Don’t your heart ake for me? I am sure mine fluttered about like a new-caught bird in a cage. O Pamela, said I to myself, why art thou so fearful! Thou hast done no harm! What, if thou fearest an unjust judge, when thou art innocent, wouldst thou do before a just one, if thou wert guilty? Have courage, Pamela, thou knowest the worst! And how much happier a choice is poverty with honesty, than plenty with wickedness!
So I cheared myself; but yet my poor heart sunk, and my spirits were quite broken. Every thing that stirred, I thought was to call me to my account. I dreaded it, and yet I wished it to come.
Well, at last he rung the bell; O, thought I, that it was my passing-bell!
Mrs Jervis went up, with a full heart enough, poor good woman! He said, ‘Where’s Pamela? Let her come up, and do you come with her.’
She came to me; I was ready to go with my feet, but my heart was with my dear father and mother, wishing to share your poverty and content. I went up, however.
O how can wicked men seem so steady and untouched, with such black hearts, while poor innocents stand like malefactors before them!
He looked so stern, that my heart failed me, and I wished myself any where but there, though I had before been summoning up all my courage. Good heaven, said I to myself, give me courage to stand before this naughty master! O soften him, or harden me!
‘Come in, fool,’ said he, angrily, as soon as he saw me (and snatched my hand with a pull); ‘you may well be ashamed to see me, after your noise and nonsense, and exposing me as you have done.’
I ashamed to see you! thought I: Very pretty indeed! But I said nothing.
‘Mrs Jervis,’ said he, ‘here you are both together: Do you sit down; but let her stand, if she will’ (Ay, thought I, if I can; for my knees beat one against the other). ‘Did you not think, when you saw the girl in the way you found her in, that I had given her the greatest occasion for complaint, that could possibly be given to a woman; and that I had actually ruined her, as she calls it? Tell me, could you think any thing less?’ ‘Indeed,’ said she, ‘I feared so at first.’ ‘Has she told you what I did to her, and all I did to her, to occasion the folly, by which my reputation might have suffered in your opinion, and in that of all the family? Inform me, what has she told you?’
She was a little too much frighted, as she owned afterwards, at his sternness; and said, ‘Indeed she told me you only pulled her on your knee, and kissed her.’
Then I plucked up my spirit a little. ‘Only! Mrs Jervis,’ said I; ‘and was not that enough to shew me what I had to fear? When a master of his honour’s degree demeans himself to be so free as that to such a poor servant as me, what is not to be apprehended? But your honour went further; and talked of Lucretia, and her hard fate. Your honour knows you went too far for a master to a servant, or even to his equal; and,’ bursting into tears, ‘I cannot bear it.’
Mrs Jervis began to excuse me, and to beg he would pity a poor maiden, who had such a value for her reputation. He said, ‘I speak it to her face, I think her pretty, and I thought her humble, and one that would not grow upon my favours, or the notice I took of her; but I abhor the thought of compelling her to any thing. I know better what belongs to myself; but I was bewitched by her, I think, to be freer than became me; though I had no intention to carry the jest farther.’
What poor stuff was all this, my dear mother, from a man of his sense! But see how a bad cause, and bad actions, confound the greatest wits! It gave me a little more courage then; for innocence, I find, in a low fortune, and not strong mind, has many advantages over guilt, with all its riches and wisdom.
‘Your honour! said I, ‘may call this jest or sport, or what you please; but indeed, sir, it is not a jest that becomes the distance between a master and a servant’ ‘Do you hear, Mrs Jervis?’ said he, ‘do you hear the pertness of the creature? I had a good deal of this sort before in the summer-house, and yesterday too, which made me rougher with her than perhaps I had otherwise been.’
‘Pamela, don’t be pert to his honour,’ said Mrs Jervis; ‘you should know your distance; you see his honour was only in jest.’ ‘O dear Mrs Jervis,’ said I, ‘don’t you blame me too. It is very difficult for a servant to keep her distance to her master, when her master departs from his dignity to her.’
