Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
romances, and such idle stuff, to which she has given herself up, ever
since her kind lady’s death. And she assumes airs, as if she was a
mirror of perfection, and every body had a design upon her.
‘Don’t mistake me, however; I believe her very honest, and very
virtuous; but I have found out also, that she is carrying on a sort of
correspondence, or love affair, with a young clergyman, that I hope in
time to provide for; but who, at present, is destitute of any
subsistence but my favour: And what would be the consequence, can you
think, of two young folks, who have nothing in the world to trust to of
their own to come together with a family multiplying upon them before
they have bread to eat.
‘For my part, I have too much kindness to them both, not to endeavour
to prevent it, if I can; and for this reason I have sent her out of his
way for a little while, till I can bring them both to better
consideration; and I would not, therefore, have you be surprised you
don’t see your daughter so soon as you might possibly expect.
‘Yet I do assure you, upon my honour, that she shall be safe and
inviolate; and I hope you don’t doubt me, notwithstanding any airs she
may have given herself, upon my jocular pleasantry to her, and perhaps
a little innocent romping with her, so usual with young folks of the
two sexes, when they have been long acquainted, and grown up together;
for pride is not my talent.
‘As she is a mighty letter-writer, I hope she has had the duty to
apprise you of her intrigue with the young clergyman; and I know not
whether it meets with your countenance: But now she is absent for a
little while, (for I know he would have followed her to your village,
if she had gone home; and there, perhaps, they would have ruined one
another, by marrying,) I doubt not I shall bring him to see his
interest, and that he engages not before he knows how to provide for a
wife: And when that can be done, let them come together in God’s name,
for me.
‘I expect not to be answered on this head, but by your good opinion,
and the confidence you may repose in my honour: being
‘Your hearty friend to serve you.’
‘P. S. I find my man John has been the manager of the correspondence,
in which such liberties have been taken with me. I shall soon, in a
manner that becomes me, let the saucy fellow know how much I resent his
part of the affair. It is hard thing, that a man of my character in the
world should be used thus freely by his own servants.’
It is easy to guess at the poor old man’s concern, upon reading this
letter from a gentleman of so much consideration. He knew not what
course to take, and had no manner of doubt of his poor daughter’s
innocence, and that foul play was designed her. Yet he sometimes hoped
the best, and was ready to believe the surmised correspondence between
the clergyman and her, having not received the letters she wrote, which
would have cleared up that affair.
But, after all, he resolved, as well to quiet his own as her mother’s
uneasiness, to undertake a journey to the ’squire’s; and leaving his
poor wife to excuse him to the farmer who employed him, he set out that
very evening, late as it was; and travelling all night, found himself,
soon after day-light, at the gate of the gentleman, before the family
was up: and there he sat down to rest himself till he should see
somebody stirring.
The grooms were the first he saw, coming out to water their horses; and
he asked, in so distressful a manner, what was become of Pamela, that
they thought him crazy: and said, Why, what have you to do with Pamela,
old fellow? Get out of the horses’ way.—Where is your master? said the
poor man: Pray, gentlemen, don’t be angry: my heart’s almost broken.—He
never gives any thing at the door, I assure you, says one of the
grooms; so you lose your labour. I am not a beggar yet, said the poor
old man; I want nothing of him, but my Pamela:—O my child! my child!
I’ll be hanged, says one of them, if this is not Mrs. Pamela’s
father.—Indeed, indeed, said he, wringing his hands, I am; and weeping,
Where is my child? Where is my Pamela?—Why, father, said one of them,
we beg your pardon; but she is gone home to you: How long have you been
come from home?—O! but last night, said he; I have travelled all night:
Is the ’squire at home, or is he not?—Yes, but he is not stirring
though, said the groom, as yet. Thank God for that! said he; thank God
for that! Then I hope I may be permitted to speak to him anon. They
asked him to go in, and he stepped into the stable, and sat down on the
stairs there, wiping his eyes, and sighing so sadly, that it grieved
the servants to hear him.
The family was soon raised with a report of Pamela’s father coming to
inquire after his daughter; and the maids would fain have had him go
into the kitchen. But Mrs. Jervis, having been told of his coming,
arose, and hastened down to her parlour, and took him in with her, and
there heard all his sad story, and read the letter. She wept bitterly,
but yet endeavoured, before him, to hide her concern; and said, Well,
Goodman Andrews, I cannot help weeping at your grief; but I hope there
is no occasion. Let nobody see this letter, whatever you do. I dare say
your daughter is safe.
Well, but, said he, I see you, madam, know nothing about her:—If all
was right, so good a gentlewoman as you are, would not have been a
stranger to this. To be sure you thought she was with me!
Said she, My master does not always inform his servants of his
proceedings; but you need not doubt his honour. You have his hand for
it: And you may see he can have no design upon her, because he is not
from hence, and does not talk of going hence. O that is all I have to
hope for! said he; that is all, indeed!—But, said he—and was going on,
when the report of his coming had reached the ’squire, who came down,
in his morning-gown and slippers, into the parlour, where he and Mrs.
Jervis were talking.
