Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
not improve his wicked opportunities, (which I thought owing to remorse
for his sin, and compassion for me,) when he had such a project as this
in reserve!—Here should I have been deluded with the hopes of a
happiness that my highest ambition could have had aspired to!—But how
dreadful must have been my lot, when I had found myself an undone
creature, and a guilty harlot, instead of a lawful wife! Oh! this is
indeed too much, too much, for your poor Pamela to support! This is the
worse, as I hoped all the worst was over; and that I had the pleasure
of beholding a reclaimed man, and not an abandoned libertine. What now
must your poor daughter do? Now all her hopes are dashed! And if this
fails him, then comes, to be sure, my forced disgrace! for this shews
he will never leave till he has ruined me—O, the wretched, wretched
Pamela!
Saturday noon, one o’clock.
My master is come home; and, to be sure, has been where he said. So
once he has told truth; and this matter seems to be gone off without a
plot: No doubt he depends upon his sham wicked marriage! He has brought
a gentleman with him to dinner; and so I have not seen him yet.
Two o’clock.
I am very sorrowful, and still have greater reason; for, just now, as I
was in my closet, opening the parcel I had hid under the rose-bush, to
see if it was damaged by lying so long, Mrs. Jewkes came upon me by
surprise, and laid her hands upon it; for she had been looking through
the key-hole, it seems.
I know not what I shall do! For now he will see all my private thoughts
of him, and all my secrets, as I may say. What a careless creature I
am!—To be sure I deserve to be punished.
You know I had the good luck, by Mr. Williams’s means, to send you all
my papers down to Sunday night, the 17th day of my imprisonment. But
now these papers contain all my matters from that time, to Wednesday
the 27th day of my distress: And which, as you may now, perhaps, never
see, I will briefly mention the contents to you.
In these papers, then, are included, ‘An account of Mrs. Jewkes’s arts
to draw me in to approve of Mr. Williams’s proposal for marriage; and
my refusing to do so; and desiring you not to encourage his suit to me.
Mr. Williams’s being wickedly robbed, and a visit of hers to him;
whereby she discovered all his secrets. How I was inclined to get off,
while she was gone; but was ridiculously prevented by my foolish fears,
etc. My having the key of the back-door. Mrs. Jewkes’s writing to my
master all the secrets she had discovered of Mr. Williams, and her
behaviour to me and him upon it. Continuance of my correspondence with
Mr. Williams by the tiles; begun in the parcel you had. My reproaches
to him for his revealing himself to Mrs. Jewkes; and his letter to me
in answer, threatening to expose my master, if he deceived him;
mentioning in it John Arnold’s correspondence with him; and a letter
which John sent, and was intercepted, as it seems. Of the
correspondence being carried on by a friend of his at Gainsborough. Of
the horse he was to provide for me, and one for himself. Of what Mr.
Williams had owned to Mrs. Jewkes; and of my discouraging his
proposals. Then it contained a pressing letter of mine to him, urging
my escape before my master came; with his half-angry answer to me. Your
good letter to me, my dear father, sent to me by Mr. Williams’s
conveyance; in which you would have me encourage Mr. Williams, but
leave it to me; and in which, fortunately enough, you take notice of my
being uninclined to marry.—My earnest desire to be with you. The
substance of my answer to Mr. Williams, expressing more patience, etc.
A dreadful letter of my master to Mrs. Jewkes; which, by mistake, was
directed to me; and one to me, directed by like mistake to her; and
very free reflections of mine upon both. The concern I expressed for
Mr. Williams’s being taken in, deceived, and ruined. An account of Mrs.
Jewkes’s glorying in her wicked fidelity. A sad description I gave of
Monsieur Colbrand, a person he sent down to assist Mrs. Jewkes in
watching me. How Mr. Williams was arrested, and thrown into gaol; and
the concern I expressed upon it; and my free reflections on my master
for it. A projected contrivance of mine, to get away out of the window,
and by the back-door; and throwing by petticoat and handkerchief into
the pond to amuse them, while I got off: An attempt that had like to
have ended very dreadfully for me! My further concern for Mr.
Williams’s ruin, on my account: And, lastly, my over-hearing Mrs.
Jewkes brag of her contrivance to rob Mr. Williams, in order to get at
my papers; which, however, he preserved, and sent safe to you.’
These, down to the execution of my unfortunate plot to escape, are, to
the best of my remembrance, the contents of the papers, which this
merciless woman seized: For, how badly I came off, and what followed, I
still have safe, as I hope, sewed in my under-coat, about my hips.
In vain were all my prayers and tears to her, to get her not to shew
them to my master. For she said, It had now come out, why I affected to
be so much alone; and why I was always writing. And she thought herself
happy, she said, she had found these; for often and often had she
searched every place she could think of, for writings, to no purpose
before. And she hoped, she said, there was nothing in them by what any
body might see; for, said she, you know you are all innocence!—Insolent
creature! said I, I am sure you are all guilt!—And so you must do your
worst; for now I can’t help myself, and I see there is no mercy to be
expected from you.
Just now, my master being come up, she went to him upon the stairs, and
gave him my papers. There, sir, said she; you always said Mrs. Pamela
was a great writer; but I never could get at any thing of hers before.