‘See again!’ said he; ‘could you believe this of the young baggage, if you had not heard it?’ ‘Good, your honour,’ said the well-meaning gentlewoman, ‘pity and forgive the poor girl: She is but a girl, and her virtue is very dear to her; and I will pawn my life for her, she will never be pert to your honour, if you’ll be so good as not to molest her any more, nor frighten her again. You saw, sir, by her fits, the terror she was in: She could not help it; and though your honour intended her no harm, yet the apprehension was almost death to her; and I had much ado to bring her to herself.’
‘O the little hypocrite!’ said he; ‘she has all the arts of her sex; they were born with her. I told you a while ago, you did not know her. But this was not the reason principally of my calling you before me together: I find I am likely to suffer in my reputation by the perverseness and folly of this girl. She has told you all, and perhaps more than all; nay, I make no doubt of it; and she has written letters (for I find she is a mighty letter writer!) to her father and mother, and to others, as far as I know; in which, representing herself as an angel of light, she makes her kind master and benefactor, a devil incarnate.’ (O how people will sometimes, thought I, call themselves by their right names!) ‘And all this,’ added he, ‘I won’t bear; and so I am resolved she shall return to the condition she was taken from; and let her be careful how she uses my name with freedom when she is gone from me.’
I brightened up at once at these welcome words: I threw myself upon my knees at his feet, with a most sincere, glad heart; and said, ‘May your honour be for ever blessed for your resolution! Now I shall be happy. And permit me, on my knees, to thank you for all the benefits and favours you have heaped upon me; for the opportunities I have had of improvement and learning, through my good lady’s means, and yours. I will now forget all your honour has offered to me: And I promise you, that I will never let your name pass my lips, but with reverence and gratitude: And so God Almighty for ever bless your honour!’
Then rising, I went away with a much lighter heart than I came into his presence with: And fell to writing this letter.
And thus all is happily over.
And now, my dearest father and mother, expect soon to see your poor daughter, with an humble and dutiful mind, returned to you: And don’t fear, but I know how to be as happy with you as ever: For I will lie in the loft, as I used to do; and pray let my little bed be got ready; and I have a small matter of money, which will buy me a suit of clothes, fitter for my condition than what I have; and I will get Mrs Mumford to help me to some needle-work; and fear not, my being a burden to you, if my health continues. I know I shall be blessed, if not for my own sake, for both your sakes, who have, in all your trials and misfortunes, preserved so much integrity, as makes every body speak well of you. But I hope he will let good Mrs Jervis give me a character, for fear it should be thought I was turned away for dishonesty.
And so, my dear parents, may you be blest for me, and I for you! And I will always pray for my master and Mrs Jervis. So good night; for it is late, and I shall be soon called to-bed.
I hope Mrs Jervis is not angry with me. She has not called me to supper; though I could have eat nothing, if she had. But I make no doubt I shall sleep purely to-night, and dream that I am with you, in my dear, dear, happy loft once more.
So good night again, my dear father and mother, says
Your honest, though poor Daughter.
Perhaps I shan’t come this week, because I must get up the linen, and leave in order every thing belonging to my place. So send me a line, if you can, to let me know if I shall be welcome, by John, who will call for it as he returns. But say nothing of my coming away to him, as yet; for it will be said, I blab every thin
g.
LETTER XVII
My dearest Daughter,
Welcome, welcome, ten times welcome, shall you be to us; for you come to us innocent, and happy, and honest; and you are the staff of our old age, and our comfort. And though we cannot do for you as we would, yet fear not we shall live happily together; and what with my diligent labour, and your poor mother’s spinning, and your needle-work, I make no doubt we shall do better and better. Only your poor mother’s eyes begin to fail her; though I bless God, I am as strong, and able, and willing to labour as ever; and O my dear child, your virtue has made me, I think, stronger and better than I was before. What blessed things are trials and temptations, when we have the strength to resist and subdue them!
But I am uneasy about those same four guineas. I think you should give them back again to your master; and yet I have broken them. Alas! I have only three left; but I will borrow the fourth, if I can, part upon my wages, and part of Mrs Mumford, and send the whole sum back to you, that you may return it against John comes next, if he comes again before you.
