 section 15 of Pamela or Virtue Rewarded. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information auto-volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Pamela or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson. Section 15. About two hours after which was near 11 o'clock Mrs. Dukes and I went up to bed. I was pleasing myself with what a charming night I should have. We locked both doors and saw poor Nan as I thought. But Oat was my abominable master as usual here by and by, sitting fast asleep in an elbow chair in a dark corner of the room with her apron thrown over her head and neck. And Mrs. Dukes said, there's that beast of a wench fast asleep instead of being a bed. I knew, she said, she had taken a fine dose. I'll wake her, said I. No, don't, said she. Let her sleep on. We shall be better without her. I, said I, so we shall. But won't she get cold? Said she, I hope you have no writing tonight. No, replied I. I will go to bed with you, Mrs. Dukes. Said she, I wonder what you can find to write about so much. And I'm sure you have better conveniences of that kind and more paper than I am aware of. And I had intended to rummage you if my master had not come down, for I spied a broken teacup with ink which gave me suspicion. But as he has come, let him look after you if he will, and if you deceive him it will be his own fault. All this time we were undressing ourselves, and I fetched a deep sigh. What do you sigh for, said she. I am thinking, Mrs. Dukes, answered I, what a sad life I live, and how hard is my lot. I am sure the thief that has robbed is much better off than I, betting the guilt, and I should, I think, take it for a mercy to be hanged out of the way rather than to live in these cruel apprehensions. So being not sleepy and in a prattling vein, I began to give a little history of myself as I did once before to Mrs. Jarvis in this manner. Here, said I, were my poor honest parents. They took care to install good principles into my mind until I was almost 12 years of age, and taught me to prefer goodness and poverty to the highest condition of life, and they confirmed their lessons by their own practice. For they were of late years remarkably poor, and almost as remarkably honest, even to a proverb. For as honest as Goodman Andrews was a byword. Well then, said I, comes my late dear good lady and takes a fancy to me, and said she would be the making of me if I was a good girl, and she put me to sing to dance to play on the spinet in order to divert her melancholy hours, and also taught me all manner of fine needlework. But still this was her lesson, my good Pamela, be virtuous and keep the men at a distance. Well, so I was, I hope, and so I did. And yet though I say it, they all loved me and respected me, and would do anything for me as if I were a gentle woman. But then, what comes next? Why, please God to take my good lady, and then comes my master. And what says he? Why, in effect it is, be not virtuous Pamela. So here I have lived about sixteen years in virtue and reputation, and all at once, when I come to know what is good and what is evil, I must renounce all the good, all the whole sixteen years innocent, which next to God's grace I owe chiefly to my parents, and my lady's good lessons and examples, and choose the evil. And so in a moment's time become the barlest of creatures. And all this for what I pray? Why, truly, for a pair of diamond earrings, a necklace, and a diamond ring for my finger, which would not become me. For a few paltry fine clothes, which when I wore them would make but my former poverty more ridiculous to everybody that saw me, especially when they knew the base terms I wore them upon. But indeed I was to have such a great parcel of guineas beside, I forget how many, for had there been ten times more, they would have not been so much to me. As the honest six guineas you tricked me out of, Mrs. Dukes. Well, forsooth, but then I was to have I know not how many pounds a year for my life, and my poor father, who was the jest of it, was to be the manager for the abandoned prostitute his daughter. And then there was the jest again, my kind forgiving virtuous master would pardon me all my misdeeds. Yes, thank him for nothing truly, and what pray are all these violent misdeeds? Why, they are for daring to adhere to the good lessons that were taught to me, and not learning a new one that would have reversed all my former. For not being contented when I was run away with in order to be ruined, but contriving if my poor wits had been able to get out of danger and preserve my self-honest. Then was he once jealous of poor John, though he knew John was his own creature and helped to deceive me. Then was he outrageous against poor Parson Williams, and him has this good merciful master thrown into jail, and for what? Why, truly, for that being a divine and a good man, he had the fear of God before his eyes, and was willing to forego all his expectations of interest and assist an oppressed poor creature. But to be sure I must be forward, bold, saucy and what not, to dare to run away from certain ruin, and to strive to escape from an unjust confinement, and I must be married to the Parson, nothing so sure. He would have had but a poor catch of me had I consented, but he and you two know I did not want to marry anybody. I only want to go to my poor parents and to have my own liberty and not to be confined by such an unlawful restraint, and which would not have been inflicted upon me, but only that I am a poor destitute young body and have no friend that is able to right me. So, Mrs. Druke said I, here is my history in brief, and