to you last night, to humour you as I did. If you have either added or
diminished, and have not strictly kept your promise, woe be to you!
Indeed, sir, said I, I have neither added nor diminished. But there is
the parcel that goes on with my sad attempt to escape, and the terrible
consequences it had like to have been followed with. And it goes down
to the naughty articles you sent me. And as you know all that has
happened since, I hope these will satisfy you.
He was going to speak; but I said, to drive him from thinking of any
more, And I must beg you, sir, to read the matter favourably, if I have
exceeded in any liberties of my pen.
I think, said he, half-smiling, you may wonder at my patience, that I
can be so easy to read myself abused as I am by such a saucy slut.—Sir,
said I, I have wondered you should be so desirous to see my bold stuff;
and, for that very reason, I have thought it a very good, or a very bad
sign. What, said he, is your good sign?—That it may have an effect upon
your temper, at last, in my favour, when you see me so sincere. Your
bad sign? Why, that if you can read my reflections and observations
upon your treatment of me, with tranquillity, and not be moved, it is a
sign of a very cruel and determined heart. Now, pray, sir, don’t be
angry at my boldness in telling you so freely my thoughts. You may,
perhaps, said he, be least mistaken, when you think of your bad sign.
God forbid! said I.
So I took out my papers; and said, Here, sir, they are. But if you
please to return them, without breaking the seal, it will be very
generous: and I will take it for a great favour, and a good omen.
He broke the seal instantly, and opened them: So much for your omen!
replied he. I am sorry for it, said I, very seriously; and was walking
away. Whither now? said he. I was going in, sir, that you might have
time to read them, if you thought fit. He put them into his pocket, and
said, You have more than these. Yes, sir: but all they contain, you
know as well as I.—But I don’t know, said he, the light you put things
in; and so give them me, if you have not a mind to be searched.
Sir, said I, I can’t stay, if you won’t forbear that ugly word.—Give me
then no reason for it. Where are the other papers? Why, then, unkind
sir, if it must be so, here they are. And so I gave him, out of my
pocket, the second parcel, sealed up, as the former, with this
superscription; From the naughty articles, down, through sad attempts,
to Thursday the 42d day of my imprisonment. This is last Thursday, is
it? Yes, sir; but now you will see what I write, I will find some other
way to employ my time: for how can I write with any face, what must be
for your perusal, and not for those I intended to read my melancholy
stories?
Yes, said he, I would have you continue your penmanship by all means;
and, I assure you, in the mind I am in, I will not ask you for any
after these; except any thing very extraordinary occurs. And I have
another thing to tell you, added he, that if you send for those from
your father, and let me read them, I may, very probably, give them all
back again to you. And so I desire you will do it.
This a little encourages me to continue my scribbling; but, for fear of
the worst, I will, when they come to any bulk, contrive some way to
hide them, if I can, that I may protest I have them not about me,
which, before, I could not say of a truth; and that made him so
resolutely bent to try to find them upon me; for which I might have
suffered frightful indecencies.
He led me, then, to the side of the pond; and sitting down on the
slope, made me sit by him. Come, said he, this being the scene of part
of your project, and where you so artfully threw in some of your
clothes, I will just look upon that part of your relation. Sir, said I,
let me then walk about, at a little distance; for I cannot bear the
thought of it. Don’t go far, said he.
When he came, as I suppose, to the place where I mentioned the bricks
falling upon me, he got up, and walked to the door, and looked upon the
broken part of the wall; for it had not been mended; and came back,
reading on to himself, towards me; and took my hand, and put it under
his arm.
Why, this, said he, my girl, is a very moving tale. It was a very
desperate attempt, and, had you got out, you might have been in great
danger; for you had a very bad and lonely way; and I had taken such
measures, that, let you have been where you would, I should have had
you.
You may see, sir, said I, what I ventured, rather than be ruined; and
you will be so good as hence to judge of the sincerity of my
profession, that my honesty is dearer to me than my life. Romantic
girl! said he, and read on.
He was very serious at my reflections, on what God had enabled me to
escape. And when he came to my reasonings about throwing myself into
the water, he said, Walk gently before; and seemed so moved, that he
turned away his face from me; and I blessed this good sign, and began
not so much to repent at his seeing this mournful part of my story.
