I had given him back for that purpose. And I retired, as if to read it;
and so I did; for I think I can’t read it too often; though, for my
peace of mind’s sake, I might better try to forget it. I am sorry,
methinks, I cannot bring you back a sound heart; but, indeed, it is an
honest one, as to any body but me; for it has deceived nobody else:
Wicked thing that it is!
More and more surprising things still——
Just as I had sat down, to try to eat a bit of victuals, to get ready
to pursue my journey, came in Mr. Colbrand in a mighty hurry. O madam!
madam! said he, here be de groom from de ’Squire B——, all over in a
lather, man and horse! O how my heart went pit-a-pat! What now, thought
I, is to come next! He went out, and presently returned with a letter
for me, and another, enclosed, for Mr. Colbrand. This seemed odd, and
put me all in a trembling. So I shut the door; and never, sure, was the
like known! found the following agreeable contents:—
‘In vain, my Pamela, do I find it to struggle against my affection for
you. I must needs, after you were gone, venture to entertain myself
with your Journal, when I found Mrs. Jewkes’s bad usage of you, after
your dreadful temptations and hurts; and particularly your generous
concern for me, on hearing how narrowly I escaped drowning; (though my
death would have been your freedom, and I had made it your interest to
wish it); and your most agreeable confession in another place, that,
notwithstanding all my hard usage of you, you could not hate me; and
that expressed in so sweet, so soft, and so innocent a manner, that I
flatter myself you may be brought to love me (together with the other
parts of your admirable Journal:) I began to repent my parting with
you; but, God is my witness! for no unlawful end, as you would call it;
but the very contrary: and the rather, as all this was improved in your
favour, by your behaviour at leaving my house: For, oh! that melodious
voice praying for me at your departure, and thanking me for my rebuke
to Mrs. Jewkes, still hangs upon my ears, and delights my memory. And
though I went to bed, I could not rest; but about two got up, and made
Thomas get one of the best horses ready, in order to set out to
overtake you, while I sat down to write this to you.
‘Now, my dear Pamela, let me beg of you, on the receipt of this, to
order Robin to drive you back again to my house. I would have set out
myself, for the pleasure of bearing you company back in the chariot;
but am really indisposed; I believe, with vexation that I should part
thus with my soul’s delight, as I now find you are, and must be, in
spite of the pride of my own heart.
‘You cannot imagine the obligation your return will lay me under to
your goodness; and yet, if you will not so far favour me, you shall be
under no restraint, as you will see by my letter enclosed to Colbrand;
which I have not sealed, that you may read it. But spare me, my dearest
girl! the confusion of following you to your father’s; which I must do,
if you persist to go on; for I find I cannot live a day without you.
‘If you are the generous Pamela I imagine you to be, (for hitherto you
have been all goodness, where it has not been merited,) let me see, by
this new instance, the further excellence of your disposition; let me
see you can forgive the man who loves you more than himself; let me
see, by it, that you are not prepossessed in any other person’s favour:
And one instance more I would beg, and then I am all gratitude; and
that is, that you would despatch Monsieur Colbrand with a letter to
your father, assuring him that all will end happily; and to desire,
that he will send to you, at my house, the letters you found means, by
Williams’s conveyance, to send him. And when I have all my proud, and,
perhaps, punctilious doubts answered, I shall have nothing to do, but
to make you happy, and be so myself. For I must be ‘Yours, and only
yours.’
‘Monday morn, near three o’clock.’
O my exulting heart! how it throbs in my bosom, as if it would reproach
me for so lately upbraiding it for giving way to the love of so dear a
gentleman!—But take care thou art not too credulous neither, O fond
believer! Things that we wish, are apt to gain a too ready credence
with us. This sham-marriage is not yet cleared up: Mrs. Jewkes, the
vile Mrs. Jewkes! may yet instigate the mind of this master: His pride
of heart, and pride of condition, may again take place: And a man that
could in so little a space, first love me, then hate, then banish me
his house, and send me away disgracefully; and now send for me again,
in such affectionate terms, may still waver, may still deceive thee.
Therefore will I not acquit thee yet, O credulous, fluttering,
throbbing mischief! that art so ready to believe what thou wishest! And
I charge thee to keep better guard than thou hast lately done, and lead
me not to follow too implicitly thy flattering and desirable impulses.
