Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
see I can’t confide in any body. I am beset on all hands. Wretched,
wretched Pamela, where shalt thou expect a friend, if Mrs. Jervis joins
to betray thee thus? She made so many protestations, (telling me all,
and that he owned I had made him wipe his eyes two or three times, and
said she hoped it would have a good effect, and remembered me, that I
had said nothing but what would rather move compassion than
resentment,) that I forgave her. But O! that I was safe from this
house! for never poor creature sure was so flustered as I have been so
many months together;—I am called down from this most tedious scribble.
I wonder what will next befall Your dutiful DAUGHTER.
Mrs. Jervis says, she is sure I shall have the chariot to carry me home
to you. Though this will look too great for me, yet it will shew as if
I was not turned away quite in disgrace. The travelling chariot is come
from Lincolnshire, and I fancy I shall go in that; for the other is
quite grand.
LETTER XXX
MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,
I write again, though, may be, I shall bring it to you in my pocket:
for I shall have no writing, nor writing-time, I hope, when I come to
you. This is Wednesday morning, and I shall, I hope, set out to you
to-morrow morning; but I have had more trials and more vexations; but
of another complexion too a little, though all from the same quarter.
Yesterday my master, after he came from hunting, sent for me. I went
with great terror: for I expected he would storm, and be in a fine
passion with me for my freedom of speech before: so I was resolved to
begin first, with submission, to disarm his anger; and I fell upon my
knees as soon as I saw him; and said, Good sir, let me beseech you, as
you hope to be forgiven yourself, and for the sake of my dear good lady
your mother, who recommended me to you with her last words, to forgive
me all my faults; and only grant me this favour, the last I shall ask
you, that you will let me depart your house with peace and quietness of
mind, that I may take such a leave of my dear fellow-servants as befits
me; and that my heart be not quite broken.
He took me up, in a kinder manner than ever I had known; and he said,
Shut the door, Pamela, and come to me in my closet: I want to have a
little serious talk with you. How can I, sir, said I, how can I! and
wrung my hands. O pray, sir, let me go out of your presence, I beseech
you! By the God that made me, said he, I’ll do you no harm. Shut the
parlour door, and come to me in my library.
He then went into his closet, which is his library, and full of rich
pictures besides; a noble apartment, though called a closet, and next
the private garden, into which it has a door that opens. I shut the
parlour door, as he bid me; but stood at it irresolute. Place some
confidence in me, said he: Surely you may, when I have spoken thus
solemnly. So I crept towards him with trembling feet, and my heart
throbbing through my handkerchief. Come in, said he, when I bid you. I
did so. Pray, sir, said I, pity and spare me. I will, said he, as I
hope to be saved. He sat down upon a rich settee; and took hold of my
hand, and said, Don’t doubt me, Pamela. From this moment I will no more
consider you as my servant: and I desire you’ll not use me with
ingratitude for the kindness I am going to express towards you. This a
little emboldened me; and he said, holding both my hands between his,
You have too much wit and good sense not to discover, that I, in spite
of my heart, and all the pride of it, cannot but love you. Yes, look up
to me, my sweet-faced girl! I must say I love you; and have put on a
behaviour to you, that was much against my heart, in hopes to frighten
you from your reservedness. You see I own it ingenuously; and don’t
play your sex upon me for it.
I was unable to speak; and he, seeing me too much oppressed with
confusion to go on in that strain, said, Well, Pamela, let me know in
what situation of life is your father: I know he is a poor man; but is
he as low and as honest as he was when my mother took you?
Then I could speak a little; and with a down look, (and I felt my face
glow like fire,) I said, Yes, sir, as poor and as honest too; and that
is my pride. Says he, I will do something for him, if it be not your
fault, and make all your family happy. All, sir, said I, he is happier
already than ever he can be, if his daughter’s innocence is to be the
price of your favour: and I beg you will not speak to me on the only
side that can wound me. I have no design of that sort, said he. O sir,
said I, tell me not so, tell me not so!—’Tis easy, said he, for me to
be the making of your father, without injuring you. Well, sir, said I,
if this can be done, let me know how; and all I can do with innocence
shall be the study and practice of my life.—But, O! what can such a
poor creature as I do, and do my duty?—Said he, I would have you stay a
week or fortnight only, and behave yourself with kindness to me; I
stoop to beg it of you, and you shall see all shall turn out beyond
your expectation. I see, said he, you are going to answer otherwise
than I would have you; and I begin to be vexed I should thus meanly
sue; and so I will say, that your behaviour before honest Longman, when
I used you as I did, and you could so well have vindicated yourself,
has quite charmed me. And though I am not pleased with all you said
yesterday, while I was in the closet, yet you have moved me more to
admire you than before; and I am awakened to see more worthiness in
you, than ever I saw in any lady in the world. All the servants, from
the highest to the lowest, doat upon you, instead of envying you; and
look upon you in so superior a light, as speaks what you ought to be. I
have seen more of your letters than you imagine, (This surprised me!)
and am quite overcome with your charming manner of writing, so free, so
easy, and many of your sentiments so much above your years, and your
sex; and all put together, makes me, as I tell you, love you to
extravagance. Now, Pamela, when I have stooped to acknowledge all this,
oblige me only to stay another week or fortnight, to give me time to
bring about some certain affairs, and you shall see how much you may
find your account in it.