He put the papers in his pocket, when he had read my reflections, and
thanks for escaping from myself; and said, taking me about the waist, O
my dear girl! you have touched me sensibly with your mournful relation,
and your sweet reflections upon it. I should truly have been very
miserable had it taken effect. I see you have been used too roughly;
and it is a mercy you stood proof in that fatal moment.
Then he most kindly folded me in his arms: Let us, say I too, my
Pamela, walk from this accursed piece of water; for I shall not, with
pleasure, look upon it again, to think how near it was to have been
fatal to my fair one. I thought, added he, of terrifying you to my
will, since I could not move you by love; and Mrs. Jewkes too well
obeyed me, when the terrors of your return, after your disappointment,
were so great, that you had hardly courage to withstand them; but had
like to have made so fatal a choice, to escape the treatment you
apprehended.
O sir, said I, I have reason, I am sure, to bless my dear parents, and
my good lady, your mother, for giving me something of a religious
education; for, but for that, and God’s grace, I should, more than upon
one occasion, have attempted, at least, a desperate act: and I the less
wonder how poor creatures, who have not the fear of God before their
eyes, and give way to despondency, cast themselves into perdition.
Come, kiss me, said he, and tell me you forgive me for pushing you into
so much danger and distress. If my mind hold, and I can see those
former papers of yours, and that these in my pocket give me no cause to
altar my opinion, I will endeavour to defy the world and the world’s
censures, and make my Pamela amends, if it be in the power of my whole
life, for all the hardships I have made her undergo.
All this looked well; but you shall see how strangely it was all
turned. For this sham-marriage then came into my mind again; and I
said, Your poor servant is far unworthy of this great honour; for what
will it be but to create envy to herself, and discredit to you?
Therefore, sir, permit me to return to my poor parents, and that is all
I have to ask.
He was in a fearful passion then. And is it thus, said he, in my fond
conceding moments, that I am to be despised and answered?—Precise,
perverse, unseasonable Pamela! begone from my sight! and know as well
how to behave in a hopeful prospect, as in a distressful state; and
then, and not till then, shalt thou attract the shadow of my notice.
I was startled, and going to speak: but he stamped with his foot, and
said, Begone! I tell you: I cannot bear this stupid romantic folly.
One word, said I; but one word, I beseech you, sir.
He turned from me in great wrath, and took down another alley, and so I
went, with a very heavy heart; and fear I was too unseasonable, just at
a time when he was so condescending: but if it was a piece of art of
his side, as I apprehended, to introduce the sham-wedding, (and, to be
sure, he is very full of stratagem and art,) I think I was not so much
to blame.
So I went up to my closet; and wrote thus far, while he walked about
till dinner was ready; and he is now sat down to it, as I hear by Mrs.
Jewkes, very sullen, thoughtful, and out of humour; and she asks, What
I have done to him?—Now, again, I dread to see him!—When will my fears
be over?
Three o’clock.
Well, he continues exceeding wrath. He has ordered his travelling
chariot to be got ready with all speed. What is to come next, I wonder!
Sure I did not say so much!—But see the lordliness of a high
condition!—A poor body must not put in a word, when they take it into
their heads to be angry! What a fine time a person of an equal
condition would have of it, if she were even to marry such a one!—His
poor dear mother spoiled him at first. Nobody must speak to him or
contradict him, as I have heard, when he was a child; and so he has not
been used to be controlled, and cannot bear the least thing that
crosses his violent will. This is one of the blessings attending men of
high condition! Much good may do them with their pride of birth, and
pride of fortune! say I:—All that it serves for, as far as I can see,
is, to multiply their disquiets, and every body’s else that has to do
with them.
So, so! where will this end?—Mrs. Jewkes has been with me from him, and
she says, I must get out of the house this moment. Well, said I, but
whither am I to be carried next? Why, home, said she, to your father
and mother. And can it be? said I; No, no, I doubt I shall not be so
happy as that!—To be sure some bad design is on foot again! To be sure
it is!—Sure, sure, said I, Mrs. Jewkes, he has not found out some other
housekeeper worse than you! She was very angry, you may well think. But
I know she can’t be made worse than she is.
She came up again. Are you ready? said she. Bless me, said I, you are
very hasty! I have heard of this not a quarter of an hour ago. But I
shall be soon ready; for I have but little to take with me, and no kind
friends in this house to take leave of, to delay me. Yet, like a fool,
I can’t help crying.—Pray, said I, just step down, and ask, if I may
not have my papers.
