designs. When, said he, I tell you the truth in one instance, you may
believe me in the other. I know not, I declare, beyond this lovely
bosom, your sex: but that I did intend what you call the worst is most
certain: and though I would not too much alarm you now, I could curse
my weakness, and my folly, which makes me own, that I love you beyond
all your sex, and cannot live without you. But if I am master of
myself, and my own resolution, I will not attempt to force you to any
thing again.
Sir, said I, you may easily keep your resolution, if you’ll send me out
of your way, to my poor parents; that is all I beg.
’Tis a folly to talk of it, said he. You must not, shall not go! And if
I could be assured you would not attempt it, you should have better
usage, and your confinement should be made easier to you.
But to what end, sir, am I to stay? said I: You yourself seem not sure
you can keep your own present good resolutions; and do you think, if I
was to stay, when I could get away, and be safe, it would not look, as
if either I confided too much in my own strength, or would tempt my
ruin? And as if I was not in earnest to wish myself safe, and out of
danger?—And then, how long am I to stay? And to what purpose? And in
what light must I appear to the world? Would not that censure me,
although I might be innocent? And you will allow, sir, that, if there
be any thing valuable or exemplary in a good name, or fair reputation,
one must not despise the world’s censure, if one can avoid it.
Well, said he, I sent not for you on this account, just now; but for
two reasons. The first is, That you promise me, that for a fortnight to
come you will not offer to go away without my express consent; and this
I expect for your own sake, that I may give you a little more liberty.
And the second is, That you will see and forgive Mrs. Jewkes: she takes
on much, and thinks that, as all her fault was her obedience to me, it
would be very hard to sacrifice her, as she calls it, to your
resentment.
As to the first, sir, said I, it is a hard injunction, for the reasons
I have mentioned. And as to the second, considering her vile, unwomanly
wickedness, and her endeavours to instigate you more to ruin me, when
your returning goodness seemed to have some compassion upon me, it is
still harder. But, to shew my obedience to your commands, (for you
know, my dear parents, I might as well make a merit of my compliance,
when my refusal would stand me in no stead,) I will consent to both;
and to every thing else, that you shall be pleased to enjoin, which I
can do, with innocence.
That’s my good girl! said he, and kissed me: This is quite prudent, and
shews me, that you don’t take insolent advantage of my favour for you;
and will, perhaps, stand you in more stead than you are aware of.
So he rung the bell, and said, Call down Mrs. Jewkes. She came down,
and he took my hand, and put it into hers; and said, Mrs. Jewkes, I am
obliged to you for all your diligence and fidelity to me; but Pamela, I
must own, is not; because the service I employed you in was not so very
obliging to her, as I could have wished she would have thought it: and
you were not to favour her, but obey me. But yet I’ll assure you, at
the very first word, she has once obliged me, by consenting to be
friends with you; and if she gives me no great cause, I shall not,
perhaps, put you on such disagreeable service again.—Now, therefore, be
you once more bed-fellows and board-fellows, as I may say, for some
days longer; and see that Pamela sends no letters nor messages out of
the house, nor keeps a correspondence unknown to me, especially with
that Williams; and, as for the rest, shew the dear girl all the respect
that is due to one I must love, if she will deserve it, as I hope she
will yet; and let her be under no unnecessary or harsh restraints. But
your watchful care is not, however, to cease: and remember that you are
not to disoblige me, to oblige her; and that I will not, cannot, yet
part with her.
Mrs. Jewkes looked very sullen, and as if she would be glad still to do
me a good turn, if it lay in her power.
I took courage then to drop a word or two for poor Mr. Williams; but he
was angry with me for it, and said he could not endure to hear his name
in my mouth; so I was forced to have done for that time.
All this time, my papers, that I buried under the rose-bush, lay there
still; and I begged for leave to send a letter to you. So I should, he
said, if he might read it first. But this did not answer my design; and
yet I would have sent you such a letter as he might see, if I had been
sure my danger was over. But that I cannot; for he now seems to take
another method, and what I am more afraid of, because, may be, he may
watch an opportunity, and join force with it, on occasion, when I am
least prepared: for now he seems to abound with kindness, and talks of
love without reserve, and makes nothing of allowing himself in the
liberty of kissing me, which he calls innocent; but which I do not
like, and especially in the manner he does it: but for a master to do
it at all to a servant, has meaning too much in it, not to alarm an
honest body.
