Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
as I entered the room. Yes, sir, said we; and she said, at the first
word, Most willingly.—Sweet excellence! said he.
As soon as he saw me, he said, O my beloved Pamela! you have made me
quite well. I’m concerned to return my acknowledgments to you in so
unfit a place and manner; but will you give me your hand? I did, and he
kissed it with great eagerness. Sir, said I, you do me too much
honour!—I am sorry you are so ill.—I can’t be ill, said he, while you
are with me. I am very well already.
Well, said he, and kissed my hand again, you shall not repent this
goodness. My heart is too full of it to express myself as I ought. But
I am sorry you have had such a fatiguing time of it.—Life is no life
without you! If you had refused me, and yet I had hardly hopes you
would oblige me, I should have had a severe fit of it, I believe; for I
was taken very oddly, and knew not what to make of myself: but now I
shall be well instantly. You need not, Mrs. Jewkes, added he, send for
the doctor from Stamford, as we talked yesterday; for this lovely
creature is my doctor, as her absence was my disease.
He begged me to sit down by his bed-side, and asked me, if I had
obliged him with sending for my former packet? I said I had, and hoped
it would be brought. He said it was doubly kind.
I would not stay long because of disturbing him. And he got up in the
afternoon, and desired my company; and seemed quite pleased, easy, and
much better. He said, Mrs. Jewkes, after this instance of my good
Pamela’s obligingness in her return, I am sure we ought to leave her
entirely at her own liberty; and pray, if she pleases to take a turn in
our chariot, or in the garden, or to the town, or wherever she will,
let her be left at liberty, and asked no questions; and do you do all
in your power to oblige her. She said she would, to be sure.
He took my hand, and said, One thing I will tell you, Pamela, because I
know you will be glad to hear it, and yet not care to ask me: I had,
before you went, taken Williams’s bond for the money; for how the poor
man had behaved I can’t tell, but he could get no bail; and if I have
no fresh reason given me, perhaps I shall not exact the payment; and he
has been some time at liberty, and now follows his school; but,
methinks, I could wish you would not see him at present.
Sir, said I, I will not do any thing to disoblige you wilfully; and I
am glad he is at liberty, because I was the occasion of his
misfortunes. I durst say no more, though I wanted to plead for the poor
gentleman; which, in gratitude, I thought I ought, when I could do him
service. I said, I am sorry, sir, Lady Davers, who loves you so well,
should have incurred your displeasure, and that there should be any
variance between your honour and her; I hope it was not on my account.
He took out of his waistcoat pocket, as he sat in his gown, his
letter-case, and said, Here, Pamela, read that when you go up stairs,
and let me have your thoughts upon it; and that will let you into the
affair.
He said he was very heavy of a sudden, and would lie down, and indulge
for that day; and if he was better in the morning, would take an airing
in the chariot. And so I took my leave for the present, and went up to
my closet, and read the letter he was pleased to put into my hands;
which is as follows:—
‘BROTHER,
‘I am very uneasy at what I hear of you; and must write, whether it
please you or not, my full mind. I have had some people with me,
desiring me to interpose with you; and they have a greater regard for
your honour, than, I am sorry to say it, you have yourself. Could I
think, that a brother of mine would so meanly run away with my late
dear mother’s waiting-maid, and keep her a prisoner from all her
friends, and to the disgrace of your own? But I thought, when you would
not let the wench come to me on my mother’s death, that you meant no
good.—I blush for you, I’ll assure you. The girl was an innocent, good
girl; but I suppose that’s over with her now, or soon will. What can
you mean by this, let me ask you? Either you will have her for a kept
mistress, or for a wife. If the former, there are enough to be had
without ruining a poor wench that my mother loved, and who really was a
very good girl: and of this you may be ashamed. As to the other, I dare
say you don’t think of it; but if you should, you would be utterly
inexcusable. Consider, brother, that ours is no upstart family; but is
as ancient as the best in the kingdom! and, for several hundreds of
years, it has never been known, that the heirs of it have disgraced
themselves by unequal matches: And you know you have been sought to by
some of the best families in the nation, for your alliance. It might be
well enough, if you were descended of a family of yesterday, or but a
remove or two from the dirt you seem so fond of. But, let me tell you,
that I, and all mine, will renounce you for ever, if you can descend so
meanly; and I shall be ashamed to be called your sister. A handsome
man, as you are, in your person; so happy in the gifts of your mind,
that every body courts your company; and possessed of such a noble and
clear estate; and very rich in money besides, left you by the best of
fathers and mothers, with such ancient blood in your veins, untainted!
for you to throw away yourself thus, is intolerable; and it would be
very wicked in you to ruin the wench too. So that I beg you will
restore her to her parents, and give her 100L. or so, to make her happy
in some honest fellow of her own degree; and that will be doing
something, and will also oblige and pacify
‘Your much grieved sister.’
‘If I have written too sharply, consider it is my love to you, and the
shame you are bringing upon yourself; and I wish this may have the
effect upon you, intended by your very loving sister.’