So, I am quite ready now, against she comes up with an answer; and so I
will put up these few writings in my bosom, that I have left.
I don’t know what to think—nor how to judge; but I shall never believe
I am with you, till I am on my knees before you, begging both your
blessings. Yet I am sorry he is so angry with me! I thought I did not
say so much!
There is, I see, the chariot drawn out, the horses too, the grim
Colbrand going to get on horseback. What will be the end of all this?
Monday.
Well, where this will end, I cannot say. But here I am, at a little
poor village, almost such a one as yours! I shall learn the name of it
by and by: and Robin assures me, he has orders to carry me to you, my
dear father and mother. O that he may say truth, and not deceive me
again! But having nothing else to do, and I am sure I shall not sleep a
wink to-night, if I was to go to bed, I will write my time away, and
take up my story where I left off, on Sunday afternoon.
Mrs. Jewkes came up to me, with this answer about my papers: My master
says, he will not read them yet, lest he should be moved by any thing
in them to alter his resolution. But if he should think it worth while
to read them, he will send them to you, afterwards, to your father’s.
But, said she, here are your guineas that I borrowed: for all is over
now with you, I find.
She saw me cry, and said, Do you repent?—Of what? said I.—Nay, I can’t
tell, replied she; but, to be sure, he has had a taste of your
satirical flings, or he would not be so angry. O! continued she, and
held up her hand, thou hast a spirit!—But I hope it will now be brought
down.—I hope so too, said I.
Well, added I, I am ready. She lifted up the window, and said, I’ll
call Robin to take your portmanteau: Bag and baggage! proceeded she,
I’m glad you’re going. I have no words, said I, to throw away upon you,
Mrs. Jewkes; but, making her a very low courtesy, I most heartily thank
you for all your virtuous civilities to me. And so adieu; for I’ll have
no portmanteau, I’ll assure you, nor any thing but these few things
that I brought with me in my handkerchief, besides what I have on. For
I had all this time worn my own bought clothes, though my master would
have had it otherwise often: but I had put up paper, ink, and pens,
however.
So down I went, and as I passed by the parlour, she stepped in, and
said, Sir, you have nothing to say to the girl before she goes? I heard
him reply, though I did not see him, Who bid you say, the girl, Mrs.
Jewkes, in that manner? She has offended only me.
I beg your honour’s pardon, said the wretch; but if I was your honour,
she should not, for all the trouble she has cost you, go away
scot-free. No more of this, as I told you before, said he: What! when I
have such proof, that her virtue is all her pride, shall I rob her of
that?—No, added he, let her go, perverse and foolish as she is; but she
deserves to go honest, and she shall go so!
I was so transported with this unexpected goodness, that I opened the
door before I knew what I did; and said, falling on my knees at the
door, with my hands folded, and lifted up, O thank you, thank your
honour, a million of times!—May God bless you for this instance of your
goodness to me! I will pray for you as long as I live, and so shall my
dear father and mother. And, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, I will pray for you
too, poor wicked wretch that you are!
He turned from me, and went into his closet, and shut the door. He need
not have done so; for I would not have gone nearer to him!
Surely I did not say so much, to incur all this displeasure.
I think I was loath to leave the house. Can you believe it?—What could
be the matter with me, I wonder?—I felt something so strange, and my
heart was so lumpish!—I wonder what ailed me!—But this was so
unexpected!—I believe that was all!—Yet I am very strange still.
Surely, surely, I cannot be like the old murmuring Israelites, to long
after the onions and garlick of Egypt, when they had suffered there
such heavy bondage?—I’ll take thee, O lumpish, contradictory,
ungovernable heart! to severe task, for this thy strange impulse, when
I get to my dear father’s and mother’s; and if I find any thing in thee
that should not be, depend upon it thou shalt be humbled, if strict
abstinence, prayer, and mortification, will do it!
But yet, after all, this last goodness of his has touched me too
sensibly. I wish I had not heard it, almost; and yet, methinks, I am
glad I did; for I should rejoice to think the best of him, for his own
sake.
Well, and so I went out to the chariot, the same that brought me down.
So, Mr. Robert, said I, here I am again! a poor sporting-piece for the
great! a mere tennis-ball of fortune! You have your orders, I hope.
Yes, madam, said he. Pray, now, said I, don’t madam me, nor stand with
your hat off to such a one as I. Had not my master, said he, ordered me
not to be wanting in respect to you, I would have shewn you all I
could. Well, said I, with my heart full, that’s very kind, Mr. Robert.
