Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
he thought, as his mother loved me, and committed me to his care, he
ought to continue me with him; and Mrs. Jervis would be a mother to me.
Mrs. Jervis tells me the lady shook her head, and said, Ah! brother!
and that was all. And as you have made me fearful by your cautions, my
heart at times misgives me. But I say nothing yet of your caution, or
my own uneasiness, to Mrs. Jervis; not that I mistrust her, but for
fear she should think me presumptuous, and vain and conceited, to have
any fears about the matter, from the great distance between such a
gentleman, and so poor a girl. But yet Mrs. Jervis seemed to build
something upon Lady Davers’s shaking her head, and saying, Ah! brother!
and no more. God, I hope, will give me his grace: and so I will not, if
I can help it, make myself too uneasy; for I hope there is no occasion.
But every little matter that happens, I will acquaint you with, that
you may continue to me your good advice, and pray for
Your sad-hearted PAMELA.
LETTER X
DEAR MOTHER,
You and my good father may wonder you have not had a letter from me in
so many weeks; but a sad, sad scene, has been the occasion of it. For
to be sure, now it is too plain, that all your cautions were well
grounded. O my dear mother! I am miserable, truly miserable!—But yet,
don’t be frightened, I am honest!—God, of his goodness, keep me so!
O this angel of a master! this fine gentleman! this gracious benefactor
to your poor Pamela! who was to take care of me at the prayer of his
good dying mother; who was so apprehensive for me, lest I should be
drawn in by Lord Davers’s nephew, that he would not let me go to Lady
Davers’s: This very gentleman (yes, I must call him gentleman, though
he has fallen from the merit of that title) has degraded himself to
offer freedoms to his poor servant! He has now shewed himself in his
true colours; and, to me, nothing appear so black, and so frightful.
I have not been idle; but had writ from time to time, how he, by sly
mean degrees, exposed his wicked views; but somebody stole my letter,
and I know not what has become of it. It was a very long one. I fear,
he that was mean enough to do bad things, in one respect, did not stick
at this. But be it as it will, all the use he can make of it will be,
that he may be ashamed of his part; I not of mine: for he will see I
was resolved to be virtuous, and gloried in the honesty of my poor
parents.
I will tell you all, the next opportunity; for I am watched very
narrowly; and he says to Mrs. Jervis, This girl is always scribbling; I
think she may be better employed. And yet I work all hours with my
needle, upon his linen, and the fine linen of the family; and am,
besides, about flowering him a waistcoat.—But, oh! my heart’s broke
almost; for what am I likely to have for my reward, but shame and
disgrace, or else ill words, and hard treatment! I’ll tell you all
soon, and hope I shall find my long letter.
Your most afflicted DAUGHTER.
May-be, I _he_ and _him_ him too much: but it is his own fault if I do.
For why did he lose all his dignity with me?
LETTER XI
DEAR MOTHER,
Well, I can’t find my letter, and so I’ll try to recollect it all, and
be as brief as I can. All went well enough in the main for some time
after my letter but one. At last, I saw some reason to suspect; for he
would look upon me, whenever he saw me, in such a manner, as shewed not
well; and one day he came to me, as I was in the summer-house in the
little garden, at work with my needle, and Mrs. Jervis was just gone
from me; and I would have gone out, but he said, No don’t go, Pamela; I
have something to say to you; and you always fly me when I come near
you, as if you were afraid of me.
I was much out of countenance, you may well think; but said, at last,
It does not become your good servant to stay in your presence, sir,
without your business required it; and I hope I shall always know my
place.
Well, says he, my business does require it sometimes; and I have a mind
you should stay to hear what I have to say to you.
I stood still confounded, and began to tremble, and the more when he
took me by the hand; for now no soul was near us.
My sister Davers, said he, (and seemed, I thought, to be as much at a
loss for words as I,) would have had you live with her; but she would
not do for you what I am resolved to do, if you continue faithful and
obliging. What say’st thou, my girl? said he, with some eagerness;
had’st thou not rather stay with me, than go to my sister Davers? He
looked so, as filled me with affrightment; I don’t know how; wildly, I
thought.
I said, when I could speak, Your honour will forgive me; but as you
have no lady for me to wait upon, and my good lady has been now dead
this twelvemonth, I had rather, if it would not displease you, wait
upon Lady Davers, because—
I was proceeding, and he said, a little hastily—Because you are a
little fool, and know not what’s good for yourself. I tell you I will
make a gentlewoman of you, if you be obliging, and don’t stand in your
own light; and so saying, he put his arm about me, and kissed me!
Now, you will say, all his wickedness appeared plainly. I struggled and
trembled, and was so benumbed with terror, that I sunk down, not in a
fit, and yet not myself; and I found myself in his arms, quite void of
strength; and he kissed me two or three times, with frightful
eagerness.—At last I burst from him, and was getting out of the
summer-house; but he held me back, and shut the door.
I would have given my life for a farthing. And he said, I’ll do you no
harm, Pamela; don’t be afraid of me. I said, I won’t stay. You won’t,
hussy! said he: Do you know whom you speak to? I lost all fear, and all
respect, and said, Yes, I do, sir, too well!—Well may I forget that I
am your servant, when you forget what belongs to a master.
