Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
‘Now, my dear Pamela, let me beg of you, on the receipt of this, to
order Robin to drive you back again to my house. I would have set out
myself, for the pleasure of bearing you company back in the chariot;
but am really indisposed; I believe, with vexation that I should part
thus with my soul’s delight, as I now find you are, and must be, in
spite of the pride of my own heart.
‘You cannot imagine the obligation your return will lay me under to
your goodness; and yet, if you will not so far favour me, you shall be
under no restraint, as you will see by my letter enclosed to Colbrand;
which I have not sealed, that you may read it. But spare me, my dearest
girl! the confusion of following you to your father’s; which I must do,
if you persist to go on; for I find I cannot live a day without you.
‘If you are the generous Pamela I imagine you to be, (for hitherto you
have been all goodness, where it has not been merited,) let me see, by
this new instance, the further excellence of your disposition; let me
see you can forgive the man who loves you more than himself; let me
see, by it, that you are not prepossessed in any other person’s favour:
And one instance more I would beg, and then I am all gratitude; and
that is, that you would despatch Monsieur Colbrand with a letter to
your father, assuring him that all will end happily; and to desire,
that he will send to you, at my house, the letters you found means, by
Williams’s conveyance, to send him. And when I have all my proud, and,
perhaps, punctilious doubts answered, I shall have nothing to do, but
to make you happy, and be so myself. For I must be ‘Yours, and only
yours.’
‘Monday morn, near three o’clock.’
O my exulting heart! how it throbs in my bosom, as if it would reproach
me for so lately upbraiding it for giving way to the love of so dear a
gentleman!—But take care thou art not too credulous neither, O fond
believer! Things that we wish, are apt to gain a too ready credence
with us. This sham-marriage is not yet cleared up: Mrs. Jewkes, the
vile Mrs. Jewkes! may yet instigate the mind of this master: His pride
of heart, and pride of condition, may again take place: And a man that
could in so little a space, first love me, then hate, then banish me
his house, and send me away disgracefully; and now send for me again,
in such affectionate terms, may still waver, may still deceive thee.
Therefore will I not acquit thee yet, O credulous, fluttering,
throbbing mischief! that art so ready to believe what thou wishest! And
I charge thee to keep better guard than thou hast lately done, and lead
me not to follow too implicitly thy flattering and desirable impulses.
Thus foolishly dialogued I with my heart; and yet, all the time, this
heart is Pamela.
I opened the letter to Monsieur Colbrand; which was in these words:—
‘MONSIEUR,
‘I am sure you’ll excuse the trouble I give you. I have, for good
reasons, changed my mind; and I have besought it, as a favour, that
Mrs. Andrews will return to me the moment Tom reaches you. I hope, for
the reasons I have given her, she will have the goodness to oblige me.
But, if not, you are to order Robin to pursue his directions, and set
her down at her father’s door. If she will oblige me in her return,
perhaps she’ll give you a letter to her father, for some papers to be
delivered to you for her; which you’ll be so good, in that case, to
bring to her here: But if she will not give you such a letter, you’ll
return with her to me, if she please to favour me so far; and that with
all expedition, that her health and safety will permit; for I am pretty
much indisposed; but hope it will be but slight, and soon go off. I am
‘Yours, etc.’
‘On second thoughts, let Tom go forward with Mrs. Andrews’s letter, if
she pleases to give one; and you return with her, for her safety.’
Now this is a dear generous manner of treating me. O how I love to be
generously used!—Now, my dear parents, I wish I could consult you for
your opinions, how I should act. Should I go back, or should I not?—I
doubt he has got too great hold in my heart, for me to be easy
presently, if I should refuse: And yet this gipsy information makes me
fearful.
Well, I will, I think, trust in his generosity! Yet is it not too great
a trust?—especially considering how I have been used!—But then that was
while he avowed his bad designs; and now he gives great hope of his
good ones. And I may be the means of making many happy, as well as
myself, by placing a generous confidence in him.
And then, I think, he might have sent to Colbrand, or to Robin, to
carry me back, whether I would or not. And how different is his
behaviour to that! And would it not look as if I was prepossessed, as
he calls it, if I don’t oblige him; and as if it was a silly female
piece of pride, to make him follow me to my father’s; and as if I would
use him hardly in my turn, for his having used me ill in his? Upon the
whole, I resolved to obey him; and if he uses me ill afterwards, double
will be his ungenerous guilt!—Though hard will be my lot, to have my
credulity so justly blamable, as it will then seem. For, to be sure,
the world, the wise world, that never is wrong itself, judges always by
events. And if he should use me ill, then I shall be blamed for
trusting him: If well, O then I did right, to be sure!—But how would my
censurers act in my case, before the event justifies or condemns the
action, is the question?
Then I have no notion of obliging by halves; but of doing things with a
grace, as one may say, where they are to be done; and so I wrote the
desired letter to you, assuring you, that I had before me happier
prospects than ever I had; and hoped all would end well: And that I
begged you would send me, by the bearer, Mr. Thomas, my master’s groom,
those papers, which I had sent you by Mr. Williams’s conveyance: For
that they imported me much, for clearing up a point in my conduct, that
my master was desirous to know, before he resolved to favour me, as he
had intended.—But you will have that letter, before you can have this;
for I would not send you this without the preceding; which now is in my
master’s hands.