What’s the matter, Goodman Andrews? said he, what’s the matter? Oh my
child! said the good old man, give me my child! I beseech you.—Why, I
thought, says the ’squire, that I had satisfied you about her: Sure you
have not the letter I sent you, written with my own hand. Yes, yes, but
I have, sir, said he; and that brought me hither; and I have walked all
night. Poor man, returned he, with great seeming compassion, I am sorry
for it truly! Why, your daughter has made a strange racket in my
family; and if I thought it would have disturbed you so much, I would
have e’en let her go home; but what I did was to serve her, and you
too. She is very safe, I do assure you, Goodman Andrews; and you may
take my honour for it, I would not injure her for the world. Do you
think I would, Mrs. Jervis? No, I hope not, sir, said she.—Hope not!
said the poor man; so do I; but pray, sir, give me my child, that is
all I desire; and I’ll take care no clergyman shall come near her.
Why, London is a great way off, said the ’squire, and I can’t send for
her back presently. What, then, said he, have you sent my poor Pamela
to London? I would not have said it so, replied the ’squire; but I
assure you, upon my honour, she is quite safe and satisfied, and will
quickly inform you of it by letter. She is in a reputable family, no
less than a bishop’s, and is to wait on his lady, till I get the matter
over that I mentioned to you.
O how shall I know this? replied he.—What, said the ’squire, pretending
anger, am I to be doubted?—Do you believe I can have any view upon your
daughter? And if I had, do you think I would take such methods as these
to effect it? Why, surely, man, thou forgettest whom thou talkest to.
O, sir, said he, I beg your pardon! but consider my dear child is in
the case; let me but know what bishop, and where; and I will travel to
London on foot, to see my daughter, and then be satisfied.
Why, Goodman Andrews, I think thou hast read romances as well as thy
daughter, and thy head’s turned with them. May I have not my word
taken? Do you think, once more, I would offer any thing dishonourable
to your daughter? Is there any thing looks like it?—Pr’ythee, man,
recollect a little who I am; and if I am not to be believed, what
signifies talking? Why, sir, said he, pray forgive me; but there is no
harm to say, What bishop’s, or whereabouts? What, and so you’d go
troubling his lordship with your impertinent fears and stories! Will
you be satisfied, if you have a letter from her within a week, it may
be less, if she be not negligent, to assure you all is well with her!
Why that, said the poor man, will be some comfort. Well then, said the
gentleman, I can’t answer for her negligence, if she don’t write: And
if she should send a letter to you, Mrs. Jervis, (for I desire not to
see it; I have had trouble enough about her already,) be sure you send
it by a man and horse the moment you receive it. To be sure I will,
answered she. Thank your honour, said the good man: And then I must
wait with as much patience as I can for a week, which will be a year to
me.
I tell you, said the gentleman, it must be her own fault if she don’t
write; for ’tis what I insisted upon, for my own reputation; and I
shan’t stir from this house, I assure you, till she is heard from, and
that to your satisfaction. God bless your honour, said the poor man, as
you say and mean truth! Amen, Amen, Goodman Andrews, said he: you see I
am not afraid to say Amen. So, Mrs. Jervis, make the good man as
welcome as you can; and let me have no uproar about the matter.
He then, whispering her, bid her give him a couple of guineas to bear
his charges home; telling him, he should be welcome to stay there till
the letter came, if he would, and be a witness, that he intended
honourably, and not to stir from his house for one while.
The poor old man staid and dined with Mrs. Jervis, with some tolerable
ease of mind, in hopes to hear from his beloved daughter in a few days;
and then accepting the present, returned for his own house, and
resolved to be as patient as possible.
Meantime Mrs. Jervis, and all the family, were in the utmost grief for
the trick put upon the poor Pamela; and she and the steward represented
it to their master in as moving terms as they durst; but were forced to
rest satisfied with his general assurances of intending her no harm;
which, however, Mrs. Jervis little believed, from the pretence he had
made in his letter, of the correspondence between Pamela and the young
parson; which she knew to be all mere invention, though she durst not
say so.
But the week after, they were made a little more easy by the following
letter brought by an unknown hand, and left for Mrs. Jervis, which, how
procured, will be shewn in the sequel.
‘DEAR MRS. JERVIS,
‘I have been vilely tricked, and, instead of being driven by Robin to
my dear father’s, I am carried off, to where, I have no liberty to
tell. However, I am at present not used hardly, in the main; and write
to beg of you to let my dear father and mother (whose hearts must be
well nigh broken) know that I am well, and that I am, and, by the grace
of God, ever will be, their honest, as well as dutiful daughter, and
‘Your obliged friend,
‘PAMELA ANDREWS.’
‘I must neither send date nor place; but have most solemn assurances of
honourable usage. This is the only time my low estate has been
troublesome to me, since it has subjected me to the frights I have
undergone. Love to your good self, and all my dear fellow-servants.
Adieu! adieu! but pray for poor PAMELA.’
This, though it quieted not entirely their apprehensions, was shewn to
the whole family, and to the gentleman himself, who pretended not to
know how it came; and Mrs. Jervis sent it away to the good old folks;
who at first suspected it was forged, and not their daughter’s hand;