Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
virtue is in danger. And, O! hasten my deliverance, that a poor
unworthy creature, below the notice of such a gentleman as you, may not
be made the sport of a high condition, for no reason in the world, but
because she is not able to defend herself, nor has a friend that can
right her.
‘I have, sir, in part to shew my obedience to you, but indeed, I own,
more to give ease to the minds of my poor distressed parents, whose
poverty, one would think, should screen them from violences of this
sort, as well as their poor daughter, followed pretty much the form you
have prescribed for me, in the letter to Mrs. Jervis; and the
alterations I have made (for I could not help a few) are of such a
nature, as, though they shew my concern a little, yet must answer the
end you are pleased to say you propose by this letter.
‘For God’s sake, good sir, pity my lowly condition, and my present
great misery; and let me join with all the rest of your servants to
bless that goodness, which you have extended to every one but the poor
afflicted, heart-broken ‘PAMELA.’
I thought, when I had written this letter, and that which he had
prescribed, it would look like placing a confidence in Mrs. Jewkes, to
shew them to her; and I shewed her, at the same time, my master’s
letter to me; for I believed the value he expressed for me, would give
me credit with one who professed in every thing to serve him, right or
wrong; though I had so little reason, I fear, to pride myself in it:
and I was not mistaken; for it has seemed to influence her not a
little, and she is at present mighty obliging, and runs over in my
praises; but is the less to be minded, because she praises as much the
author of my miseries, and his honourable intentions, as she calls
them; for I see, that she is capable of thinking, as I fear he does,
that every thing that makes for his wicked will is honourable, though
to the ruin of the innocent. Pray God I may find it otherwise! Though,
I hope, whatever the wicked gentleman may intend, that I shall be at
last rid of her impertinent bold way of talk, when she seems to think,
from his letter, that he means honourably.
I am now come to MONDAY, the 5th Day of my Bondage and Misery.
I was in hope to have an opportunity to see John, and have a little
private talk with him, before he went away; but it could not be. The
poor man’s excessive sorrow made Mrs. Jewkes take it into her head, to
think he loved me; and so she brought up a message to me from him this
morning that he was going. I desired he might come up to my closet, as
I called it, and she came with him. The honest man, as I thought him,
was as full of concern as before, at taking leave and I gave him two
letters, the one for Mrs. Jervis, enclosed in another for my master:
but Mrs. Jewkes would see me seal them up, lest I should enclose any
thing else.—I was surprised, at the man’s going away, to see him drop a
bit of paper, just at the head of the stairs, which I took up without
being observed by Mrs. Jewkes: but I was a thousand times more
surprised, when I returned to my closet, and opening it read as
follows:
‘GOOD MRS. PAMELA,
‘I am grieved to tell you how much you have been deceived and betrayed,
and that by such a vile dog as I. Little did I think it would come to
this. But I must say, if ever there was a rogue in the world, it is me.
I have all along shewed your letters to my master: He employed me for
that purpose; and he saw every one, before I carried them to your
father and mother; and then scaled them up, and sent me with them. I
had some business that way, but not half so often as I pretended: and
as soon as I heard how it was, I was ready to hang myself. You may well
think I could not stand in your presence. O vile, vile wretch, to bring
you to this! If you are ruined, I am the rogue that caused it. All the
justice I can do you, is to tell you, you are in vile hands; and I am
afraid will be undone in spite of all your sweet innocence; and I
believe I shall never live, after I know it. If you can forgive me, you
are exceeding good; but I shall never forgive myself, that’s certain.
Howsomever, it will do you no good to make this known; and may-hap I
may live to do you service. If I can, I will: I am sure I ought.—Master
kept your last two or three letters, and did not send them at all. I am
the most abandoned wretch of wretches. ‘J. ARNOLD.’
‘You see your undoing has been long hatching. Pray take care of your
sweet self. Mrs. Jewkes is a devil: but in my master’s t’other house
you have not one false heart, but myself. Out upon me for a villain!’
My dear father and mother, when you come to this place, I make no doubt
your hair will stand on end as mine does!—O the deceitfulness of the
heart of man!—This John, that I took to be the honestest of men; that
you took for the same; that was always praising you to me, and me to
you, and for nothing so much as for our honest hearts; this very fellow
was all the while a vile hypocrite, and a perfidious wretch, and
helping to carry on my ruin.
But he says so much of himself, that I will only sit down with this sad
reflection, That power and riches never want tools to promote their
vilest ends, and there is nothing so hard to be known as the heart of
man:—I can but pity the poor wretch, since he seems to have great
remorse, and I believe it best to keep his wickedness secret. If it
lies in my way, I will encourage his penitence; for I may possibly make
some discoveries by it.
One thing I should mention in this place; he brought down, in a
portmanteau, all the clothes and things my lady and master had given
me, and moreover two velvet hoods, and a velvet scarf, that used to be
worn by my lady; but I have no comfort in them, or any thing else.
Mrs. Jewkes had the portmanteau brought into my closet, and she shewed
me what was in it; but then locked it up, and said, she would let me
have what I would out of it, when I asked; but if I had the key, it
might make me want to go abroad, may be; and so the confident woman put
it in her pocket.