I am a very unhappy young creature to be sure, and why am I so? Why? Because my master sees something in my person that has taken his present fancy, and because I would not be undone. Why, therefore to choose, I must and I shall be undone, and this is all the reason that can be given. She heard me run on all this time while I was undressing without any interruption, and I said, Well, I must go to the two closets, ever since an affair of the closets at the other house, though he is so far away. And I have a good mind to wake this poor maid. No, don't, said she, I charge you. I am very angry with her, and shall get no harm there, and if she wakes she may come to bed well enough as long as there is a candle in the chimney. So I looked into the closet and knelt down in my own, as I used to do, to say my prayers. And this was my underclothes in my hand, all undressed, and passed by the poor sleeping wrench, as I thought in my return. But, oh, little did I think it was my wicked, wicked master in a gown and petticoat of hers and her apron over his face and shoulders. What meanness will not Lucifer make his photoist stoop to, to gain their abominable ends. Mrs. Dukes by this time was got into bed on the farther side as she used to be, and to make room for the maid when she should awake I got into the bed and lay close to her. And I said, where are the keys? Though, said I, I am not so much afraid tonight. Here, said the wicked woman, put your arm under mine, and you shall find them about my vests, as they used to be. So I did, and the abominable designer held my hand with her right hand, as my right arm was still under her left. In less than a quarter of an hour I said, there's poor Nana awake, I hear her stir. Let us go to sleep, said she, and not mind, as she'll come to bed when she's quite awake. Poor soul, said I, oh, warrant, she will have the headache far near tomorrow for this. Be silent, she said, and go to sleep. You keep me awake, and I never found you in so talkative a humour in my life. Don't charred me, said I. I will but say one thing more. Do you think Nan could hear me talk of my master's office? No, no, said she, she was dead asleep. I'm glad of that, said I, because I would not expose my master to his common servants, and I knew you were no stranger to his fine articles. Said she, I think they were fine articles, and you were bewitched, you did not close with them. But let us go to sleep. So I was silent, and the pretended Nan, oh, wicked, base villainous designer, what a plot, and what an unexpected plot was this. Seemed to be awaking, and Mrs. Duke's abhorrent creature said, come Nan, what do you awake at last? Prithee, come to bed, for Mrs. Pamela is in a talking fit, and won't go to sleep one while. At that, the pretended she came to the bedside, and sitting down in the chair where the curtain-hitter began to undress. Said I, poor Mrs. Anne, I warrant your headaches most sadly, how do you do? Says he, one word with you Pamela, one word hear me, but I must say one word to you. It is this, you see now you are in my power. You cannot get from me, nor help yourself. Yet have I not offered anything amiss to you? But if you resolve not to comply with my proposals, I will not lose this opportunity. If you do, I will leave you. Oh, sir, said I, leave me, leave me, but, and I will do anything I ought to do. Swear then to me, said he, that you will accept my proposals. With struggling fright and terror, I fainted away quiet, and did not come to myself soon, so that they both, from the cold sweats that I was in, thought me dying. And I remember no more than that, when with great difficulty they bought me to myself, she was sitting on one side of the bed with her clothes on, and he on the other side with his and in his gown and slippers. Your poor Pamela cannot answer for the liberties taken with her in her deplorable state of death. And when I saw them there, I sat up in my bed, without any regard to what appearance I made, and nothing about my neck, and he soothing me, with an aspect of pity and concern. I put my hand to his mouth and said, Oh, tell me, yet tell me not, what have I suffered in this distress? And I talked quite wild, and knew not what, for to be sure I was on the point of distraction. He most solemnly, and with bitter implication, vowed that he had not offered the least in density, that he was frightened at the terrible manner I was taken with the fit, that he should desist from his attempt, and begged but to see me easy and quiet. And he would leave me directly, and go to his own bed, and said, I take with you this most wicked woman, this farthest dukes, as an earnest that I might believe you. And will you, sir, said the wicked wretch, for a fit or two give up such an opportunity as this? I thought you had known the sex better, she is now you see quite well again. This I heard more, she might say, but I fainted away once more at these words, and at his clasping his arm about me again. And when I came a little to myself, I saw him sit there, and the maiden Nan holding a smelling bottle to my nose, and no, Mr. Stukes. He said, taking my hand, Now will I vow to you, my dear Pamela, that I will leave you the moment I see you better, and pacified. Here Nan knows and will tell you my concern for you. I vow to God I have not offered any indecency to you, and since I found Mrs. Stukes so offensive to you, I have sent her to the maid's bed, and the maid shall be with you tonight. And but promise me that you will compose yourself, and I will leave you. Pat said, I will not Nan also hold my hand, and will she not let you come in again to me? He said, By