Wednesday morning.
I find I am watched and suspected still very close; and I wish I was
with you; but that must not be, it seems, this fortnight. I don’t like
this fortnight; and it will be a tedious and a dangerous one to me, I
doubt.
My master just now sent for me down to take a walk with him in the
garden: but I like him not at all, nor his ways; for he would have, all
the way, his arm about my waist, and said abundance of fond things to
me, enough to make me proud, if his design had not been apparent. After
walking about, he led me into a little alcove, on the farther part of
the garden; and really made me afraid of myself, for he began to be
very teasing, and made me sit on his knee; and was so often kissing me,
that I said, Sir, I don’t like to be here at all, I assure you. Indeed
you make me afraid!—And what made me the more so, was what he once said
to Mrs. Jewkes, and did not think I heard him, and which, though always
uppermost with me, I did not mention before, because I did not know how
to bring it in, in my writing.
She, I suppose, had been encouraging him in his wickedness; for it was
before the last dreadful trial: and I only heard what he answered.
Said he, I will try once more; but I have begun wrong for I see terror
does but add to her frost; but she is a charming girl, and may be
thawed by kindness; and I should have melted her by love, instead of
freezing her by fear.
Is he not a wicked, sad man for this?—To be sure, I blush while I write
it. But I trust, that that God, who has delivered me from the paw of
the lion and the bear; that is, his and Mrs. Jewkes’s violences, will
soon deliver me from this Philistine, that I may not defy the commands
of the living God!
But, as I was saying, this expression coming into my thoughts, I was of
opinion, I could not be too much on my guard, at all times: more
especially when he took such liberties: for he professed honour all the
time with his mouth, while his actions did not correspond. I begged and
prayed he would let me go: and had I not appeared quite regardless of
all he said, and resolved not to stay, if I could help it, I know not
how far he would have proceeded; for I was forced to fall down upon my
knees.
At last he walked out with me, still bragging of his honour and his
love. Yes, yes, sir, said I, your honour is to destroy mine: and your
love is to ruin me; I see it too plainly. But, indeed, I will not talk
with you, sir, said I, any more. Do you know, said he, whom you talk
to, and where you are?
You may believe I had reason to think him not so decent as he should
be; for I said, As to where I am, sir, I know it too well; and that I
have no creature to befriend me: and, as to whom I talk to, sir, let me
ask you, What you would have me answer?
Why, tell me, said he, what answer you would make? It will only make
you angry, said I; and so I shall fare worse, if possible. I won’t be
angry, said he. Why, then, sir, said I, you cannot be my late good
lady’s son; for she loved me, and taught me virtue. You cannot then be
my master; for no master demeans himself so to his poor servant.
He put his arm round me, and his other hand on my neck, which made me
more angry and bold: and he said, What then am I? Why, said I,
(struggling from him, and in a great passion,) to be sure you are
Lucifer himself, in the shape of my master, or you could not use me
thus. These are too great liberties, said he, in anger; and I desire
that you will not repeat them, for your own sake: For if you have no
decency towards me, I’ll have none towards you.
I was running from him, and he said, Come back, when I bid you.—So,
knowing every place was alike dangerous to me, and I had nobody to run
to, I came back, at his call; and seeing him look displeased, I held my
hands together, and wept, and said, Pray, sir, forgive me. No, said he,
rather say, Pray, Lucifer, forgive me! And, now, since you take me for
the devil, how can you expect any good from me?—How, rather, can you
expect any thing but the worst treatment from me?—You have given me a
character, Pamela; and blame me not that I act up to it. Sir, said I,
let me beg you to forgive me: I am really sorry for my boldness; but
indeed you don’t use me like a gentleman: and how can I express my
resentment, if I mince the matter, while you are so indecent? Precise
fool! said he, what indecencies have I offered you?—I was bewitched I
had not gone through my purpose last Sunday night; and then your
licentious tongue had not given the worst name to little puny freedoms,
that shew my love and my folly at the same time. But, begone! said he,
taking my hand, and tossing it from him, and learn another conduct and
more wit; and I will lay aside my foolish regard for you, and assert
myself. Begone! said he, again, with a haughty air.