Thus foolishly dialogued I with my heart; and yet, all the time, this
heart is Pamela.
I opened the letter to Monsieur Colbrand; which was in these words:—
‘MONSIEUR,
‘I am sure you’ll excuse the trouble I give you. I have, for good
reasons, changed my mind; and I have besought it, as a favour, that
Mrs. Andrews will return to me the moment Tom reaches you. I hope, for
the reasons I have given her, she will have the goodness to oblige me.
But, if not, you are to order Robin to pursue his directions, and set
her down at her father’s door. If she will oblige me in her return,
perhaps she’ll give you a letter to her father, for some papers to be
delivered to you for her; which you’ll be so good, in that case, to
bring to her here: But if she will not give you such a letter, you’ll
return with her to me, if she please to favour me so far; and that with
all expedition, that her health and safety will permit; for I am pretty
much indisposed; but hope it will be but slight, and soon go off. I am
‘Yours, etc.’
‘On second thoughts, let Tom go forward with Mrs. Andrews’s letter, if
she pleases to give one; and you return with her, for her safety.’
Now this is a dear generous manner of treating me. O how I love to be
generously used!—Now, my dear parents, I wish I could consult you for
your opinions, how I should act. Should I go back, or should I not?—I
doubt he has got too great hold in my heart, for me to be easy
presently, if I should refuse: And yet this gipsy information makes me
fearful.
Well, I will, I think, trust in his generosity! Yet is it not too great
a trust?—especially considering how I have been used!—But then that was
while he avowed his bad designs; and now he gives great hope of his
good ones. And I may be the means of making many happy, as well as
myself, by placing a generous confidence in him.
And then, I think, he might have sent to Colbrand, or to Robin, to
carry me back, whether I would or not. And how different is his
behaviour to that! And would it not look as if I was prepossessed, as
he calls it, if I don’t oblige him; and as if it was a silly female
piece of pride, to make him follow me to my father’s; and as if I would
use him hardly in my turn, for his having used me ill in his? Upon the
whole, I resolved to obey him; and if he uses me ill afterwards, double
will be his ungenerous guilt!—Though hard will be my lot, to have my
credulity so justly blamable, as it will then seem. For, to be sure,
the world, the wise world, that never is wrong itself, judges always by
events. And if he should use me ill, then I shall be blamed for
trusting him: If well, O then I did right, to be sure!—But how would my
censurers act in my case, before the event justifies or condemns the
action, is the question?
Then I have no notion of obliging by halves; but of doing things with a
grace, as one may say, where they are to be done; and so I wrote the
desired letter to you, assuring you, that I had before me happier
prospects than ever I had; and hoped all would end well: And that I
begged you would send me, by the bearer, Mr. Thomas, my master’s groom,
those papers, which I had sent you by Mr. Williams’s conveyance: For
that they imported me much, for clearing up a point in my conduct, that
my master was desirous to know, before he resolved to favour me, as he
had intended.—But you will have that letter, before you can have this;
for I would not send you this without the preceding; which now is in my
master’s hands.
And so, having given the letter to Mr. Thomas for him to carry to you,
when he had baited and rested after his great fatigue, I sent for
Monsieur Colbrand, and Robin, and gave to the former his letter; and
when he had read it, I said, You see how things stand. I am resolved to
return to our master; and as he is not so well as were to be wished,
the more haste you make the better: and don’t mind my fatigue, but
consider only yourselves, and the horses. Robin, who guessed the
matter, by his conversation with Thomas, (as I suppose,) said, God
bless you, madam, and reward you, as your obligingness to my good
master deserves; and may we all live to see you triumph over Mrs.
Jewkes!
I wondered to hear him say so; for I was always careful of exposing my
master, or even that naughty woman, before the common servants. But yet
I question whether Robin would have said this, if he had not guessed,
by Thomas’s message, and my resolving to return, that I might stand
well with his master. So selfish are the hearts of poor mortals, that
they are ready to change as favour goes!
So they were not long getting ready; and I am just setting out, back
again: and I hope I shall have no reason to repent it.
Robin put on very vehemently; and when we came to the little town,
where we lay on Sunday night, he gave his horses a bait, and said, he
would push for his master’s that night, as it would be moon-light, if I
should not be too much fatigued because there was no place between that
and the town adjacent to his master’s, fit to put up at, for the night.