I sobbed and cried most sadly. What a foolish hussy you are! said he:
Have I done you any harm? Yes, sir, said I, the greatest harm in the
world: You have taught me to forget myself and what belongs to me, and
have lessened the distance that fortune has made between us, by
demeaning yourself, to be so free to a poor servant. Yet, sir, I will
be bold to say, I am honest, though poor: and if you was a prince, I
would not be otherwise.
He was angry, and said, Who would have you otherwise, you foolish slut!
Cease your blubbering. I own I have demeaned myself; but it was only to
try you. If you can keep this matter secret, you’ll give me the better
opinion of your prudence; and here’s something, said he, putting some
gold in my hand, to make you amends for the fright I put you in. Go,
take a walk in the garden, and don’t go in till your blubbering is
over: and I charge you say nothing of what is past, and all shall be
well, and I’ll forgive you.
I won’t take the money, indeed, sir, said I, poor as I am I won’t take
it. For, to say truth, I thought it looked like taking earnest, and so
I put it upon the bench; and as he seemed vexed and confused at what he
had done, I took the opportunity to open the door, and went out of the
summer-house.
He called to me, and said, Be secret; I charge you, Pamela; and don’t
go in yet, as I told you.
O how poor and mean must those actions be, and how little must they
make the best of gentlemen look, when they offer such things as are
unworthy of themselves, and put it into the power of their inferiors to
be greater than they!
I took a turn or two in the garden, but in sight of the house, for fear
of the worst; and breathed upon my hand to dry my eyes, because I would
not be too disobedient. My next shall tell you more.
Pray for me, my dear father and mother: and don’t be angry I have not
yet run away from this house, so late my comfort and delight, but now
my terror and anguish. I am forced to break off hastily.
Your dutiful and honest DAUGHTER.
LETTER XII
DEAR MOTHER,
Well, I will now proceed with my sad story. And so, after I had dried
my eyes, I went in, and began to ruminate with myself what I had best
to do. Sometimes I thought I would leave the house and go to the next
town, and wait an opportunity to get to you; but then I was at a loss
to resolve whether to take away the things he had given me or no, and
how to take them away: Sometimes I thought to leave them behind me, and
only go with the clothes on my back, but then I had two miles and a
half, and a byway, to the town; and being pretty well dressed, I might
come to some harm, almost as bad as what I would run away from; and
then may-be, thought I, it will be reported, I have stolen something,
and so was forced to run away; and to carry a bad name back with me to
my dear parents, would be a sad thing indeed!—O how I wished for my
grey russet again, and my poor honest dress, with which you fitted me
out, (and hard enough too it was for you to do it!) for going to this
place, when I was not twelve years old, in my good lady’s days!
Sometimes I thought of telling Mrs. Jervis, and taking her advice, and
only feared his command to be secret; for, thought I, he may be ashamed
of his actions, and never attempt the like again: And as poor Mrs.
Jervis depended upon him, through misfortunes, that had attended her, I
thought it would be a sad thing to bring his displeasure upon her for
my sake.
In this quandary, now considering, now crying, and not knowing what to
do, I passed the time in my chamber till evening; when desiring to be
excused going to supper, Mrs. Jervis came up to me, and said, Why must
I sup without you, Pamela? Come, I see you are troubled at something;
tell me what is the matter.
I begged I might be permitted to be with her on nights; for I was
afraid of spirits, and they would not hurt such a good person as she.
That was a silly excuse, she said; for why was not you afraid of
spirits before?—(Indeed I did not think of that.) But you shall be my
bed-fellow with all my heart, added she, let your reason be what it
will; only come down to supper. I begged to be excused; for, said I, I
have been crying so, that it will be taken notice of by my
fellow-servants; and I will hide nothing from you, Mrs. Jervis, when we
are alone.
She was so good to indulge me; but made haste to come up to bed; and
told the servants, that I should be with her, because she could not
rest well, and would get me to read her to sleep; for she knew I loved
reading, she said.
When we were alone, I told her all that had passed; for I thought,
though he had bid me not, yet if he should come to know I had told, it
would be no worse; for to keep a secret of such a nature, would be, as
I apprehended, to deprive myself of the good advice which I never
wanted more; and might encourage him to think I did not resent it as I
ought, and would keep worse secrets, and so make him do worse by me.
Was I right, my dear mother?
Mrs. Jervis could not help mingling tears with my tears; for I cried
all the time I was telling her the story, and begged her to advise me
what to do; and I shewed her my dear father’s two letters, and she
praised the honesty and editing of them, and said pleasing things to me
of you both. But she begged I would not think of leaving my service;
for, said she, in all likelihood, you behaved so virtuously, that he
will be ashamed of what he has done, and never offer the like to you
again: though, my dear Pamela, said she, I fear more for your
prettiness than for anything else; because the best man in the land
might love you: so she was pleased to say. She wished it was in her
power to live independent; then she would take a little private house,
and I should live with her like her daughter.
And so, as you ordered me to take her advice, I resolved to tarry to