Indeed, sir, said I, I cannot go, till you pardon me, which I beg on my
bended knees. I am truly sorry for my boldness.—But I see how you go
on: you creep by little and little upon me; and now soothe me, and now
threaten me; and if I should forbear to shew my resentment, when you
offer incivilities to me, would not that be to be lost by degrees?
Would it not shew, that I could bear any thing from you, if I did not
express all the indignation I could express, at the first approaches
you make to what I dread? And have you not as good as avowed my
ruin?—And have you once made me hope you will quit your purposes
against me? How then, sir, can I act, but by shewing my abhorrence of
every step that makes towards my undoing? And what is left me but
words?—And can these words be other than such strong ones, as shall
shew the detestation which, from the bottom of my heart, I have for
every attempt upon my virtue? Judge for me, sir, and pardon me.
Pardon you! said he, What! when you don’t repent?—When you have the
boldness to justify yourself in your fault? Why don’t you say, you
never will again offend me? I will endeavour, sir, said I, always to
preserve that decency towards you which becomes me. But really, sir, I
must beg your excuse for saying, That when you forget what belongs to
decency in your actions, and when words are all that are left me, to
shew my resentment of such actions, I will not promise to forbear the
strongest expressions that my distressed mind shall suggest to me: nor
shall your angriest frowns deter me, when my honesty is in question.
What, then, said he, do you beg pardon for? Where is the promise of
amendment, for which I should forgive you? Indeed, sir, said I, I own
that must absolutely depend on your usage of me: for I will bear any
thing you can inflict upon me with patience, even to the laying down of
my life, to shew my obedience to you in other cases; but I cannot be
patient, I cannot be passive, when my virtue is at stake! It would be
criminal in me, if I was.
He said, he never saw such a fool in his life. And he walked by the
side of me some yards, without saying a word, and seemed vexed; and at
last walked in, bidding me attend him in the garden, after dinner. So
having a little time, I went up, and wrote thus far.
Wednesday night.
If, my dear parents, I am not destined more surely than ever for ruin,
I have now more comfort before me than ever I yet knew: and am either
nearer my happiness, or my misery, than ever I was. God protect me from
the latter, if it be his blessed will! I have now such a scene to open
to you, that, I know, will alarm both your hopes and your fears, as it
does mine. And this it is:
After my master had dined, he took a turn into the stables, to look at
his stud of horses; and, when he came in, he opened the parlour-door,
where Mrs. Jewkes and I sat at dinner; and, at his entrance, we both
rose up; but he said, Sit still, sit still, and let me see how you eat
your victuals, Pamela. O, said Mrs. Jewkes, very poorly, indeed, sir!
No, said I, pretty well, sir, considering. None of your considerings,
said he, pretty face; and tapped me on the cheek. I blushed, but was
glad he was so good-humoured; but I could not tell how to sit before
him, nor to behave myself. So he said, I know, Pamela, you are a nice
carver: my mother used to say so. My lady, sir, said I, was very good
to me in every thing, and would always make me do the honours of her
table for her, when she was with her few select friends that she loved.
Cut up, said he, that chicken. I did so. Now, said he, and took a knife
and fork, and put a wing upon my plate, let me see you eat that. O sir,
said I, I have eaten a whole breast of a chicken already, and cannot
eat so much. But he said, I must eat it for his sake, and he would
teach me to eat heartily: So I did eat it; but was much confused at his
so kind and unusual freedom and condescension. And, good lack! you
can’t imagine how Mrs. Jewkes looked and stared, and how respectful she
seemed to me, and called me good madam, I’ll assure you, urging me to
take a little bit of tart.
My master took two or three turns about the room, musing and
thoughtful, as I had never before seen him; and at last he went out,
saying, I am going into the garden: You know, Pamela, what I said to
you before dinner. I rose, and courtesied, saying, I would attend his
honour; and he said, Do, good girl!
Well, said Mrs. Jewkes, I see how things will go. O, madam, as she
called me again, I am sure you are to be our mistress! And then I know
what will become of me. Ah Mrs. Jewkes, said I, if I can but keep
myself virtuous, ’tis the most of my ambition; and I hope, no
temptation shall make me otherwise.