But Monsieur Colbrand’s horse beginning to give way, made a doubt
between them: wherefore I said, (hating to be on the road,) if it could
be done, I should bear it well enough, I hoped; and that Monsieur
Colbrand might leave his horse, when it failed, at some house, and come
into the chariot. This pleased them both; and, about twelve miles
short, he left the horse, and took off his spurs and holsters, etc.
and, with abundance of ceremonial excuses, came into the chariot; and I
sat the easier for it; for my bones ached sadly with the jolting, and
so many miles travelling in so few hours, as I have done, from Sunday
night, five o’clock. But, for all this, it was eleven o’clock at night,
when we came to the village adjacent to my master’s; and the horses
began to be very much tired, and Robin too: but I said, It would be
pity to put up only three miles short of the house.
So about one we reached the gate; but every body was a-bed. But one of
the helpers got the keys from Mrs. Jewkes, and opened the gates; and
the horses could hardly crawl into the stable. And I, when I went to
get out of the chariot, fell down, and thought I had lost the use of my
limbs.
Mrs. Jewkes came down with her clothes huddled on, and lifted up her
hands and eyes, at my return; but shewed more care of the horses than
of me. By that time the two maids came; and I made shift to creep in,
as well as I could.
It seems my poor master was very ill indeed, and had been upon the bed
most part of the day; and Abraham (who succeeded John) sat up with him.
And he was got into a fine sleep, and heard not the coach come in, nor
the noise we made; for his chamber lies towards the garden,—on the
other side of the house. Mrs. Jewkes said, He had a feverish complaint,
and had been blooded; and, very prudently, ordered Abraham, when he
awaked, not to tell him I was come, for fear of surprising him, and
augmenting his fever; nor, indeed, to say any thing of me, till she
herself broke it to him in the morning, as she should see how he was.
So I went to bed with Mrs. Jewkes, after she had caused me to drink
almost half a pint of burnt wine, made very rich and cordial, with
spices; which I found very refreshing, and set me into a sleep I little
hoped for.
Tuesday morning.
Getting up pretty early, I have written thus far, while Mrs. Jewkes
lies snoring in bed, fetching up her last night’s disturbance. I long
for her rising, to know how my poor master does. ’Tis well for her she
can sleep so purely. No love, but for herself, will ever break her
rest, I am sure. I am deadly sore all over, as if I had been soundly
beaten. I did not think I could have lived under such fatigue.
Mrs. Jewkes, as soon as she got up, went to know how my master did, and
he had had a good night; and, having drank plentifully of sack whey,
had sweated much; so that his fever had abated considerably. She said
to him, that he must not be surprised, and she would tell him news. He
asked, What? And she said, I was come. He raised himself up in his bed;
Can it be? said he—What, already!—She told him I came last night.
Monsieur Colbrand coming to inquire of his health, he ordered him to
draw near him, and was highly pleased with the account he gave him of
the journey, my readiness to come back, and my willingness to reach
home that night. And he said, Why, these tender fair ones, I think,
bear fatigue better than us men. But she is very good, to give me such
an instance of her readiness to oblige me. Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, said he,
take great care of her health! and let her be a-bed all day. She told
him I had been up these two hours. Ask her, said he, if she will be so
good as to make me a visit: If she won’t, I’ll rise, and go to her.
Indeed, sir, said she, you must be still; and I’ll go to her. But don’t
urge her too much, said he, if she be unwilling.
She came to me, and told me all the above; and I said, I would most
willingly wait upon him; for, indeed, I longed to see him, and was much
grieved he was so ill.—So I went down with her. Will she come? said he,
as I entered the room. Yes, sir, said we; and she said, at the first
word, Most willingly.—Sweet excellence! said he.
As soon as he saw me, he said, O my beloved Pamela! you have made me
quite well. I’m concerned to return my acknowledgments to you in so
unfit a place and manner; but will you give me your hand? I did, and he
kissed it with great eagerness. Sir, said I, you do me too much
honour!—I am sorry you are so ill.—I can’t be ill, said he, while you
are with me. I am very well already.
Well, said he, and kissed my hand again, you shall not repent this
goodness. My heart is too full of it to express myself as I ought. But
I am sorry you have had such a fatiguing time of it.—Life is no life
without you! If you had refused me, and yet I had hardly hopes you
would oblige me, I should have had a severe fit of it, I believe; for I
was taken very oddly, and knew not what to make of myself: but now I
shall be well instantly. You need not, Mrs. Jewkes, added he, send for
the doctor from Stamford, as we talked yesterday; for this lovely
creature is my doctor, as her absence was my disease.