And so, having given the letter to Mr. Thomas for him to carry to you,
when he had baited and rested after his great fatigue, I sent for
Monsieur Colbrand, and Robin, and gave to the former his letter; and
when he had read it, I said, You see how things stand. I am resolved to
return to our master; and as he is not so well as were to be wished,
the more haste you make the better: and don’t mind my fatigue, but
consider only yourselves, and the horses. Robin, who guessed the
matter, by his conversation with Thomas, (as I suppose,) said, God
bless you, madam, and reward you, as your obligingness to my good
master deserves; and may we all live to see you triumph over Mrs.
Jewkes!
I wondered to hear him say so; for I was always careful of exposing my
master, or even that naughty woman, before the common servants. But yet
I question whether Robin would have said this, if he had not guessed,
by Thomas’s message, and my resolving to return, that I might stand
well with his master. So selfish are the hearts of poor mortals, that
they are ready to change as favour goes!
So they were not long getting ready; and I am just setting out, back
again: and I hope I shall have no reason to repent it.
Robin put on very vehemently; and when we came to the little town,
where we lay on Sunday night, he gave his horses a bait, and said, he
would push for his master’s that night, as it would be moon-light, if I
should not be too much fatigued because there was no place between that
and the town adjacent to his master’s, fit to put up at, for the night.
But Monsieur Colbrand’s horse beginning to give way, made a doubt
between them: wherefore I said, (hating to be on the road,) if it could
be done, I should bear it well enough, I hoped; and that Monsieur
Colbrand might leave his horse, when it failed, at some house, and come
into the chariot. This pleased them both; and, about twelve miles
short, he left the horse, and took off his spurs and holsters, etc.
and, with abundance of ceremonial excuses, came into the chariot; and I
sat the easier for it; for my bones ached sadly with the jolting, and
so many miles travelling in so few hours, as I have done, from Sunday
night, five o’clock. But, for all this, it was eleven o’clock at night,
when we came to the village adjacent to my master’s; and the horses
began to be very much tired, and Robin too: but I said, It would be
pity to put up only three miles short of the house.
So about one we reached the gate; but every body was a-bed. But one of
the helpers got the keys from Mrs. Jewkes, and opened the gates; and
the horses could hardly crawl into the stable. And I, when I went to
get out of the chariot, fell down, and thought I had lost the use of my
limbs.
Mrs. Jewkes came down with her clothes huddled on, and lifted up her
hands and eyes, at my return; but shewed more care of the horses than
of me. By that time the two maids came; and I made shift to creep in,
as well as I could.
It seems my poor master was very ill indeed, and had been upon the bed
most part of the day; and Abraham (who succeeded John) sat up with him.
And he was got into a fine sleep, and heard not the coach come in, nor
the noise we made; for his chamber lies towards the garden,—on the
other side of the house. Mrs. Jewkes said, He had a feverish complaint,
and had been blooded; and, very prudently, ordered Abraham, when he
awaked, not to tell him I was come, for fear of surprising him, and
augmenting his fever; nor, indeed, to say any thing of me, till she
herself broke it to him in the morning, as she should see how he was.
So I went to bed with Mrs. Jewkes, after she had caused me to drink
almost half a pint of burnt wine, made very rich and cordial, with
spices; which I found very refreshing, and set me into a sleep I little
hoped for.
Tuesday morning.
Getting up pretty early, I have written thus far, while Mrs. Jewkes
lies snoring in bed, fetching up her last night’s disturbance. I long
for her rising, to know how my poor master does. ’Tis well for her she
can sleep so purely. No love, but for herself, will ever break her
rest, I am sure. I am deadly sore all over, as if I had been soundly
beaten. I did not think I could have lived under such fatigue.
Mrs. Jewkes, as soon as she got up, went to know how my master did, and
he had had a good night; and, having drank plentifully of sack whey,
had sweated much; so that his fever had abated considerably. She said
to him, that he must not be surprised, and she would tell him news. He
asked, What? And she said, I was come. He raised himself up in his bed;
Can it be? said he—What, already!—She told him I came last night.
Monsieur Colbrand coming to inquire of his health, he ordered him to
draw near him, and was highly pleased with the account he gave him of
the journey, my readiness to come back, and my willingness to reach
home that night. And he said, Why, these tender fair ones, I think,
bear fatigue better than us men. But she is very good, to give me such
an instance of her readiness to oblige me. Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, said he,
take great care of her health! and let her be a-bed all day. She told
him I had been up these two hours. Ask her, said he, if she will be so
good as to make me a visit: If she won’t, I’ll rise, and go to her.
Indeed, sir, said she, you must be still; and I’ll go to her. But don’t
urge her too much, said he, if she be unwilling.
She came to me, and told me all the above; and I said, I would most
willingly wait upon him; for, indeed, I longed to see him, and was much
grieved he was so ill.—So I went down with her. Will she come? said he,