s reprieve, thank God!
‘MRS. JEWKES,
‘I have been so pressed on Williams’s affair, that I shall set out this
afternoon, in Sir Simon’s chariot, and with Parson Peters, who is his
intercessor, for Stamford; and shall not be back till to-morrow
evening, if then. As to your ward, I am thoroughly incensed against
her: She has withstood her time; and now, would she sign and seal to my
articles, it is too late. I shall discover something, perhaps, by him;
and will, on my return, let her know, that all her ensnaring loveliness
shall not save her from the fate that awaits her. But let her know
nothing of this, lest it put her fruitful mind upon plots and
artifices. Be sure trust her not without another with you at night,
lest she venture the window in her foolish rashness: for I shall
require her at your hands.
‘Yours, etc.’
I had but just finished taking a copy of this, and laid the letter
where I had it, and unbolted the door, when she came up in a great
fright, for fear I should have seen it; but I being in my closet, and
that lying as she left it, she did not mistrust. O, said she, I was
afraid you had seen my master’s letter here, which I carelessly left on
the table. I wish, said I, I had known that. Why sure, said she, if you
had, you would not have offered to read my letters! Indeed, said I, I
should, at this time, if it had been in my way:—Do let me see it.—Well,
said she, I wish poor Mr. Williams well off: I understand my master is
gone to make up matters with him; which is very good. To be sure, added
she, he is a very good gentleman, and very forgiving!—Why, said I, as
if I had known nothing of the matter, how can he make up matters with
him? Is not Mr. Williams at Stamford? Yes, said she, I believe so; but
Parson Peters pleads for him, and he is gone with him to Stamford, and
will not be back to-night: so we have nothing to do, but to eat our
suppers betimes, and go to bed. Ay, that’s pure, said I; and I shall
have good rest this night, I hope. So, said she, you might every night,
but for your own idle fears. You are afraid of your friends, when none
are near you. Ay, that’s true, said I; for I have not one near me.
So I have one more good honest night before me: What the next may be I
know not, and so I’ll try to take in a good deal of sleep, while I can
be a little easy. Therefore, here I say, Good night, my dear parents;
for I have no more to write about this night: and though his letter
shocks me, yet I will be as brisk as I can, that she mayn’t suspect I
have seen it.
Tuesday night.
For the future, I will always mistrust most when appearances look
fairest. O your poor daughter! what has she not suffered since what I
wrote on Sunday night!—My worst trial, and my fearfullest danger! O how
I shudder to write you an account of this wicked interval of time! For,
my dear parents, will you not be too much frightened and affected with
my distress, when I tell you, that his journey to Stamford was all
abominable pretence! for he came home privately, and had well nigh
effected all his vile purposes, and the ruin of your poor daughter! and
that by such a plot as I was not in the least apprehensive of: And, oh!
you’ll hear what a vile and unwomanly part that wicked wretch, Mrs.
Jewkes, acted in it!
I left off with letting you know how much I was pleased that I had one
night’s reprieve added to my honesty. But I had less occasion to
rejoice than ever, as you will judge by what I have said already. Take,
then, the dreadful story, as well as I can relate it.
The maid Nan is a little apt to drink, if she can get at liquor; and
Mrs. Jewkes happened, or designed, as is too probable, to leave a
bottle of cherry-brandy in her way, and the wench drank some of it more
than she should; and when she came in to lay the cloth, Mrs. Jewkes
perceived it, and fell a rating at her most sadly; for she has too many
faults of her own, to suffer any of the like sort in any body else, if
she can help it; and she bid her get out of her sight, when we had
supped, and go to bed, to sleep off her liquor, before we came to bed.
And so the poor maid went muttering up stairs.
About two hours after, which was near eleven o’clock, Mrs. Jewkes and I
went up to go to bed; I pleasing myself with what a charming night I
should have. We locked both doors, and saw poor Nan, as I thought,
(but, oh! ’twas my abominable master, as you shall hear by and by,)
sitting fast asleep, in an elbow-chair, in a dark corner of the room,
with her apron thrown over her head and neck. And Mrs. Jewkes said,
There is that beast of a wench fast asleep, instead of being a-bed! I
knew, said she, she had taken a fine dose. I’ll wake her, said I. No,
don’t, said she; let her sleep on; we shall be better without her. Ay,
said I, so we shall; but won’t she get cold?