He begged me to sit down by his bed-side, and asked me, if I had
obliged him with sending for my former packet? I said I had, and hoped
it would be brought. He said it was doubly kind.
I would not stay long because of disturbing him. And he got up in the
afternoon, and desired my company; and seemed quite pleased, easy, and
much better. He said, Mrs. Jewkes, after this instance of my good
Pamela’s obligingness in her return, I am sure we ought to leave her
entirely at her own liberty; and pray, if she pleases to take a turn in
our chariot, or in the garden, or to the town, or wherever she will,
let her be left at liberty, and asked no questions; and do you do all
in your power to oblige her. She said she would, to be sure.
He took my hand, and said, One thing I will tell you, Pamela, because I
know you will be glad to hear it, and yet not care to ask me: I had,
before you went, taken Williams’s bond for the money; for how the poor
man had behaved I can’t tell, but he could get no bail; and if I have
no fresh reason given me, perhaps I shall not exact the payment; and he
has been some time at liberty, and now follows his school; but,
methinks, I could wish you would not see him at present.
Sir, said I, I will not do any thing to disoblige you wilfully; and I
am glad he is at liberty, because I was the occasion of his
misfortunes. I durst say no more, though I wanted to plead for the poor
gentleman; which, in gratitude, I thought I ought, when I could do him
service. I said, I am sorry, sir, Lady Davers, who loves you so well,
should have incurred your displeasure, and that there should be any
variance between your honour and her; I hope it was not on my account.
He took out of his waistcoat pocket, as he sat in his gown, his
letter-case, and said, Here, Pamela, read that when you go up stairs,
and let me have your thoughts upon it; and that will let you into the
affair.
He said he was very heavy of a sudden, and would lie down, and indulge
for that day; and if he was better in the morning, would take an airing
in the chariot. And so I took my leave for the present, and went up to
my closet, and read the letter he was pleased to put into my hands;
which is as follows:—
‘BROTHER,
‘I am very uneasy at what I hear of you; and must write, whether it
please you or not, my full mind. I have had some people with me,
desiring me to interpose with you; and they have a greater regard for
your honour, than, I am sorry to say it, you have yourself. Could I
think, that a brother of mine would so meanly run away with my late
dear mother’s waiting-maid, and keep her a prisoner from all her
friends, and to the disgrace of your own? But I thought, when you would
not let the wench come to me on my mother’s death, that you meant no
good.—I blush for you, I’ll assure you. The girl was an innocent, good
girl; but I suppose that’s over with her now, or soon will. What can
you mean by this, let me ask you? Either you will have her for a kept
mistress, or for a wife. If the former, there are enough to be had
without ruining a poor wench that my mother loved, and who really was a
very good girl: and of this you may be ashamed. As to the other, I dare
say you don’t think of it; but if you should, you would be utterly
inexcusable. Consider, brother, that ours is no upstart family; but is
as ancient as the best in the kingdom! and, for several hundreds of
years, it has never been known, that the heirs of it have disgraced
themselves by unequal matches: And you know you have been sought to by
some of the best families in the nation, for your alliance. It might be
well enough, if you were descended of a family of yesterday, or but a
remove or two from the dirt you seem so fond of. But, let me tell you,
that I, and all mine, will renounce you for ever, if you can descend so
meanly; and I shall be ashamed to be called your sister. A handsome
man, as you are, in your person; so happy in the gifts of your mind,
that every body courts your company; and possessed of such a noble and
clear estate; and very rich in money besides, left you by the best of
fathers and mothers, with such ancient blood in your veins, untainted!
for you to throw away yourself thus, is intolerable; and it would be
very wicked in you to ruin the wench too. So that I beg you will
restore her to her parents, and give her 100L. or so, to make her happy
in some honest fellow of her own degree; and that will be doing
something, and will also oblige and pacify
‘Your much grieved sister.’
‘If I have written too sharply, consider it is my love to you, and the
shame you are bringing upon yourself; and I wish this may have the
effect upon you, intended by your very loving sister.’
