Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
Being then about to go up stairs, Permit me, sir, said I, (looking
about me with some confusion, to see that nobody was there,) thus on my
knees to thank you, as I often wanted to do in the chariot, for all
your goodness to me, which shall never, I hope, be cast away upon me.
And so I had the boldness to kiss his hand.
I wonder, since, how I came to be so forward. But what could I do?—My
poor grateful heart was like a too full river, which overflows its
banks: and it carried away my fear and my shamefacedness, as that does
all before it on the surface of its waters!
He clasped me in his arms with transport, and condescendingly kneeled
by me, and kissing me, said, O my dear obliging good girl, on my knees,
as you on yours, I vow to you everlasting truth and fidelity! and may
God but bless us both with half the pleasures that seem to be before
us, and we shall have no reason to envy the felicity of the greatest
princes!—O sir, said I, how shall I support so much goodness! I am
poor, indeed, in every thing, compared to you! and how far, very far,
do you, in every generous way, leave me behind you!
He raised me, and, as I bent towards the door, led me to the stairs
foot, and, saluting me there again, left me to go up to my closet,
where I threw myself on my knees in raptures of joy, and blessed that
gracious God, who had thus changed my distress to happiness, and so
abundantly rewarded me for all the sufferings I had passed through.—And
oh, how light, how very light, do all those sufferings now appear,
which then my repining mind made so grievous to me!—Hence, in every
state of life, and in all the changes and chances of it, for the
future, will I trust in Providence, who knows what is best for us, and
frequently turns the very evils we most dread, to be the causes of our
happiness, and of our deliverance from greater.—My experiences, young
as I am, as to this great point of reliance on God, are strong, though
my judgment in general may be weak and uninformed: but you’ll excuse
these reflections, because they are your beloved daughter’s; and, so
far as they are not amiss, derive themselves from the benefit of yours
and my late good lady’s examples and instructions.
I have written a vast deal in a little time; and shall only say, to
conclude this delightful Wednesday, That in the afternoon my good
master was so well, that he rode out on horseback, and came home about
nine at night; and then stepped up to me, and, seeing me with pen and
ink before me in my closet, said, I come only to tell you I am very
well, my Pamela: and since I have a letter or two to write, I will
leave you to proceed in yours, as I suppose that was your employment,
(for I had put by my papers at his coming up,) and so he saluted me,
bid me good night, and went down; and I finished up to this place
before I went to bed. Mrs. Jewkes told me, if it was more agreeable to
me, she would be in another room; but I said, No thank you, Mrs.
Jewkes; pray let me have your company. And she made me a fine courtesy,
and thanked me.—How times are altered!
Thursday.
This morning my master came up to me, and talked with me on various
subjects, for a good while together, in the most kind manner. Among
other things, he asked me, if I chose to order any new clothes against
my marriage. (O how my heart flutters when he mentions this subject so
freely!) I said, I left every thing to his good pleasure, only repeated
my request, for the reasons aforegiven, that I might not be too fine.
He said, I think, my dear, it shall be very private: I hope you are not
afraid of a sham-marriage; and pray get the service by heart, that you
may see nothing is omitted. I glowed between shame and delight. O how I
felt my cheeks burn!
I said, I feared nothing, I apprehended nothing, but my own
unworthiness. Said he, I think it shall be done within these fourteen
days, from this day, at this house. O how I trembled! but not with
grief, you may believe—What says my girl? Have you to object against
any day of the next fourteen: because my affairs require me to go to my
other house, and I think not to stir from this till I am happy with
you?
I have no will but yours, said I (all glowing like the fire, as I could
feel:) But, sir, did you say in the house? Ay, said he; for I care not
how privately it be done; and it must be very public if we go to
church. It is a holy rite, sir, said I; and would be better, methinks,
in a holy place.
I see (said he, most kindly) my lovely maid’s confusion; and your
trembling tenderness shews I ought to oblige you all I may. Therefore I
will order my own little chapel, which has not been used for two
generations, for any thing but a lumber-room, because our family seldom
resided here long together, to be cleared and cleaned, and got ready
for the ceremony, if you dislike your own chamber or mine.
Sir, said I, that will be better than the chamber, and I hope it will
never be lumbered again, but kept to the use for which, as I presume,
it has been consecrated. O yes, said he, it has been consecrated, and
that several ages ago, in my great great grandfather’s time, who built
that and the good old house together.
But now, my good girl, if I do not too much add to your sweet
confusion, shall it be in the first seven days, or the second of this
fortnight? I looked down, quite out of countenance. Tell me, said he.
In the second, if you please, sir, said I.—As you please, said he most
kindly; but I should thank you, Pamela, if you would choose the first.
I’d rather, sir, if you please, said I, have the second. Well, said he,
be it so; but don’t defer it till the last day of the fourteen.