I want to know how you come. I fancy honest John will be glad to bear you company part of the way, if your master is not so cross as to forbid him. And if I know time enough, your mother will go one five miles, and I will go ten on the way, or till I meet you, as far as one holiday will go; for that I can get leave to make on such an occasion: And we shall receive you with more pleasure than we had at your birth, or than we ever had in our lives.
And so God bless you, till the happy time comes! say both your mother and I; which is all at present, from
Your truly loving Parents.
LETTER XVIII
My dear Father,
I thank you and my mother a thousand times for your goodness to me, expressed in your last letter. I now long to get my business done, and to be with you. I have been quite another thing since my master has turned me away; and as I shall come to you an honest girl, what pleasure it is to what I should have had, if I could not have seen you but as a guilty one! Well, my writing time will soon be over, and so I will make use of it now, and tell you all that has happened since my last letter.
I wondered Mrs Jervis did not call me to sup with her, and feared she was angry; and when I had finished my letter, I longed for her coming up. At last she came; but seemed shy and reserved; and I said, ‘My dear Mrs Jervis, I am glad to see you: You are not angry with me, I hope.’ She said, she was sorry things had gone so far; and that she had a great deal of talk with my master, after I was gone; and that he seemed moved at what I said, and at my falling on my knees to him, and my prayer for him, at my going away. He said, I was a strange girl; he knew not what to make of me: ‘And is she gone?’ said he: ‘I intended to say something else to her, but she behaved so oddly, that I had not power to stop her.’ She asked, if she should call me again? He said, ‘Yes’; and then, ‘No, let her go; it is best for her and for me too; and she shall go. Where she had it, I can’t tell; but I never met with the fellow of her in my life, at any age.’ She said, he had ordered her not to tell me all: But she believed he never would offer any thing to me again, and I might stay, she fancied, if I would beg it as a favour; though she was not sure neither.
‘I stay! dear Mrs Jervis,’ said I; ‘why ‘tis the best news that could have come to me, that he will let me go. I long to return to my former condition, as he threatened I should. My father and mother are poor and low in the world, it is true. I have often grudged myself the affluence I have lived in, through my dear lady’s goodness to me, while they have lived so hardly. I am no bad needlewoman, you know; and never was an idle girl: And who knows, if I can get work, but I may be able to contribute to their comforts, instead of being a charge upon them? A rich thought, that, Mrs Jervis! Let me enjoy it.’
Mrs Jervis, dear good soul! wept over me, and said, ‘Well, well, Pamela, I did not think I had shewed so little love to you, as that you should express so much joy upon leaving me. I am sure I never had a child half so dear to me as you are.’
I wept to hear her so good to me, as indeed she has always been; and said, ‘What would you have me to do, dear Mrs Jervis? I love you next to my own father and mother, and to leave you is the chief concern I have at quitting this place; but must it not be to my certain ruin if I stay? After such offers and such threatenings, and his comparing himself to a wicked ravisher, in the very time of his last offer; and turning it into a jest, that we should make a pretty story in romance; can I stay, and be safe? Has he not under-valued himself twice? And does it not behove me to beware of the third time, for fear he should lay his snares surer; for, perhaps, he did not expect that a poor servant would resist her master? And must it not be looked upon as a sort of warrant for such actions, if I stay after this? It would be an encouragement, in short, to renew his attempts, as it would make him believe himself forgiven, for what ought not to be forgiven.’
She hugged me to her, and said, ‘Where gottest thou all thy knowledge, and thy good notions, at these years? I shall always love thee. But, Pamela, do you resolve to leave us?’
‘Yes, my dear Mrs Jervis,’ said I; ‘for, as matters stand, how can I do otherwise? But I will finish the duties of my place first, if I may; and hope you will give me a character, as to my honesty; that it may not be thought I was turned away for any faults committed.’ ‘A character! ay, that I will,’ said she; ‘I will give thee such a character as never girl at thy years deserved.’ ‘And I am sure,’ said I, ‘I will always love and honour you, as my third best friend, wherever I go, or whatever becomes of me.’
