Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
sent for her in Mr. Longman’s presence, and said Pamela might come
along with her; I suppose to mortify me, that I must go while she was
to stay: But as, when I go away, I am not to go with her, nor was she
to go with me; so I did not matter it much; only it would have been
creditable to such a poor girl, that the housekeeper would bear me
company, if I went.
Said he to her, Well, Mrs. Jervis, Longman says you have made up your
accounts with him with your usual fidelity and exactness. I had a good
mind to make you an offer of continuing with me, if you can be a little
sorry for your hasty words, which, indeed, were not so respectful as I
have deserved at your hands. She seemed at a sad loss what to say,
because Mr. Longman was there, and she could not speak of the occasion
of those words, which was me.
Indeed, said Mr. Longman, I must needs say before your face, that since
I have known my master’s family, I have never found such good
management in it, nor so much love and harmony neither. I wish the
Lincolnshire estate was as well served!—No more of that, said my
master; but Mrs. Jervis may stay, if she will: and here, Mrs. Jervis,
pray accept of this, which at the close of every year’s accounts I will
present you with, besides your salary, as long as I find your care so
useful and agreeable. And he gave her five guineas.—She made him a low
courtesy, and thanking him, looked to me, as if she would have spoken
to me.
He took her meaning, I believe; for he said,—Indeed I love to encourage
merit and obligingness, Longman; but I can never be equally kind to
those who don’t deserve it at my hands, as to those who do; and then he
looked full on me. Longman, continued he, I said that girl might come
in with Mrs. Jervis, because they love to be always together. For Mrs.
Jervis is very good to her, and loves her as well as if she was her
daughter. But else—Mr. Longman, interrupting him, said, Good to Mrs.
Pamela! Ay, sir, and so she is, to be sure! But every body must be good
to her; for——
He was going on: but my master said, No more, no more, Mr. Longman. I
see old men are taken with pretty young girls, as well as other folks;
and fair looks hide many a fault, where a person has the art to behave
obligingly. Why, and please your honour, said Mr. Longman, every
body—and was going on, I believe, to say something more in my praise,
but he interrupted him, and said, Not a word more of this Pamela. I
can’t let her stay, I’ll assure you; not only for her own freedom of
speech, but her letter-writing of all the secrets of my family. Ay,
said the good old man, I am sorry for that too! But, sir,—No more, I
say, said my master; for my reputation is so well known, (mighty fine,
thought I!) that I care not what any body writes or says of me: But to
tell you the truth, (not that it need go further,) I think of changing
my condition soon; and, you know, young ladies of birth and fortune
will choose their own servants, and that’s my chief reason why Pamela
can’t stay. As for the rest, said he, the girl is a good sort of body,
take her altogether; though I must needs say, a little pert, since my
mother’s death, in her answers, and gives me two words for one; which I
can’t bear; nor is there reason I should, you know, Longman. No, to be
sure, sir, said he: but ’tis strange, methinks, she should be so mild
and meek to every one of us in the house, and forget herself so, where
she should shew most respect! Very true, Mr. Longman, said he, but so
it is, I’ll assure you; and it was from her pertness, that Mrs. Jervis
and I had the words: And I should mind it the less, but that the girl
(there she stands, I say it to her face) has wit and sense above her
years, and knows better.
I was in great pain to say something, but yet I knew not what, before
Mr. Longman; and Mrs. Jervis looked at me, and walked to the window to
hide her concern for me. At last, I said, It is for you, sir, to say
what you please; and for me only to say, God bless your honour!
Poor Mr. Longman faltered in his speech, and was ready to cry. Said my
insulting master to me, Why, pr’ythee, Pamela, now, shew thyself as
thou art, before Longman. Can’st not give him a specimen of that
pertness which thou hast exercised upon me sometimes?
Did he not, my dear father and mother, deserve all the truth to be
told? Yet I overcame myself so far, as to say, Well, your honour may
play upon a poor girl, that you know can answer you, but dare not.
Why, pr’ythee now, insinuator, said he, say the worst you can before
Longman and Mrs. Jervis. I challenge the utmost of thy impertinence:
and as you are going away, and have the love of every body, I would be
a little justified to my family, that you have no reason to complain of
hardships from me, as I have pert saucy answers from you, besides
exposing me by your letters.
Surely, sir, said I, I am of no consequence equal to this, in your
honour’s family, that such a great gentleman as you, should need to
justify yourself about me. I am glad Mrs. Jervis stays with your
honour; and I know I have not deserved to stay: and, more than that, I
don’t desire to stay.
Ads-bobbers! said Mr. Longman, and ran to me; don’t say so, don’t say
so, dear Mrs. Pamela! We all love you dearly: and pray down of your
knees, and ask his honour pardon, and we will all become pleaders in a
body, and I, and Mrs. Jervis too, at the head of it, to beg his
honour’s pardon, and to continue you, at least, till his honour
marries.—No, Mr. Longman, said I, I cannot ask; nor will I stay, if I
might. All I desire is, to return to my poor father and mother: and
though I love you all, I won’t stay.—O well-a-day, well-a-day! said the
good old man, I did not expect this!—When I had got matters thus far,
and had made all up for Mrs. Jervis, I was in hopes to have got a
double holiday of joy for all the family, in your pardon too. Well,
said my master, this is a little specimen of what I told you, Longman.
