Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
into the great road, I could hardly think but I was in a dream all the
time. A few hours before, in my master’s arms almost, with twenty kind
things said to me, and a generous concern for the misfortunes he had
brought upon me; and only by one rash half-word exasperated against me,
and turned out of doors, at an hour’s warning; and all his kindness
changed to hate! And I now, from three o’clock to five, several miles
off! But if I am going to you, all will be well again, I hope.
Lack-a-day, what strange creatures are men! gentlemen, I should say,
rather! For, my dear deserving good mother, though poverty be both your
lots, has had better hap, and you are, and have always been, blest in
one another!—Yet this pleases me too; he was so good, he would not let
Mrs. Jewkes speak ill of me, and scorned to take her odious unwomanly
advice. O, what a black heart has this poor wretch! So I need not rail
against men so much; for my master, bad as I have thought him, is not
half so bad as this woman.—To be sure she must be an atheist!—Do you
think she is not?
We could not reach further than this little poor place and sad
alehouse, rather than inn; for it began to be dark, and Robin did not
make so much haste as he might have done; and he was forced to make
hard shift for his horses.
Mr. Colbrand, and Robert too, are very civil. I see he has got my
portmanteau lashed behind the coach. I did not desire it; but I shall
not come quite empty.
A thorough riddance of me, I see!—Bag and baggage! as Mrs. Jewkes says.
Well, my story surely would furnish out a surprising kind of novel, if
it was to be well told.
Mr. Robert came up to me, just now, and begged me to eat something: I
thanked him; but said, I could not eat. I bid him ask Mr. Colbrand to
walk up; and he came; but neither of them would sit; nor put their hats
on. What mockado is this, to such a poor soul as I! I asked them, if
they were at liberty to tell me the truth of what they were to do with
me? If not, I would not desire it.—They both said, Robin was ordered to
carry me to my father’s; and Mr. Colbrand was to leave me within ten
miles, and then strike off for the other house, and wait till my master
arrived there. They both spoke so solemnly, that I could not but
believe them.
But when Robin went down, the other said, he had a letter to give me
next day at noon, when we baited, as we were to do, at Mrs. Jewkes’s
relation’s.—May I not, said I, beg the favour to see it to-night? He
seemed so loath to deny me, that I have hopes I shall prevail on him by
and by.
Well, my dear father and mother, I have got the letter, on great
promises of secrecy, and making no use of it. I will try if I can open
it without breaking the seal, and will take a copy of it by and by; for
Robin is in and out: there being hardly any room in this little house
for one to be long alone. Well, this is the letter:
‘When these lines are delivered to you, you will be far on your way to
your father and mother, where you have so long desired to be: and, I
hope, I shall forbear thinking of you with the least shadow of that
fondness my foolish heart had entertained for you: I bear you, however,
no ill will; but the end of my detaining you being over, I would not
that you should tarry with me an hour more than needed, after the
ungenerous preference you gave, at a time that I was inclined to pass
over all other considerations, for an honourable address to you; for
well I found the tables entirely turned upon me, and that I was in far
more danger from you, than you were from me; for I was just upon
resolving to defy all the censures of the world, and to make you my
wife.
‘I will acknowledge another truth: That, had I not parted with you as I
did, but permitted you to stay till I had read your journal,
reflecting, as I doubt not I shall find it, and till I had heard your
bewitching pleas in your own behalf, I feared I could not trust myself
with my own resolution. And this is the reason, I frankly own, that I
have determined not to see you, nor hear you speak; for well I know my
weakness in your favour.
‘But I will get the better of this fond folly: Nay, I hope I have
already done it, since it was likely to cost me so dear. And I write
this to tell you, that I wish you well with all my heart, though you
have spread such mischief through my family.—And yet I cannot but say
that I could wish you would not think of marrying in haste; and,
particularly, that you would not have this cursed Williams.—But what is
all this to me now?—Only, my weakness makes me say, That as I had
already looked upon you as mine, and you have so soon got rid of your
first husband; so you will not refuse, to my memory, the decency that
every common person observes, to pay a twelvemonth’s compliment, though
but a mere compliment, to my ashes.
‘Your papers shall be faithfully returned you; and I have paid so dear
for my curiosity in the affection they have rivetted upon me for you,
that you would look upon yourself amply revenged if you knew what they
have cost me.
‘I thought of writing only a few lines; but I have run into length. I
will now try to recollect my scattered thoughts, and resume my reason;
and shall find trouble enough to replace my affairs, and my own family,
and to supply the chasms you have made in it: For, let me tell you,
though I can forgive you, I never can my sister, nor my domestics; for
my vengeance must be wreaked somewhere.
‘I doubt not your prudence in forbearing to expose me any more than is
necessary for your own justification; and for that I will suffer myself
to be accused by you, and will also accuse myself, if it be needful.
For I am, and will ever be, ‘Your affectionate well-wisher.’