Pray sir, said I, since you embolden me to talk on this important
subject, may I not send my dear father and mother word of my
happiness?—You may, said he; but charge them to keep it secret, till
you or I direct the contrary. And I told you, I would see no more of
your papers; but I meant, I would not without your consent: but if you
will shew them to me (and now I have no other motive for my curiosity,
but the pleasure I take in reading what you write,) I shall acknowledge
it as a favour.
If, sir, said I, you will be pleased to let me write over again one
sheet, I will; though I had relied upon your word, and not written them
for your perusal. What is that? said he: though I cannot consent to it
beforehand: for I more desire to see them, because they are your true
sentiments at the time, and because they were not written for my
perusal. Sir, said I, what I am loath you should see, are very severe
reflections on the letter I received by the gipsy, when I apprehended
your design of the sham-marriage; though there are other things I would
not have you see; but that is the worst. It can’t be worse, said he, my
dear sauce-box, than I have seen already; and I will allow your
treating me in ever so black a manner, on that occasion, because it
must have a very black appearance to you.—Well, sir, said I, I think I
will obey you before night. But don’t alter a word, said he. I won’t,
sir, replied I, since you order it.
While we were talking, Mrs. Jewkes came up, and said Thomas was
returned. O, said my master, let him bring up the papers: for he hoped,
and so did I, that you had sent them by him. But it was a great balk,
when he came up and said, Sir, Mr. Andrews did not care to deliver
them; and would have it, that his daughter was forced to write that
letter to him: and, indeed, sir, said he, the old gentleman took on
sadly, and would have it that his daughter was undone, or else, he
said, she would not have turned back, when on her way, (as I told him
she did, said Thomas,) instead of coming to them. I began to be afraid
now that all would be bad for me again.
Well, Tom, said he, don’t mince the matter; tell me, before Mrs.
Andrews, what they said. Why, sir, both he and Goody Andrews, after
they had conferred together upon your letter, madam, came out, weeping
bitterly, that grieved my very heart; and they said, Now all was over
with their poor daughter; and either she had written that letter by
compulsion, or had yielded to your honour; so they said; and was, or
would be ruined!
My master seemed vexed, as I feared. And I said, Pray, sir, be so good
as to excuse the fears of my honest parents. They cannot know your
goodness to me.
And so (said he, without answering me,) they refused to deliver the
papers? Yes, and please your honour, said Thomas, though I told them,
that you, madam, of your own accord, on a letter I had brought you,
very cheerfully wrote what I carried: But the old gentleman said, Why,
wife, there are in these papers twenty things nobody should see but
ourselves, and especially not the ’squire. O the poor girl has had so
many stratagems to struggle with! and now, at last, she has met with
one that has been too hard for her. And can it be possible for us to
account for her setting out to come to us, and in such post haste, and,
when she had got above half-way, to send us this letter, and to go back
again of her own accord, as you say; when we know that all her delight
would have been to come to us and to escape from the perils she had
been so long contending with? And then, and please your honour, he
said, he could not bear this; for his daughter was ruined, to be sure,
before now. And so, said Thomas, the good old couple sat themselves
down, and, hand-in-hand, leaning upon each other’s shoulder, did
nothing but lament.—I was piteously grieved, said he; but all I could
say could not comfort them; nor would they give me the papers; though I
told them I should deliver them only to Mrs. Andrews herself. And so,
and please your honour, I was forced to come away without them.
My good master saw me all bathed in tears at this description of your
distress and fears for me; and he said, I would not have you take on
so. I am not angry with your father in the main; he is a good man; and
I would have you write out of hand, and it shall be sent by the post to
Mr. Atkins, who lives within two miles of your father, and I’ll enclose
it in a cover of mine, in which I’ll desire Mr. Atkins, the moment it
comes to his hand, to convey it safely to your father or mother; and
say nothing of their sending their papers, that it may not make them
uneasy; for I want not now to see them on any other score than that of
mere curiosity; and that will do at any time. And so saying, he saluted
me before Thomas, and with his own handkerchief wiped my eyes; and said
to Thomas, The good old folks are not to be blamed in the main. They
don’t know my honourable intentions by their dear daughter; who, Tom,
will, in a little time, be your mistress; though I shall keep the
matter private some days, and would not have it spoken of by my
servants out of my house.
Thomas said, God bless your honour! You know best. And I said, O, sir,
you are all goodness!—How kind is this, to forgive the disappointment,
instead of being angry, as I feared you would! Thomas then withdrew.
And my master said, I need not remind you of writing out of hand, to
make the good folks easy: and I will leave you to yourself for that
purpose; only send me down such of your papers, as you are willing I
should see, with which I shall entertain myself for an hour or two.
But, one thing, added he, I forgot to tell you: The neighbouring gentry
I mentioned will be here to-morrow to dine with me, and I have ordered
Mrs. Jewkes to prepare for them. And must I, sir, said I, be shewn to
them? O yes, said he; that’s the chief reason of their coming. And
you’ll see nobody equal to yourself: don’t be concerned.
I opened my papers, as soon as my master had left me; and laid out
those beginning on the Thursday morning he set out for Stamford, ‘with