Mr. Colbrand, mounted on horseback, with pistols before him, came up to
me, as soon as I got in, with his hat off too. What, monsieur! said I,
are you to go with me?—Part of the way, he said, to see you safe. I
hope that’s kind too, in you, Mr. Colbrand, said I.
I had nobody to wave my handkerchief to now, nor to take leave of; and
so I resigned myself to my contemplations, with this strange wayward
heart of mine, that I never found so ungovernable and awkward before.
So away drove the chariot!—And when I had got out of the elm-walk, and
into the great road, I could hardly think but I was in a dream all the
time. A few hours before, in my master’s arms almost, with twenty kind
things said to me, and a generous concern for the misfortunes he had
brought upon me; and only by one rash half-word exasperated against me,
and turned out of doors, at an hour’s warning; and all his kindness
changed to hate! And I now, from three o’clock to five, several miles
off! But if I am going to you, all will be well again, I hope.
Lack-a-day, what strange creatures are men! gentlemen, I should say,
rather! For, my dear deserving good mother, though poverty be both your
lots, has had better hap, and you are, and have always been, blest in
one another!—Yet this pleases me too; he was so good, he would not let
Mrs. Jewkes speak ill of me, and scorned to take her odious unwomanly
advice. O, what a black heart has this poor wretch! So I need not rail
against men so much; for my master, bad as I have thought him, is not
half so bad as this woman.—To be sure she must be an atheist!—Do you
think she is not?
We could not reach further than this little poor place and sad
alehouse, rather than inn; for it began to be dark, and Robin did not
make so much haste as he might have done; and he was forced to make
hard shift for his horses.
Mr. Colbrand, and Robert too, are very civil. I see he has got my
portmanteau lashed behind the coach. I did not desire it; but I shall
not come quite empty.
A thorough riddance of me, I see!—Bag and baggage! as Mrs. Jewkes says.
Well, my story surely would furnish out a surprising kind of novel, if
it was to be well told.
Mr. Robert came up to me, just now, and begged me to eat something: I
thanked him; but said, I could not eat. I bid him ask Mr. Colbrand to
walk up; and he came; but neither of them would sit; nor put their hats
on. What mockado is this, to such a poor soul as I! I asked them, if
they were at liberty to tell me the truth of what they were to do with
me? If not, I would not desire it.—They both said, Robin was ordered to
carry me to my father’s; and Mr. Colbrand was to leave me within ten
miles, and then strike off for the other house, and wait till my master
arrived there. They both spoke so solemnly, that I could not but
believe them.
But when Robin went down, the other said, he had a letter to give me
next day at noon, when we baited, as we were to do, at Mrs. Jewkes’s
relation’s.—May I not, said I, beg the favour to see it to-night? He
seemed so loath to deny me, that I have hopes I shall prevail on him by
and by.
Well, my dear father and mother, I have got the letter, on great
promises of secrecy, and making no use of it. I will try if I can open
it without breaking the seal, and will take a copy of it by and by; for
Robin is in and out: there being hardly any room in this little house
for one to be long alone. Well, this is the letter:
‘When these lines are delivered to you, you will be far on your way to
your father and mother, where you have so long desired to be: and, I
hope, I shall forbear thinking of you with the least shadow of that
fondness my foolish heart had entertained for you: I bear you, however,
no ill will; but the end of my detaining you being over, I would not
that you should tarry with me an hour more than needed, after the
ungenerous preference you gave, at a time that I was inclined to pass
over all other considerations, for an honourable address to you; for
well I found the tables entirely turned upon me, and that I was in far
more danger from you, than you were from me; for I was just upon
resolving to defy all the censures of the world, and to make you my
wife.
‘I will acknowledge another truth: That, had I not parted with you as I
did, but permitted you to stay till I had read your journal,
reflecting, as I doubt not I shall find it, and till I had heard your
bewitching pleas in your own behalf, I feared I could not trust myself
with my own resolution. And this is the reason, I frankly own, that I
have determined not to see you, nor hear you speak; for well I know my
weakness in your favour.