He took them; and, without coming to me, went down to the parlour
again. And what with the gipsy affair, and what with this, I could not
think of going down to dinner; and she told him that too; and so I
suppose I shall have him up stairs, as soon as his company is gone.
Saturday, six o’clock.
My master came up, and, in a pleasanter manner than I expected, said,
So, Pamela, we have seized, it seems, your treasonable papers?
Treasonable! said I, very sullenly. Ay, said he, I suppose so; for you
are a great plotter: but I have not read them yet.
Then, sir, said I, very gravely, it will be truly honourable in you not
to read them; but to give them to me again. To whom, says he, are they
written?—To my father, sir; but I suppose you see to whom.—Indeed,
returned he, I have not read three lines yet. Then, pray, sir, don’t
read them; but give them to me again. That I will not, said he, till I
have read them. Sir, said I, you served me not well in the letters I
used to write formerly: I think it was not worthy your character to
contrive to get them in your hands, by that false John Arnold! for
should such a gentleman as you mind what your poor servant writes?—Yes,
said he, by all means, mind what such a servant as my Pamela writes.
Your Pamela! thought I. Then the sham marriage came into my head; and
indeed it has not been out of it, since the gipsy affair.—But, said he,
have you any thing in these papers you would not have me see? To be
sure, sir, said I, there is; for what one writes to one’s father and
mother, is not for every body to see. Nor, said he, am I every body.
Those letters, added he, that I did see by John’s means, were not to
your disadvantage, I’ll assure you; for they gave me a very high
opinion of your wit and innocence: And if I had not loved you, do you
think I would have troubled myself about your letters?
Alas! sir, said I, great pride to me that! For they gave you such an
opinion of my innocence, that you was resolved to ruin me. And what
advantage have they brought me!—Who have been made a prisoner, and used
as I have been between you and your housekeeper.
Why, Pamela, said he, a little seriously, why this behaviour, for my
goodness to you in the garden?—This is not of a piece with your conduct
and softness there, that quite charmed me in your favour: And you must
not give me cause to think that you will be the more insolent, as you
find me kinder. Ah! sir, said I, you know best your own heart and
designs! But I fear I was too open-hearted then; and that you still
keep your resolution to undo me, and have only changed the form of your
proceedings.
When I tell you once again, said he, a little sternly, that you cannot
oblige me more, than by placing some confidence in me, I will let you
know, that these foolish and perverse doubts are the worst things you
can be guilty of. But, said he, I shall possibly account for the cause
of them, in these papers of yours; for I doubt not you have been
sincere to your father and mother, though you begin to make me suspect
you: For I tell you, perverse girl, that it is impossible you should be
thus cold and insensible, after what has passed in the garden, if you
were not prepossessed in some other person’s favour: And let me add,
that if I find it so, it shall be attended with such effects, as will
make every vein in your heart bleed.
He was going away in wrath; and I said, One word, good sir, one word
before you read them, since you will read them: Pray make
allowances—for all the harsh reflections that you will find in them, on
your own conduct to me: And remember only, that they were not written
for your sight; and were penned by a poor creature hardly used, and who
was in constant apprehension of receiving from you the worst treatment
that you could inflict upon her.
If that be all, said he, and there be nothing of another nature, that I
cannot forgive, you have no cause for uneasiness; for I had as many
instances of your saucy reflections upon me in your former letters, as
there were lines; and yet, you see, I have never upbraided you on that
score; though, perhaps, I wished you had been more sparing of your
epithets, and your freedoms of that sort.
Well, sir, said I, since you will, you must read them; and I think I
have no reason to be afraid of being found insincere, or having, in any
respect, told you a falsehood; because, though I don’t remember all I
wrote, yet I know I wrote my heart; and that is not deceitful. And
remember, sir, another thing, that I always declared I thought myself
right to endeavour to make my escape from this forced and illegal
restraint; and so you must not be angry that I would have done so, if I
could.
I’ll judge you, never fear, said he, as favourably as you deserve; for
you have too powerful a pleader within me. And so went down stairs.
About nine o’clock he sent for me down into the parlour. I went a
little fearfully; and he held the paper in his hand, and said, Now,
Pamela, you come upon your trial. Said I, I hope I have a just judge to
hear my cause. Ay, said he, and you may hope for a merciful one too, or
else I know not what will become of you.
I expect, continued he, that you will answer me directly, and plainly,
to every question I shall ask you.—In the first place, here are several
love-letters between you and Williams. Love-letters! sir, said I.—Well,
call them what you will, said he, I don’t entirely like them, I’ll
assure you, with all the allowances you desired me to make for you. Do
you find, sir, said I, that I encouraged his proposal, or do you not?
Why, said he, you discourage his address in appearance; but no
otherwise than all your cunning sex do to ours, to make us more eager
in pursuing you.
Well, sir, said I, that is your comment; but it does not appear so in
the text. Smartly said! says he: Where a d—l gottest thou, at these
years, all this knowledge? And then thou hast a memory, as I see by
your papers, that nothing escapes. Alas! sir, said I, what poor