I gave myself over to sad reflections upon this strange and surprising
discovery of John’s, and wept much for him, and for myself too; for now
I see, as he says, my ruin has been long hatching, that I can make no
doubt what my master’s honourable professions will end in. What a heap
of hard names does the poor fellow call himself! But what must they
deserve, then, who set him to work? O what has this wicked master to
answer for, to be so corrupt himself, and to corrupt others, who would
have been all innocent; and to carry on a poor plot, I am sure for a
gentleman, to ruin a poor creature, who never did him harm, nor wished
him any; and who can still pray for his happiness, and his repentance?
I can’t but wonder what these gentlemen, as they are called, can think
of themselves for these vile doings! John had some inducement; for he
hoped to please his master, who rewarded him and was bountiful to him;
and the same may be said, bad as she is, for this same odious Mrs.
Jewkes. But what inducement has my master for taking so much pains to
do the devil’s work for him?—If he loves me, as ’tis falsely called,
must he therefore lay traps for me, to ruin me and make me as bad as
himself? I cannot imagine what good the undoing of such a poor creature
as I can procure him.—To be sure, I am a very worthless body. People,
indeed, say I am handsome; but if I was so, should not a gentleman
prefer an honest servant to a guilty harlot? And must he be more
earnest to seduce me, because I dread of all things to be seduced, and
would rather lose my life than my honesty?
Well, these are strange things to me! I cannot account for them, for my
share; but sure nobody will say, that these fine gentlemen have any
tempter but their own wicked wills!—his naughty master could run away
from me, when he apprehended his servants might discover his vile
attempts upon me in that sad closet affair; but is it not strange that
he should not be afraid of the all-seeing eye, from which even that
base plotting heart of his, in its most secret motions, could not be
hid?—But what avail me these sorrowful reflections? He is and will be
wicked, and designs me a victim to his lawless attempts, if the God in
whom I trust, and to whom I hourly pray, prevent it not.
Tuesday and Wednesday.
I have been hindered by this wicked woman’s watching me so close, from
writing on Tuesday; and so I will put both these days together. I have
been a little turn with her for an airing, in the chariot, and walked
several times in the garden; but have always her at my heels.
Mr. Williams came to see us, and took a walk with us once; and while
her back was just turned, (encouraged by the hint he had before given
me,) I said, Sir, I see two tiles upon that parsley-bed; might not one
cover them with mould, with a note between them, on occasion?—A good
hint, said he; let that sunflower by the back-door of the garden be the
place; I have a key to the door; for it is my nearest way to the town.
So I was forced to begin. O what inventions will necessity push us
upon! I hugged myself at the thought; and she coming to us, he said, as
if he was continuing a discourse we were in: No, not extraordinary
pleasant. What’s that? what’s that? said Mrs. Jewkes.—Only, said he,
the town, I’m saying, is not very pleasant. No, indeed, said she, it is
not; it is a poor town, to my thinking. Are there any gentry in it?
said I. And so we chatted on about the town, to deceive her. But my
deceit intended no hurt to any body.
We then talked of the garden, how large and pleasant, and the like; and
sat down on the tufted slope of the fine fish-pond, to see the fishes
play upon the surface of the water; and she said, I should angle if I
would.
I wish, said I, you’d be so kind to fetch me a rod and baits. Pretty
mistress! said she—I know better than that, I’ll assure you, at this
time.—I mean no harm, said I, indeed. Let me tell you, said she. I know
none who have their thoughts more about them than you. A body ought to
look to it where you are. But we’ll angle a little to-morrow. Mr.
Williams, who is much afraid of her, turned the discourse to a general
subject. I sauntered in, and left them to talk by themselves; but he
went away to town, and she was soon after me.
I had got to my pen and ink; and I said, I want some paper, Mrs.
Jewkes, (putting what I was about in my bosom:) You know I have written
two letters, and sent them by John. (O how his name, poor guilty
fellow, grieves me!) Well, said she, you have some left; one sheet did
for those two letters. Yes, said I; but I used half another for a
cover, you know; and see how I have scribbled the other half; and so I
shewed her a parcel of broken scraps of verses, which I had tried to
recollect, and had written purposely that she might see, and think me
usually employed to such idle purposes. Ay, said she, so you have;
well, I’ll give you two sheets more; but let me see how you dispose of
them, either written or blank. Well, thought I, I hope still, Argus, to
be too hard for thee. Now Argus, the poets say, had a hundred eyes, and
was set to watch with them all, as she does.
She brought me the paper, and said, Now, madam, let me see you write
something. I will, said I; and took the pen and wrote, ‘I wish Mrs.
Jewkes would be so good to me, as I would be to her, if I had it in my
power.’—That’s pretty now, said she; well, I hope I am; but what then?
‘Why then (wrote I) she would do me the favour to let me know, what I
have done to be made her prisoner; and what she thinks is to become of
me.’ Well, and what then? said she. ‘Why then, of consequence,
(scribbled I,) she would let me see her instructions, that I may know
how far to blame, or to acquit her.’