I trembled to find my poor heart giving way.—O good sir, said I, spare
a poor girl that cannot look up to you, and speak. My heart is full;
and why should you wish to undo me?—Only oblige me, said he, to stay a
fortnight longer, and John shall carry word to your father, that I will
see him in the time, either here, or at the Swan in his village. O sir,
said I, my heart will burst; but, on my bended knees, I beg you to let
me go to-morrow, as I designed: and don’t offer to tempt a poor
creature, whose whole will would be to do yours, if my virtue would
permit!—I shall permit it, said he; for I intend no injury to you, God
is my witness! Impossible! said I; I cannot, sir, believe you, after
what has passed: How many ways are there to undo poor creatures! Good
God, protect me this one time, and send me but to my dear father’s cot
in safety!—Strange, d——d fate! said he, that when I speak so solemnly,
I can’t be believed!—What should I believe, sir? said I, what can I
believe? What have you said, but that I am to stay a fortnight longer?
and what then is to become of me?—My pride of birth and fortune (d—n
them both! said he, since they cannot obtain credit with you, but must
add to your suspicions) will not let me descend all at once; and I ask
you but a fortnight’s stay, that, after this declaration, I may pacify
those proud demands upon me.
O how my heart throbbed! and I began (for I did not know what I did) to
say the Lord’s prayer. None of your beads to me Pamela! said he; thou
art a perfect nun, I think.
But I said aloud, with my eyes lifted up to heaven, Lead me not into
temptation: but deliver me from evil, O my good God! He hugged me in
his arms, and said, Well, my dear girl, then you stay this fortnight,
and you shall see what I will do for you—I’ll leave you a moment, and
walk into the next room, to give you time to think of it, and to shew
you I have no design upon you. Well, this, I thought, did not look
amiss.
He went out, and I was tortured with twenty different doubts in a
minute; sometimes I thought that to stay a week or fortnight longer in
this house to obey him, while Mrs. Jervis was with me, could do no
great harm: But then, thought I, how do I know what I may be able to
do? I have withstood his anger; but may I not relent at his
kindness?—How shall I stand that.—Well, I hope, thought I, by the same
protecting grace in which I will always confide!—But, then, what has he
promised? Why, he will make my poor father and mother’s life
comfortable. O! said I to myself, that is a rich thought; but let me
not dwell upon it, for fear I should indulge it to my ruin.—What can he
do for me, poor girl as I am!—What can his greatness stoop to! He
talks, thought I, of his pride of heart, and pride of condition; O
these are in his head, and in his heart too, or he would not confess
them to me at such an instant. Well then, thought I, this can be only
to seduce me.—He has promised nothing.—But I am to see what he will do,
if I stay a fortnight; and this fortnight, thought I again, is no such
great matter; and I shall see in a few days how he carries it.—But
then, when I again reflected upon this distance between him and me, and
his now open declaration of love, as he called it; and that after this
he would talk with me on that subject more plainly than ever, and I
shall be less armed, may be, to withstand him; and then I bethought
myself, why, if he meant no dishonour, he should not speak before Mrs.
Jervis; and the odious frightful closet came again into my head, and my
narrow escape upon it; and how easy it might be for him to send Mrs.
Jervis and the maids out of the way; and so that all the mischief he
designed me might be brought about in less than that time; I resolved
to go away and trust all to Providence, and nothing to myself. And how
ought I to be thankful for this resolution!—as you shall hear.
But just as I have writ to this place, John sends me word, that he is
going this minute your way; and so I will send you so far as I have
written, and hope by to-morrow night, to ask your blessings, at your
own poor, but happy abode, and tell you the rest by word of mouth; and
so I rest, till then, and for ever, Your dutiful DAUGHTER.
LETTER XXXI
DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,
I will continue my writing still, because, may be, I shall like to read
it, when I am with you, to see what dangers I have been enabled to
escape; and though I bring it along with me.
I told you my resolution, my happy resolution as I have reason to think
it: and just then he came in again, with great kindness in his looks,
and said, I make no doubt, Pamela, you will stay this fortnight to
oblige me. I knew not how to frame my words so as to deny, and yet not
make him storm. But, said I, Forgive, sir, your poor distressed
servant. I know I cannot possibly deserve any favour at your hands,
consistent with virtue; and I beg you will let me go to my poor father.
Why, said he, thou art the veriest fool that I ever knew. I tell you I
will see your father; I’ll send for him hither to-morrow, in my
travelling chariot, if you will; and I’ll let him know what I intend to
do for him and you. What, sir, may I ask you, can that be? Your
honour’s noble estate may easily make him happy, and not unuseful,
perhaps to you, in some respect or other. But what price am I to pay
for all this?—You shall be happy as you can wish, said he, I do assure
you: And here I will now give you this purse, in which are fifty
guineas, which I will allow your father yearly, and find an employ