Said she, I hope you have no writing to-night. No, replied I, I will go
to bed with you, Mrs. Jewkes. Said she, I wonder what you can find to
write about so much! and am sure you have better conveniences of that
kind, and more paper than I am aware of; and I had intended to rummage
you, if my master had not come down; for I spied a broken tea-cup with
ink, which gave me suspicion: but as he is come, let him look after
you, if he will; and if you deceive him, it will be his own fault.
All this time we were undressing ourselves: And I fetched a deep sigh!
What do you sigh for? said she. I am thinking, Mrs. Jewkes, answered I,
what a sad life I live, and how hard is my lot. I am sure, the thief
that has robbed is much better off than I, ’bating the guilt; and I
should, I think, take it for a mercy, to be hanged out of the way,
rather than live in these cruel apprehensions. So, being not sleepy,
and in a prattling vein, I began to give a little history of myself, as
I did, once before, to Mrs. Jervis; in this manner:
Here, said I, were my poor honest parents; they took care to instill
good principles into my mind, till I was almost twelve years of age;
and taught me to prefer goodness and poverty to the highest condition
of life; and they confirmed their lessons by their own practice; for
they were, of late years, remarkably poor, and always as remarkably
honest, even to a proverb: for, As honest as goodman ANDREWS, was a
byeword.
Well then, said I, comes my late dear good lady, and takes a fancy to
me, and said, she would be the making of me, if I was a good girl; and
she put me to sing, to dance, to play on the spinnet, in order to
divert her melancholy hours; and also taught me all manner of fine
needle-work; but still this was her lesson, My good Pamela, be
virtuous, and keep the men at a distance. Well, so I was, I hope, and
so I did; and yet, though I say it, they all loved me and respected me;
and would do any thing for me, as if I was a gentlewoman.
But, then, what comes next?—Why, it pleased God to take my good lady:
and then comes my master: And what says he?—Why, in effect, it is, Be
not virtuous, Pamela.
So here I have lived about sixteen years in virtue and reputation; and
all at once, when I come to know what is good, and what is evil, I must
renounce all the good, all the whole sixteen years’ innocence, which,
next to God’s grace, I owed chiefly to my parents, and my lady’s good
lessons and examples, and choose the evil; and so, in a moment’s time,
become the vilest of creatures! And all this, for what, I pray? Why,
truly, for a pair of diamond ear-rings, a necklace, and a diamond ring
for my finger; which would not become me: For a few paltry fine
clothes, which, when I wore them, would make but my former poverty more
ridiculous to every body that saw me; especially when they knew the
base terms I wore them upon. But, indeed, I was to have a great parcel
of guineas beside; I forget how many; for, had there been ten times
more, they would have been not so much to me, as the honest six guineas
you tricked me out of, Mrs. Jewkes.
Well, forsooth! but then I was to have I know not how many pounds a
year for my life; and my poor father (there was the jest of it!) was to
be the manager for the abandoned prostitute his daughter: And then,
(there was the jest again!) my kind, forgiving, virtuous master, would
pardon me all my misdeeds!
Yes, thank him for nothing, truly. And what, pray, are all these
violent misdeeds?—Why, they are for daring to adhere to the good
lessons that were taught me; and not learning a new one, that would
have reversed all my former: For not being contented when I was run
away with, in order to be ruined; but contriving, if my poor wits had
been able, to get out of danger, and preserve myself honest.
Then was he once jealous of poor John, though he knew John was his own
creature, and helped to deceive me.
Then was he outrageous against poor Parson Williams! and him has this
good, merciful master, thrown into gaol; and for what? Why, truly, for
that, being a divine, and a good man, he had the fear of God before his
eyes, and was willing to forego all his expectations of interest, and
assist an oppressed poor creature.
But, to be sure, I must be forward, bold, saucy, and what not! to dare
to run away from certain ruin, and to strive to escape from an unjust
confinement; and I must be married to the parson, nothing so sure!
He would have had but a poor catch of me, had I consented: But he, and
you too, know I did not want to marry any body. I only wanted to go to
my poor parents, and to have my own liberty, and not to be confined by
such an unlawful restraint; and which would not have been inflicted
upon me, but only that I am a poor, destitute, young body, and have no
friend that is able to right me.
So, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, here is my history in brief. And I am a very
unhappy young creature, to be sure!—And why am I so?—Why, because my
master sees something in my person that takes his present fancy; and
because I would not be undone.—Why, therefore to choose, I must, and I
shall be undone!—And this is all the reason that can be given!