You see there’s a spirit you did not expect.
Mrs. Jervis told me after, that she could stay no longer, to hear me so
hardly used; and must have spoken, had she staid, what would never have
been forgiven her; so she went out. I looked after her to go too; but
my master said, Come, Pamela, give another specimen, I desire you, to
Longman I am sure you must, if you will but speak. Well, sir, said I,
since it seems your greatness wants to be justified by my lowness, and
I have no desire you should suffer in the sight of your family, I will
say, on my bended knees, (and so I kneeled down,) that I have been a
very faulty, and a very ungrateful creature to the best of masters: I
have been very perverse and saucy; and have deserved nothing at your
hands but to be turned out of your family with shame and disgrace. I,
therefore, have nothing to say for myself, but that I am not worthy to
stay, and so cannot wish to stay, and will not stay: And so God
Almighty bless you, and you Mr. Longman, and good Mrs. Jervis, and
every living soul of the family! and I will pray for you as long as I
live!—And so I rose up, and was forced to lean upon my master’s
elbow-chair, or I should have sunk down.
The poor old man wept more than I, and said, Ads-bobbers, was ever the
like heard! ’Tis too much, too much; I can’t bear it. As I hope to
live, I am quite melted. Dear sir, forgive her! The poor thing prays
for you; she prays for us all! She owns her fault; yet won’t be
forgiven! I profess I know not what to make of it.
My master himself, hardened wretch as he was, seemed a little moved,
and took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and walked to the window:
What sort of a day is it? said he.—And then, getting a little more
hard-heartedness, he said, Well, you may be gone from my presence, thou
strange medley of inconsistence! but you shan’t stay after your time in
the house.
Nay, pray, sir, pray, sir, said the good old man, relent a little.
Ads-heartikins! you young gentlemen are made of iron and steel, I
think; I’m sure, said he, my heart’s turned into butter, and is running
away at my eyes. I never felt the like before.—Said my master, with an
imperious tone, Get out of my presence, hussy! I can’t bear you in my
sight. Sir, said I, I’m going as fast as I can.
But, indeed, my dear father and mother, my head was so giddy, and my
limbs trembled so, that I was forced to go holding by the wainscot all
the way with both my hands, and thought I should not have got to the
door: But when I did, as I hoped this would be my last interview with
this terrible hard-hearted master, I turned about, and made a low
courtesy, and said, God bless you, sir! God bless you, Mr. Longman! and
I went into the lobby leading to the great hall, and dropt into the
first chair; for I could get no farther a good while.
I leave all these things to your reflection, my dear parents but I can
write no more. My poor heart’s almost broken! Indeed it is—O when shall
I get away!—Send me, good God, in safety, once more to my poor father’s
peaceful cot!—and there the worst that can happen will be joy in
perfection to what I now bear!—O pity
Your distressed DAUGHTER.
LETTER XXIX
MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,
I must write on, though I shall come so soon; for now I have hardly any
thing else to do. I have finished all that lay upon me, and only wait
the good time of setting out. Mrs. Jervis said, I must be low in
pocket, for what I had laid out; and so would have presented me with
two guineas of her five; but I could not take them of her, because,
poor gentlewoman, she pays old debts for her children, that were
extravagant, and wants them herself. This, though, was very good in
her.
I am sorry I shall have but little to bring with me; but I know you
won’t, you are so good!—and I will work the harder, when I come home,
if I can get a little plain-work, or any thing, to do. But all your
neighbourhood is so poor, that I fear I shall want work, except, may
be, dame Mumford can help me to something, from any good family she is
acquainted with.
Here, what a sad thing it is! I have been brought up wrong, as matters
stand. For, you know, my good lady, now in heaven, loved singing and
dancing; and, as she would have it, I had a voice, she made me learn
both; and often and often has she made me sing her an innocent song,
and a good psalm too, and dance before her. And I must learn to flower
and draw too, and to work fine work with my needle; why, all this too I
have got pretty tolerably at my finger’s end, as they say; and she used
to praise me, and was a good judge of such matters.
Well now, what is all this to the purpose, as things have turned about?
Why, no more nor less, than that I am like the grasshopper in the
fable, which I have read of in my lady’s book, as follows:—[See the
Aesop’s Fables which have lately been selected and reformed from those
of Sir R. L’Estrange, and the most eminent mythologists.]
‘As the ants were airing their provisions one winter, a hungry
grasshopper (as suppose it was poor I) begged a charity of them. They
told him, That he should have wrought in summer, if he would not have
wanted in winter. Well, says the grasshopper, but I was not idle
neither; for I sung out the whole season. Nay, then, said they, you’ll
e’en do well to make a merry year of it, and dance in winter to the
time you sung in summer.’
So I shall make a fine figure with my singing and my dancing, when I
come home to you! Nay, I shall be unfit even for a May-day
holiday-time; for these minuets, rigadoons, and French dances, that I
have been practising, will make me but ill company for my milk-maid
companions that are to be. To be sure I had better, as things stand,
have learned to wash and scour, and brew and bake, and such like. Put I