Notwithstanding I had no reason to be pleased with his treatment of me
before dinner, yet I made haste to attend him; and I found him walking
by the side of that pond, which, for want of grace, and through a
sinful despondence, had like to have been so fatal to me, and the sight
of which, ever since, has been a trouble and reproach to me. And it was
by the side of this pond, and not far from the place where I had that
dreaded conflict, that my present hopes, if I am not to be deceived
again, began to dawn: which I presume to flatter myself with being a
happy omen for me, as if God Almighty would shew your poor sinful
daughter, how well I did to put my affiance in his goodness, and not to
throw away myself, because my ruin seemed inevitable, to my
short-sighted apprehension.
So he was pleased to say, Well, Pamela, I am glad you are come of your
own accord, as I may say: give me your hand. I did so; and he looked at
me very steadily, and pressing my hand all the time, at last said, I
will now talk to you in a serious manner.
You have a good deal of wit, a great deal of penetration, much beyond
your years, and, as I thought, your opportunities. You are possessed of
an open, frank, and generous mind; and a person so lovely, that you
excel all your sex, in my eyes. All these accomplishments have engaged
my affection so deeply, that, as I have often said, I cannot live
without you; and I would divide, with all my soul, my estate with you,
to make you mine upon my own terms. These you have absolutely rejected;
and that, though in saucy terms enough, yet in such a manner as makes
me admire you the more. Your pretty chit-chat to Mrs. Jewkes, the last
Sunday night, so innocent, and so full of beautiful simplicity, half
disarmed my resolution before I approached your bed: And I see you so
watchful over your virtue, that though I hoped to find it otherwise, I
cannot but confess my passion for you is increased by it. But now, what
shall I say farther, Pamela?—I will make you, though a party, my
adviser in this matter, though not, perhaps, my definitive judge.
You know I am not a very abandoned profligate; I have hitherto been
guilty of no very enormous or vile actions. This of seizing you, and
confining you thus, may perhaps be one of the worst, at least to
persons of real innocence. Had I been utterly given up to my passions,
I should before now have gratified them, and not have shewn that
remorse and compassion for you, which have reprieved you, more than
once, when absolutely in my power; and you are as inviolate a virgin as
you were when you came into my house.
But what can I do? Consider the pride of my condition. I cannot endure
the thought of marriage, even with a person of equal or superior degree
to myself; and have declined several proposals of that kind: How then,
with the distance between us in the world’s judgment, can I think of
making you my wife?—Yet I must have you; I cannot bear the thoughts of
any other man supplanting me in your affections: and the very
apprehension of that has made me hate the name of Williams, and use him
in a manner unworthy of my temper.
Now, Pamela, judge for me; and, since I have told you, thus candidly,
my mind, and I see yours is big with some important meaning, by your
eyes, your blushes, and that sweet confusion which I behold struggling
in your bosom, tell me, with like openness and candour, what you think
I ought to do, and what you would have me do.
It is impossible for me to express the agitations of my mind, on this
unexpected declaration, so contrary to his former behaviour. His manner
too had something so noble, and so sincere, as I thought, that, alas
for me! I found I had need of all my poor discretion, to ward off the
blow which this treatment gave to my most guarded thoughts. I threw
myself at his feet; for I trembled, and could hardly stand: O sir, said
I, spare your poor servant’s confusion! O spare the poor Pamela!—Speak
out, said he, and tell me, when I bid you, What you think I ought to
do? I cannot say what you ought to do, answered I: but I only beg you
will not ruin me; and, if you think me virtuous, if you think me
sincerely honest, let me go to my poor parents. I will vow to you, that
I will never suffer myself to be engaged without your approbation.
Still he insisted upon a more explicit answer to his question, of what
I thought he ought to do. And I did, As to my poor thoughts of what you
ought to do, I must needs say, that indeed I think you ought to regard
the world’s opinion, and avoid doing any thing disgraceful to your
birth and fortune; and, therefore, if you really honour the poor Pamela
with your respect, a little time, absence, and the conversation of
worthier persons of my sex, will effectually enable you to overcome a
regard so unworthy your condition: And this, good sir, is the best
advice I can offer.
Charming creature! lovely Pamela! said he, (with an ardour that was
never before so agreeable to me,) this generous manner is of a piece
with all the rest of your conduct. But tell me, still more explicitly,
what you would advise me to, in the case.