She heard me run on all this time, while I was undressing, without any
interruption; and I said, Well, I must go to the two closets, ever
since an affair of the closet at the other house, though he is so far
off. And I have a good mind to wake this poor maid. No, don’t, said
she, I charge you. I am very angry with her, and she’ll get no harm
there; and if she wakes, she may come to bed well enough, as long as
there is a candle in the chimney.
So I looked into the closet, and kneeled down in my own, as I used to
do, to say my prayers, and this with my underclothes in my hand, all
undressed; and passed by the poor sleeping wench, as I thought, in my
return. But, oh! little did I think it was my wicked, wicked master, in
a gown and petticoat of hers, and her apron over his face and
shoulders. What meanness will not Lucifer make his votaries stoop to,
to gain their abominable ends!
Mrs. Jewkes, by this time, was got to bed, on the farther side, as she
used to be; and, to make room for the maid, when she should awake, I
got into bed, and lay close to her. And I said, Where are the keys?
though, said I, I am not so much afraid to-night. Here, said the wicked
woman, put your arm under mine, and you shall find them about my wrist,
as they used to be. So I did, and the abominable designer held my hand
with her right-hand, as my right-arm was under her left.
In less than a quarter of an hour, I said, There’s poor Nan awake; I
hear her stir. Let us go to sleep, said she, and not mind her: she’ll
come to bed, when she’s quite awake. Poor soul! said I, I’ll warrant
she will have the head-ache finely to-morrow for this! Be silent, said
she, and go to sleep; you keep me awake; and I never found you in so
talkative a humour in my life. Don’t chide me, said I; I will but say
one thing more: Do you think Nan could hear me talk of my master’s
offers? No, no, said she; she was dead asleep. I’m glad of that, said
I; because I would not expose my master to his common servants; and I
knew you were no stranger to his fine articles. Said she, I think they
were fine articles, and you were bewitched you did not close with them:
But let us go to sleep. So I was silent; and the pretended Nan (O
wicked, base, villanous designer! what a plot, what an unexpected plot
was this!) seemed to be awaking; and Mrs. Jewkes, abhorrent creature!
said, Come, Nan!—what, are you awake at last?—Pr’ythee come to bed; for
Mrs. Pamela is in a talking fit, and won’t go to sleep one while.
At that, the pretended she came to the bed-side; and, sitting down in a
chair, where the curtain hid her, began to undress. Said I, Poor Mrs.
Anne, I warrant your head aches most sadly! How do you do?
—She answered not a word. Said the superlatively wicked woman, You know
I have ordered her not to answer you. And this plot, to be sure, was
laid when she gave her these orders the night before.
I heard her, as I thought, breathe all quick and short: Indeed, said I,
Mrs. Jewkes, the poor maid is not well. What ails you, Mrs. Anne? And
still no answer was made.
But, I tremble to relate it! the pretended she came into bed, but
trembled like an aspen-leaf; and I, poor fool that I was! pitied her
much—but well might the barbarous deceiver tremble at his vile
dissimulation, and base designs.
What words shall I find, my dear mother (for my father should not see
this shocking part), to describe the rest, and my confusion, when the
guilty wretch took my left arm, and laid it under his neck, and the
vile procuress held my right; and then he clasped me round the waist!
Said I, is the wench mad? Why, how now, confidence! thinking still it
had been Nan. But he kissed me with frightful vehemence; and then his
voice broke upon me like a clap of thunder. Now, Pamela, said he, is
the dreadful time of reckoning come, that I have threatened—I screamed
out in such a manner, as never anybody heard the like. But there was
nobody to help me: and both my hands were secured, as I said. Sure
never poor soul was in such agonies as I. Wicked man! said I; wicked
abominable woman! O God! my God! this time! this one time! deliver me
from this distress! or strike me dead this moment! And then I screamed
again and again.
Says he, One word with you, Pamela; one word hear me but; I must say
one word to you, it is this: You see now you are in my power!—You
cannot get from me, nor help yourself: Yet have I not offered any thing
amiss to you. But if you resolve not to comply with my proposals, I
will not lose this opportunity: If you do, I will yet leave you.
O sir, said I, leave me, leave me but, and I will do any thing I ought
to do.—Swear then to me, said he, that you will accept my proposals!
With struggling, fright, terror, I fainted away quite, and did not come
to myself soon, so that they both, from the cold sweats that I was in,
thought me dying.—And I remember no more, than that, when with great
difficulty they brought me to myself, she was sitting on one side of
the bed, with her clothes on; and he on the other with his, and in his
gown and slippers.