And so we went to bed, and I never waked till it was time to rise; which I did, as blithe as a bird, and went about my business with pleasure.
But I believe my master is exceedingly angry with me; for he passed by me two or three times, and would not speak to me; and towards evening he met me in the passage leading to the garden, and said such a word to me as I never heard in my life from him, to man, woman, or child; for he first said, ‘This creature’s always in my way, I think.’ I said, standing up as close as I could, (and. the entry was wide enough for a coach28 too) ‘I hope I shan’t be long in your honour’s way.’ ‘D—n you!’ said he, (that was the hard word) ‘for a little witch; I have no patience with you.’
I trembled to hear him say so; but I saw he was vexed; and as I am going away, I minded it the less. It is not to be wondered at, my dear parents, when a person will do wicked things, that he will speak wicked words. May God keep out of the way of wicked things and wicked words,
Your dutiful Daughter.
LETTER XIX
Our John having no opportunity to go your way, I write again, and send both letters at once. I can’t say, yet, when I shall get away, nor how I shall come; because Mrs Jervis shewed my master the waistcoat I am flowering for him, and he said, ‘It looks well enough: I think the creature had best stay till she has finished it.’
There is some private talk carried on betwixt him and Mrs Jervis, that she don’t tell me of; but yet she is very kind to me, and I don’t mistrust her at all. I should be very base if I did. But, to be sure, she must oblige him, and keep all his lawful commands; and other, I dare say, she will not keep: She is too good, and loves me too well; but she must stay when I am gone, and so must get no ill-will.
She has been at me again to humble myself, and ask to stay. ‘But what have I done, Mrs Jervis?’ said I: ‘If I have been a sauce-box and a bold-face, and pert, and a creature, as he calls me, have I not had reason? Tell me from your own heart, dear Mrs Jervis, what would you think, or how would you act in my case?’
‘My dear Pamela,’ said she, and kissed me, ‘I don’t know how I should act, or what I should think. I hope I should act as you do: But I know nobody else that would. My master is a fine gentleman; he has a great deal of wit and sense, and is admired, as I know, by half a dozen ladies, who would think themselves happy in his addresses. He has a noble estate; and yet I believe he loves my good maiden, though his servant, better than all th
e ladies in the land; and he has tried to overcome his love, because you are so much his inferior; and ‘tis my opinion he finds he can’t; and that vexes his proud heart, and makes him resolve you shan’t stay; and so he speaks so cross to you, when he sees you by accident.’
‘Well, but, Mrs Jervis,’ said I, ‘let me ask you, If he can stoop to like such a poor girl as me, what can it be for? He may, perhaps, think I may be good enough for his harlot; and those things don’t disgrace men, that ruin poor women. And so he may make me great offers, and may, perhaps, intend to deck me out in finery, the better to gratify his own pride;29 but I should be a wicked creature indeed, if, for the sake of riches or favour, I should forfeit my good name; yea, and worse than any other young body of my sex; because I can so contentedly return to my poverty again, and think it less disgrace to be obliged to live upon rye-bread and water, as I used to do, than to be a harlot to the greatest man in the world.’
Mrs Jervis had her eyes full of tears. ‘God bless you, my dear love!’ said she; ‘you are my admiration and delight. How shall I do to part with you!’
‘Well, good Mrs Jervis,’ said I, ‘let me ask you now: You and he have had some talk, and you may not be suffered to tell me all. But do you think, if I were to ask to stay, that he is sorry for what he has done? ay, and ashamed of it too? for I am sure he ought, considering his high, and my low degree, and how I have nothing in the world to trust to but my honesty: Do you think, in your own conscience now (pray answer me truly) that he would never offer any thing to me again, and that I could be safe?’
‘Don’t, my dear child,’ said she, ‘put thy questions to me, with that pretty becoming earnestness in thy look. I know this, that he is vexed at what he has done; he was vexed the first time, more vexed the second time.’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘and so he will be vexed, I suppose, the third and the fourth time too, till he has quite ruined your poor maiden; and who will have cause to be vexed then?’
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