‘But I will get the better of this fond folly: Nay, I hope I have
already done it, since it was likely to cost me so dear. And I write
this to tell you, that I wish you well with all my heart, though you
have spread such mischief through my family.—And yet I cannot but say
that I could wish you would not think of marrying in haste; and,
particularly, that you would not have this cursed Williams.—But what is
all this to me now?—Only, my weakness makes me say, That as I had
already looked upon you as mine, and you have so soon got rid of your
first husband; so you will not refuse, to my memory, the decency that
every common person observes, to pay a twelvemonth’s compliment, though
but a mere compliment, to my ashes.
‘Your papers shall be faithfully returned you; and I have paid so dear
for my curiosity in the affection they have rivetted upon me for you,
that you would look upon yourself amply revenged if you knew what they
have cost me.
‘I thought of writing only a few lines; but I have run into length. I
will now try to recollect my scattered thoughts, and resume my reason;
and shall find trouble enough to replace my affairs, and my own family,
and to supply the chasms you have made in it: For, let me tell you,
though I can forgive you, I never can my sister, nor my domestics; for
my vengeance must be wreaked somewhere.
‘I doubt not your prudence in forbearing to expose me any more than is
necessary for your own justification; and for that I will suffer myself
to be accused by you, and will also accuse myself, if it be needful.
For I am, and will ever be, ‘Your affectionate well-wisher.’
This letter, when I expected some new plot, has affected me more than
any thing of that sort could have done. For here is plainly his great
value for me confessed, and his rigorous behaviour accounted for in
such a manner, as tortures me much. And all this wicked gipsy story is,
as it seems, a forgery upon us both, and has quite ruined me: For, O my
dear parents, forgive me! but I found, to my grief, before, that my
heart was too partial in his favour; but now with so much openness, so
much affection; nay, so much honour too, (which was all I had before
doubted, and kept me on the reserve,) I am quite overcome. This was a
happiness, however, I had no reason to expect. But, to be sure, I must
own to you, that I shall never be able to think of any body in the
world but him.—Presumption! you will say; and so it is: But love is not
a voluntary thing: Love, did I say?—But come, I hope not:—At least it
is not, I hope, gone so far as to make me very uneasy: For I know not
how it came, nor when it began; but crept, crept it has, like a thief,
upon me; and before I knew what was the matter, it looked like love.
I wish, since it is too late, and my lot determined, that I had not had
this letter, nor heard him take my part to that vile woman; for then I
should have blessed myself in having escaped so happily his designing
arts upon my virtue: but now my poor mind is all topsy-turvied, and I
have made an escape to be more a prisoner.
But I hope, since thus it is, that all will be for the best; and I
shall, with your prudent advice, and pious prayers, be able to overcome
this weakness.—But, to be sure, my dear sir, I will keep a longer time
than a twelvemonth, as a true widow, for a compliment, and more than a
compliment, to your ashes! O the dear word!—How kind, how moving, how
affectionate is the word! O why was I not a duchess, to shew my
gratitude for it! But must labour under the weight of an obligation,
even had this happiness befallen me, that would have pressed me to
death, and which I never could return by a whole life of faithful love,
and cheerful obedience.
O forgive your poor daughter!—I am sorry to find this trial so sore
upon me; and that all the weakness of my weak sex, and tender years,
who never before knew what it was to be so touched, is come upon me,
and too mighty to be withstood by me.—But time, prayer, and resignation
to God’s will, and the benefits of your good lessons, and examples, I
hope, will enable me to get over this so heavy a trial.
O my treacherous, treacherous heart! to serve me thus! and give no
notice to me of the mischiefs thou wast about to bring upon me!—But
thus foolishly to give thyself up to the proud invader, without ever
consulting thy poor mistress in the least! But thy punishment will be
the first and the greatest; and well deservest thou to smart, O
perfidious traitor! for giving up so weakly thy whole self, before a
summons came; and to one, too, who had used me so hardly; and when,
likewise, thou hadst so well maintained thy post against the most
violent and avowed, and, therefore, as I thought, more dangerous
attacks!
After all, I must either not shew you this my weakness, or tear it out
of my writing. Memorandum: to consider of this, when I get home.
Monday morning, eleven o’clock.
We are just come in here, to the inn kept by Mrs. Jewkes’s relation.
The first compliment I had, was in a very impudent manner, How I liked
the ’squire?—I could not help saying, Bold, forward woman! Is it for
you, who keep an inn, to treat passengers at this rate? She was but in
jest, she said, and asked pardon: And she came, and begged excuse
again, very submissively, after Robin and Mr. Colbrand had talked to
her a little.