Your poor Pamela cannot answer for the liberties taken with her in her
deplorable state of death. And when I saw them there, I sat up in my
bed, without any regard to what appearance I made, and nothing about my
neck; and he soothing me, with an aspect of pity and concern, I put my
hand to his mouth, and said, O tell me, yet tell me not, what have I
suffered in this distress? And I talked quite wild, and knew not what:
for, to be sure, I was on the point of distraction.
He most solemnly, and with a bitter imprecation, vowed, that he had not
offered the least indecency; that he was frightened at the terrible
manner I was taken with the fit: that he should desist from his
attempt; and begged but to see me easy and quiet, and he would leave me
directly, and go to his own bed. O then, said I, take with you this
most wicked woman, this vile Mrs. Jewkes, as an earnest, that I may
believe you!
And will you, sir, said the wicked wretch, for a fit or two, give up
such an opportunity as this?—I thought you had known the sex better.
She is now, you see, quite well again!
This I heard; more she might say; but I fainted away once more, at
these words, and at his clasping his arms about me again. And, when I
came a little to myself, I saw him sit there, and the maid Nan, holding
a smelling-bottle to my nose, and no Mrs. Jewkes.
He said, taking my hand, Now will I vow to you, my dear Pamela, that I
will leave you the moment I see you better, and pacified. Here’s Nan
knows, and will tell you, my concern for you. I vow to God, I have not
offered any indecency to you: and, since I found Mrs. Jewkes so
offensive to you, I have sent her to the maid’s bed, and the maid shall
be with you to-night. And but promise me, that you will compose
yourself, and I will leave you. But, said I, will not Nan also hold my
hand? And will not she let you come in again to me?—He said, By heaven!
I will not come in again to-night. Nan, undress yourself, go to bed,
and do all you can to comfort the dear creature: And now, Pamela, said
he, give me but your hand, and say you forgive me, and I will leave you
to your repose. I held out my trembling hand, which he vouchsafed to
kiss; and I said, God forgive you, sir, as you have been just in my
distress; and as you will be just to what you promise! And he withdrew,
with a countenance of remorse, as I hoped; and she shut the doors, and,
at my request, brought the keys to bed.
This, O my dear parents! was a most dreadful trial. I tremble still to
think of it; and dare not recall all the horrid circumstances of it. I
hope, as he assures me, he was not guilty of indecency; but have reason
to bless God, who, by disabling me in my faculties, empowered me to
preserve my innocence; and, when all my strength would have signified
nothing, magnified himself in my weakness.
I was so weak all day on Monday, that I could not get out of my bed. My
master shewed great tenderness for me; and I hope he is really sorry,
and that this will be his last attempt; but he does not say so neither.
He came in the morning, as soon as he heard the door open and I began
to be fearful. He stopped short of the bed, and said, Rather than give
you apprehensions, I will come no farther. I said, Your honour, sir,
and your mercy, is all I have to beg. He sat himself on the side of the
bed, and asked kindly, how I did?—begged me to be composed; said, I
still looked a little wildly. And I said, Pray, good sir, let me not
see this infamous Mrs. Jewkes; I doubt I cannot bear her sight. She
shan’t come near you all this day, if you’ll promise to compose
yourself. Then, sir, I will try. He pressed my hand very tenderly, and
went out. What a change does this shew!—O may it be lasting!—But, alas!
he seems only to have altered his method of proceeding; and retains, I
doubt, his wicked purpose.
On Tuesday, about ten o’clock, when my master heard I was up, he sent
for me down into the parlour. As soon as he saw me, he said, Come
nearer to me, Pamela. I did so, and he took my hand, and said, You
begin to look well again: I am glad of it. You little slut, how did you
frighten me on Sunday night.
Sir, said I, pray name not that night; and my eyes overflowed at the
remembrance, and I turned my head aside.
Said he, Place some little confidence in me: I know what those charming
eyes mean, and you shall not need to explain yourself: for I do assure
you, that as soon as I saw you change, and a cold sweat bedew your
pretty face, and you fainted away, I quitted the bed, and Mrs. Jewkes
did so too. And I put on my gown, and she fetched her smelling-bottle,
and we both did all we could to restore you; and my passion for you was
all swallowed up in the concern I had for your recovery; for I thought
I never saw a fit so strong and violent in my life: and feared we
should not bring you to life again; for what I saw you in once before
was nothing to it. This, said he, might be my folly, and my
unacquaintedness with what passion your sex can shew when they are in
earnest. But this I repeat to you, that your mind may be entirely
comforted—Whatever I offered to you, was before you fainted away, and
that, I am sure, was innocent.