heaven, I will not come in again tonight. Nan, undress yourself, go to bed, and do all you can to comfort the dear creature. And now, dear Pamela, said he, Give me but your hand, and say you forgive me, and I will leave you to your repose. I held out my trembling hand, which is as safe to kiss, and I said, God forgive you, as you have been just in my distress, and you will be just to what you promise. And he withdrew with a countenance of remorse, as I hoped, and she shut the doors, and that my request bought the keys to bed. This, my dear parents, was a most dreadful trial. I trembled still to think of it, and dare not recall all the horrid circumstances I had. I hope as he assures me he was not guilty of indecency, but have reason to bless God, who, by disabling me and my faculties, empowered me to preserve my innocence, and when my strength would have signified nothing, magnified himself in my weakness. I was so weak all day on Monday that I could not get out of my bed. My master showed great tenderness for me, and I hope he is really sorry, and that this will be his last attempt, but he does not say so neither. He came in the morning as soon as he heard the door open, and I began to be fearful. He stopped short of the bed, and said, Rather than give you apprehensions, I will come no farther. I said, Your Honour, Sir, and at your mercy is all I have to beg. He sat himself on the side of the bed, and asked kindly how I did. Beg me to be composed, said I still looked a little wildly, and I said, Pray good, Sir, let me not see this infamous Mrs. Dukes. I doubt I cannot bear her sight. She shan't come near you all this day, if you'll promise to compose yourself. Then, Sir, I will try. He pressed my hand very tenderly and went out. What a change this is sure, or may it be lasting. But alas, he seems only to have altered his method of proceeding, and retains, I doubt, his wicked purpose. On Tuesday, about ten o'clock, when my master heard I was up, he sent for me down into the parlour. As soon as he saw me, he said, come near it and repamela. I did so, and he took my hand, and said, You begin to look well again, I am glad of it. You little slut, how you did frighten me on the Sunday night. Sir said, I pray name not that night, and my eyes overflowed at the remembrance, and I turned my head aside. Said he, place some little confidence in me. I know what those charming eyes mean, and you shall not need to explain yourself, for I do assure you, that as soon as I saw you change, and a cold sweat bid you your pretty face, and you fainted away, I quitted the bed, and Mrs. Drux did so too. And I put on my gown, and she fetched her smelling bottle, and we both did all we could to restore you. And my passion for you was all swallowed up in the concern I had for your recovery, for I thought I never saw a fit so strong and violent in my life, and feared we should not bring you to life again. For what I saw you in once before was nothing to it. This said he might be my folly, and my unequatidness with what passion your sex can show when they are in earnest. But this I repeat to you, that your mind may be entirely comforted, whatever I offered to you was before you fainted away, and that I am sure was innocent. Sirs said I, that was very bad, and it was too plain you had the worst designs. When, said he, I tell you the truth in one instance, you may believe me in the other. I know not, I declare, beyond this lovely bosom your sex, but that I did intend what you call the worst is most certain. Although I would not too much alarm you now, I could curse my weakness and my folly, which makes me own that I love you beyond all your sex, and cannot live without you. But if I am master of myself and my own resolution, I will not attempt to force you to do anything again. Sirs said I, you may easily keep your resolution if you'll send me out of your way to my poor parents. That is all I beg. It is folly to talk of it, said he, you must not shall not go. And if I could be assured you were not attempted, you should have better usage, and your confinement should be made easier to you. But to what end, sir, am I to stay, said I. You yourself seem not sure you can keep your own present good resolutions. And do you think if I were to stay, when I could get away and be safe, it would not look as if either I confided too much in my own strength, or would tempt my ruin. And if I were not in earnest to wish myself safe and out of danger, and then how long am I to stay, and to what purpose, and at what right must I appear to the world? Would that not sent you me, though I might be innocent? You knew well, allow, sir, that if there be anything valuable or exemplary in a good name or fair reputation, one must not despise the world sent you, if one can avoid it. Well, sent he, I set not for you on this account just now, but for two reasons. The first is that you promise me that for a fortnight to come, you will not offer to go away without my express content. And this I expect for your own sake, that I might give you a little more liberty. And the second is that you will see and forgive Mrs. Dukes. She takes on much, and thinks that as all her fault was her obedience to me, it would be very hard to sacrifice her, as she calls it, to your resentment. As to the first, said I, it is a height in junction, for the reasons I have mentioned. And as to the second, considering her vile and womanly wickedness, and her endeavours to instigate you more to ruin me, when your returning goodness seemed to have some compassion upon me, it is still harder. But to show my obedience to your commands, for you know my dear