This letter, when I expected some new plot, has affected me more than
any thing of that sort could have done. For here is plainly his great
value for me confessed, and his rigorous behaviour accounted for in
such a manner, as tortures me much. And all this wicked gipsy story is,
as it seems, a forgery upon us both, and has quite ruined me: For, O my
dear parents, forgive me! but I found, to my grief, before, that my
heart was too partial in his favour; but now with so much openness, so
much affection; nay, so much honour too, (which was all I had before
doubted, and kept me on the reserve,) I am quite overcome. This was a
happiness, however, I had no reason to expect. But, to be sure, I must
own to you, that I shall never be able to think of any body in the
world but him.—Presumption! you will say; and so it is: But love is not
a voluntary thing: Love, did I say?—But come, I hope not:—At least it
is not, I hope, gone so far as to make me very uneasy: For I know not
how it came, nor when it began; but crept, crept it has, like a thief,
upon me; and before I knew what was the matter, it looked like love.
I wish, since it is too late, and my lot determined, that I had not had
this letter, nor heard him take my part to that vile woman; for then I
should have blessed myself in having escaped so happily his designing
arts upon my virtue: but now my poor mind is all topsy-turvied, and I
have made an escape to be more a prisoner.
But I hope, since thus it is, that all will be for the best; and I
shall, with your prudent advice, and pious prayers, be able to overcome
this weakness.—But, to be sure, my dear sir, I will keep a longer time
than a twelvemonth, as a true widow, for a compliment, and more than a
compliment, to your ashes! O the dear word!—How kind, how moving, how
affectionate is the word! O why was I not a duchess, to shew my
gratitude for it! But must labour under the weight of an obligation,
even had this happiness befallen me, that would have pressed me to
death, and which I never could return by a whole life of faithful love,
and cheerful obedience.
O forgive your poor daughter!—I am sorry to find this trial so sore
upon me; and that all the weakness of my weak sex, and tender years,
who never before knew what it was to be so touched, is come upon me,
and too mighty to be withstood by me.—But time, prayer, and resignation
to God’s will, and the benefits of your good lessons, and examples, I
hope, will enable me to get over this so heavy a trial.
O my treacherous, treacherous heart! to serve me thus! and give no
notice to me of the mischiefs thou wast about to bring upon me!—But
thus foolishly to give thyself up to the proud invader, without ever
consulting thy poor mistress in the least! But thy punishment will be
the first and the greatest; and well deservest thou to smart, O
perfidious traitor! for giving up so weakly thy whole self, before a
summons came; and to one, too, who had used me so hardly; and when,
likewise, thou hadst so well maintained thy post against the most
violent and avowed, and, therefore, as I thought, more dangerous
attacks!
After all, I must either not shew you this my weakness, or tear it out
of my writing. Memorandum: to consider of this, when I get home.
Monday morning, eleven o’clock.
We are just come in here, to the inn kept by Mrs. Jewkes’s relation.
The first compliment I had, was in a very impudent manner, How I liked
the ’squire?—I could not help saying, Bold, forward woman! Is it for
you, who keep an inn, to treat passengers at this rate? She was but in
jest, she said, and asked pardon: And she came, and begged excuse
again, very submissively, after Robin and Mr. Colbrand had talked to
her a little.
The latter here, in great form, gave me, before Robin, the letter which
I had given him back for that purpose. And I retired, as if to read it;
and so I did; for I think I can’t read it too often; though, for my
peace of mind’s sake, I might better try to forget it. I am sorry,
methinks, I cannot bring you back a sound heart; but, indeed, it is an
honest one, as to any body but me; for it has deceived nobody else:
Wicked thing that it is!
More and more surprising things still——
Just as I had sat down, to try to eat a bit of victuals, to get ready
to pursue my journey, came in Mr. Colbrand in a mighty hurry. O madam!
madam! said he, here be de groom from de ’Squire B——, all over in a
lather, man and horse! O how my heart went pit-a-pat! What now, thought
I, is to come next! He went out, and presently returned with a letter
for me, and another, enclosed, for Mr. Colbrand. This seemed odd, and
put me all in a trembling. So I shut the door; and never, sure, was the
like known! found the following agreeable contents:—
‘In vain, my Pamela, do I find it to struggle against my affection for
you. I must needs, after you were gone, venture to entertain myself
with your Journal, when I found Mrs. Jewkes’s bad usage of you, after
your dreadful temptations and hurts; and particularly your generous
concern for me, on hearing how narrowly I escaped drowning; (though my
death would have been your freedom, and I had made it your interest to
wish it); and your most agreeable confession in another place, that,
notwithstanding all my hard usage of you, you could not hate me; and
that expressed in so sweet, so soft, and so innocent a manner, that I
flatter myself you may be brought to love me (together with the other
parts of your admirable Journal:) I began to repent my parting with
you; but, God is my witness! for no unlawful end, as you would call it;
but the very contrary: and the rather, as all this was improved in your
favour, by your behaviour at leaving my house: For, oh! that melodious
voice praying for me at your departure, and thanking me for my rebuke
to Mrs. Jewkes, still hangs upon my ears, and delights my memory. And
though I went to bed, I could not rest; but about two got up, and made
Thomas get one of the best horses ready, in order to set out to
overtake you, while I sat down to write this to you.