This is a sad letter, my dear father and mother; and one may see how
poor people are despised by the proud and the rich! and yet we were all
on a foot originally: And many of these gentry, that brag of their
ancient blood, would be glad to have it as wholesome, and as really
untainted, as ours!—Surely these proud people never think what a short
stage life is; and that, with all their vanity; a time is coming, when
they shall be obliged to submit to be on a level with us: And true said
the philosopher, when he looked upon the skull of a king, and that of a
poor man, that he saw no difference between them. Besides, do they not
know, that the richest of princes, and the poorest of beggars, are to
have one great and tremendous judge, at the last day; who will not
distinguish between them, according to their circumstances in
life?—But, on the contrary, may make their condemnations the greater,
as their neglected opportunities were the greater? Poor souls! how do I
pity their pride!—O keep me, Heaven! from their high condition, if my
mind shall ever be tainted with their vice! or polluted with so cruel
and inconsiderate a contempt of the humble estate which they behold
with so much scorn!
But, besides, how do these gentry know, that, supposing they could
trace back their ancestry for one, two, three, or even five hundred
years, that then the original stems of these poor families, though they
have not kept such elaborate records of their good-for nothingness, as
it often proves, were not still deeper rooted?—And how can they be
assured, that one hundred years hence, or two, some of those now
despised upstart families may not revel in their estates, while their
descendants may be reduced to the others’ dunghills!—And, perhaps, such
is the vanity, as well as changeableness, of human estates, in their
turns set up for pride of family, and despise the others!
These reflections occurred to my thoughts, made serious by my master’s
indisposition, and this proud letter of the lowly Lady Davers, against
the high-minded Pamela. Lowly, I say, because she could stoop to such
vain pride; and high-minded I, because I hope I am too proud ever to do
the like!—But, after all, poor wretches that we be! we scarce know what
we are, much less what we shall be!—But, once more pray I to be kept
from the sinful pride of a high estate.
On this occasion I recall the following lines, which I have read; where
the poet argues in a much better manner:—
“——————Wise Providence
Does various parts for various minds dispense:
The meanest slaves, or those who hedge and ditch,
Are useful, by their sweat, to feed the rich.
The rich, in due return, impart their store;
Which comfortably feeds the lab’ring poor.
Nor let the rich the lowest slave disdain:
He’s equally a link of Nature’s chain:
Labours to the same end, joins in one view;
And both alike the will divine pursue;
And, at the last, are levell’d, king and slave,
Without distinction, in the silent grave.”
Wednesday morning.
My master sent me a message just now, that he was so much better, that
he would take a turn, after breakfast, in the chariot, and would have
me give him my company. I hope I shall know how to be humble, and
comport myself as I should do, under all these favours.
Mrs. Jewkes is one of the most obliging creatures in the world; and I
have such respects shewn me by every one, as if I was as great as Lady
Davers—But now, if this should all end in the sham-marriage!—It cannot
be, I hope. Yet the pride of greatness and ancestry, and such-like, is
so strongly set out in Lady Davers’s letter, that I cannot flatter
myself to be so happy as all these desirable appearances make for me.
Should I be now deceived, I should be worse off than ever. But I shall
see what light this new honour will procure me!—So I’ll get ready. But
I won’t, I think, change my garb. Should I do it, it would look as if I
would be nearer on a level with him: and yet, should I not, it might be
thought a disgrace to him: but I will, I think, open the portmanteau,
and, for the first time since I came hither, put on my best silk
nightgown. But then that will be making myself a sort of right to the
clothes I had renounced; and I am not yet quite sure I shall have no
other crosses to encounter. So I will go as I am; for, though ordinary,
I am as clean as a penny, though I say it. So I’ll e’en go as I am,
except he orders otherwise. Yet Mrs. Jewkes says, I ought to dress as
fine as I can.—But I say, I think not. As my master is up, and at
breakfast, I will venture down to ask him how he will have me be.
Well, he is kinder and kinder, and, thank God, purely recovered!—How
charmingly he looks, to what he did yesterday! Blessed be God for it!
He arose, and came to me, and took me by the hand, and would set me
down by him; and he said, My charming girl seemed going to speak. What
would you say?—Sir, said I, (a little ashamed,) I think it is too great
an honour to go into the chariot with you. No, my dear Pamela, said he;
the pleasure of your company will be greater than the honour of mine;
and so say no more on that head.