O, sir! said I, take not advantage of my credulity, and these my weak
moments: but were I the first lady in the land, instead of the poor
abject Pamela, I would, I could tell you. But I can say no more—
O my dear father and mother! now I know you will indeed be concerned
for me;—for now I am for myself.—And now I begin to be afraid I know
too well the reason why all his hard trials of me, and my black
apprehensions, would not let me hate him.
But be assured still, by God’s grace, that I shall do nothing unworthy
of your Pamela; and if I find that he is still capable of deceiving me,
and that this conduct is only put on to delude me more, I shall think
nothing in this world so vile, and so odious; and nothing, if he be not
the worst of his kind, (as he says, and, I hope, he is not,) so
desperately guileful, as the heart of man.
He generously said, I will spare your confusion, Pamela. But I hope I
may promise myself, that you can love me preferably to any other man;
and that no one in the world has had any share in your affections; for
I am very jealous of what I love; and if I thought you had a secret
whispering in your soul, that had not yet come up to a wish, for any
other man breathing, I should not forgive myself to persist in my
affection for you; nor you, if you did not frankly acquaint me with it.
As I still continued on my knees, on the grass border by the pond-side,
he sat himself down on the grass by me, and took me in his arms: Why
hesitates my Pamela? said he.—Can you not answer me with truth, as I
wish? If you cannot, speak, and I will forgive you.
O good sir, said I, it is not that; indeed it is not: but a frightful
word or two that you said to Mrs. Jewkes, when you thought I was not in
hearing, comes cross my mind; and makes me dread that I am in more
danger than ever I was in my life.
You have never found me a common liar, said he, (too fearful and
foolish Pamela!) nor will I answer how long I may hold in my present
mind; for my pride struggles hard within me, I’ll assure you; and if
you doubt me, I have no obligation to your confidence or opinion. But,
at present, I am really sincere in what I say: And I expect you will be
so too; and answer directly my question.
I find, sir, said I, I know not myself; and your question is of such a
nature, that I only want to tell you what I heard, and to have your
kind answer to it; or else, what I have to say to your question, may
pave the way to my ruin, and shew a weakness that I did not believe was
in me.
Well, said he, you may say what you have overheard; for, in not
answering me directly, you put my soul upon the rack; and half the
trouble I have had with you would have brought to my arms one of the
finest ladies in England.
O sir, said I, my virtue is as dear to me, as if I was of the highest
quality; and my doubts (for which you know I have had too much reason)
have made me troublesome. But now, sir, I will tell you what I heard,
which has given me great uneasiness.
You talked to Mrs. Jewkes of having begun wrong with me, in trying to
subdue me with terror, and of frost, and such like—You remember it
well:—And that you would, for the future, change your conduct, and try
to melt me, that was your word, by kindness.
I fear not, sir, the grace of God supporting me, that any acts of
kindness would make me forget what I owe to my virtue: but, sir, I may,
I find, be made more miserable by such acts, than by terror; because my
nature is too frank and open to make me wish to be ungrateful: and if I
should be taught a lesson I never yet learnt, with what regret should I
descend to the grave, to think that I could not hate my undoer: and
that, at the last great day, I must stand up as an accuser of the poor
unhappy soul, that I could wish it in my power to save!
Exalted girl! said he, what a thought is that!—Why, now, Pamela, you
excel yourself! You have given me a hint that will hold me long. But,
sweet creature, said he, tell me what is this lesson, which you never
yet learnt, and which you are so afraid of learning?
If, sir, said I, you will again generously spare my confusion, I need
not speak it: But this I will say, in answer to the question you seem
most solicitous about, that I know not the man breathing that I would
wish to be married to, or that ever I thought of with such an idea. I
had brought my mind so to love poverty, that I hoped for nothing but to
return to the best, though the poorest of parents; and to employ myself
in serving God, and comforting them; and you know not, sir, how you
disappointed those hopes, and my proposed honest pleasures, when you
sent me hither.
Well then, said he, I may promise myself, that neither the parson, nor
any other man, is any the least secret motive to your steadfast refusal
of my offers? Indeed, sir, said I, you may; and, as you was pleased to
ask, I answer, that I have not the least shadow of a wish, or thought,
for any man living.