This is a sad letter, my dear father and mother; and one may see how
poor people are despised by the proud and the rich! and yet we were all
on a foot originally: And many of these gentry, that brag of their
ancient blood, would be glad to have it as wholesome, and as really
untainted, as ours!—Surely these proud people never think what a short
stage life is; and that, with all their vanity; a time is coming, when
they shall be obliged to submit to be on a level with us: And true said
the philosopher, when he looked upon the skull of a king, and that of a
poor man, that he saw no difference between them. Besides, do they not
know, that the richest of princes, and the poorest of beggars, are to
have one great and tremendous judge, at the last day; who will not
distinguish between them, according to their circumstances in
life?—But, on the contrary, may make their condemnations the greater,
as their neglected opportunities were the greater? Poor souls! how do I
pity their pride!—O keep me, Heaven! from their high condition, if my
mind shall ever be tainted with their vice! or polluted with so cruel
and inconsiderate a contempt of the humble estate which they behold
with so much scorn!
But, besides, how do these gentry know, that, supposing they could
trace back their ancestry for one, two, three, or even five hundred
years, that then the original stems of these poor families, though they
have not kept such elaborate records of their good-for nothingness, as
it often proves, were not still deeper rooted?—And how can they be
assured, that one hundred years hence, or two, some of those now
despised upstart families may not revel in their estates, while their
descendants may be reduced to the others’ dunghills!—And, perhaps, such
is the vanity, as well as changeableness, of human estates, in their
turns set up for pride of family, and despise the others!
These reflections occurred to my thoughts, made serious by my master’s
indisposition, and this proud letter of the lowly Lady Davers, against
the high-minded Pamela. Lowly, I say, because she could stoop to such
vain pride; and high-minded I, because I hope I am too proud ever to do
the like!—But, after all, poor wretches that we be! we scarce know what
we are, much less what we shall be!—But, once more pray I to be kept
from the sinful pride of a high estate.
On this occasion I recall the following lines, which I have read; where
the poet argues in a much better manner:—
“——————Wise Providence
Does various parts for various minds dispense:
The meanest slaves, or those who hedge and ditch,
Are useful, by their sweat, to feed the rich.
The rich, in due return, impart their store;
Which comfortably feeds the lab’ring poor.
Nor let the rich the lowest slave disdain:
He’s equally a link of Nature’s chain:
Labours to the same end, joins in one view;
And both alike the will divine pursue;
And, at the last, are levell’d, king and slave,
Without distinction, in the silent grave.”
Wednesday morning.
My master sent me a message just now, that he was so much better, that
he would take a turn, after breakfast, in the chariot, and would have
me give him my company. I hope I shall know how to be humble, and
comport myself as I should do, under all these favours.
Mrs. Jewkes is one of the most obliging creatures in the world; and I
have such respects shewn me by every one, as if I was as great as Lady
Davers—But now, if this should all end in the sham-marriage!—It cannot
be, I hope. Yet the pride of greatness and ancestry, and such-like, is
so strongly set out in Lady Davers’s letter, that I cannot flatter
myself to be so happy as all these desirable appearances make for me.
Should I be now deceived, I should be worse off than ever. But I shall
see what light this new honour will procure me!—So I’ll get ready. But
I won’t, I think, change my garb. Should I do it, it would look as if I
would be nearer on a level with him: and yet, should I not, it might be
thought a disgrace to him: but I will, I think, open the portmanteau,
and, for the first time since I came hither, put on my best silk
nightgown. But then that will be making myself a sort of right to the
clothes I had renounced; and I am not yet quite sure I shall have no
other crosses to encounter. So I will go as I am; for, though ordinary,
I am as clean as a penny, though I say it. So I’ll e’en go as I am,
except he orders otherwise. Yet Mrs. Jewkes says, I ought to dress as
fine as I can.—But I say, I think not. As my master is up, and at
breakfast, I will venture down to ask him how he will have me be.
Well, he is kinder and kinder, and, thank God, purely recovered!—How
charmingly he looks, to what he did yesterday! Blessed be God for it!
He arose, and came to me, and took me by the hand, and would set me
down by him; and he said, My charming girl seemed going to speak. What
would you say?—Sir, said I, (a little ashamed,) I think it is too great
an honour to go into the chariot with you. No, my dear Pamela, said he;
the pleasure of your company will be greater than the honour of mine;
and so say no more on that head.
But, sir, said I, I shall disgrace you to go thus. You would grace a
prince, my fair-one, said the good, kind, kind gentleman! in that
dress, or any you shall choose: And you look so pretty, that, if you
shall not catch cold in that round-eared cap, you shall go just as you
are. But, sir, said I, then you’ll be pleased to go a bye-way, that it
mayn’t be seen you do so much honor to your servant. O my good girl!
said he, I doubt you are afraid of yourself being talked of, more than
me: for I hope by degrees to take off the world’s wonder, and teach
them to expect what is to follow, as a due to my Pamela.
O the dear good man! There’s for you, my dear father and mother!—Did I
not do well now to come back?—O could I get rid of my fears of this