parents, I might as well make a merit of my compliance, when my refusal would stand me in no stead. I will consent to both, and to everything else that you shall be pleased to enjoin, which I can do with innocence. That's my good girl, said he, and kissed me. This is quite prudent, and shows me that you don't take insolent advantage of my faith for you, and will perhaps stand you in more stead than you are aware of. So he rang the bell, and said, Call down Mrs. Dukes. She came down, and he took my hand, and put it into hers, and said, Mrs. Dukes, I'm obliged to you for all your diligence and fidelity to me. But Pamela I must own is not, because the service I employed you in was not so very obliging to her, as I could have wished she would have thought it. And you were not to favour her, but obey me. But yet I'll assure you, at the very first word, she has at once obliged me, by consenting to be friends with you, and if she gives me no great cause, I shall not, perhaps, put you on such disagreeable service again. Now therefore be you once more bedfellows and boardfellows, as I may say, for some days longer, and see that Pamela sends no letters nor messages out of the house, nor keeps a correspondence unknown to me, especially with that Williams. And as for the rest, show the dear girl, all of respect that is due to one I must love, if she will deserve it, as I hope she will yet. And let her be under no unnecessary or harsh restraints. But your watchful care is not, however, to cease, and remember that you are not to disoblige me to oblige her, and that I will not, cannot, yet part with her. Mrs. Dukes looked very sullen, as if she would be glad still to do me a good turn, if it lay in her power. I took courage then to drop a word or two for poor Mr. Williams, but he was angry with me for it, and said he could not endure to hear his name in my mouth, so I was forced to have done for that time. All this time my papers that I buried under the rose-bush lay there still, and I begged for leave to send a letter to you. So I should, he said, if he might read it first, but this did not answer my design, and yet I would have sent you such a letter as he might see, if I had been sure my danger was over. But that I cannot, for he now seems to take another method, and what I am more afraid of, because maybe he may watch an opportunity and join force with her on occasion when I am least prepared. For now he seems to abound with kindness, and talks of love without reserve, and makes nothing of allowing himself in the liberty of kissing me, which he calls innocent, but which I do not like, and especially in the manner he does it. But for the master to do it at all to a servant has meaning too much in it, not to alarm an honest body. Wednesday morning I find I am watched and suspected still very close, and I wish I was with you, but that must not be it seems this fortnight. I don't like this fortnight, and it will be a tedious and dangerous one to me, I doubt. My master just now sent for me to take a walk with him in the garden, but I like him not at all nor his ways, for he would have all the way his arm about my waist, and said abundance of fond things to me, enough to make me proud if his design had not been apparent. After walking about he led me into a little alcove on the farthest part of the garden, and really made me afraid of myself, for he began to be very teasing, and made me sit on his knee, and was so often kissing me that I said, Sir, I don't like to be here at all, I assure you, indeed you make me afraid. And what made me the more so was what he once said to Mrs. Dukes, and did not think I heard him, and which, although almost uppermost with me, I did not mention before, because I did not know how to bring it in in my writing. She, I suppose, had been encouraging him in his wickedness, for it was before the last dreadful trial, and I only heard what he answered. Said he, I will try once more, but I have begun wrong, for I see terror does but add to her frost, but she is a charming girl, and may be thawed by kindness, and I should have melted her by love instead of freezing her by fear. Is he not a wicked, sad man for this, to be sure I blush while I write it? But I trust that, dear God, who has delivered me from the poor of the lion and the bear, that his he and Mrs. Dukes' violences will soon deliver me from this villain's time, that I may not defy the commands of the living God. But as I was saying, this expression coming into my thoughts, I was of opinion I could not be too much on my guard at all times, more especially when he took such liberties, for he professed honour all the time with his mouth, while his actions did not correspond. I begged and prayed he would let me go, and had I not appeared quite regardless of all he said, and resolved not to stay if I could help it, I know not how far he would have proceeded, for I was forced to fall down upon my knees. At last he walked out with me, still bragging of his honour and his love. Yes, yes, sir, said I, your honour is to destroy mine, and your love is to ruin me, I see it too plainly. But indeed I will not talk with you, sir, said I, any more. Do you know, said he, whom you talk to and where you are? You may believe I had reason to think him not so decent as he should be. For I said, as to where I am, sir, I know it too well, and that I have no creature to befriend me, and as to whom I talk to, sir, let me ask you, what would you have me answer? Why, tell me, said he, what answer you would make? It will only make you angry, said I, and so I shall fare worse if possible. I won't be angry, said he. Why then, sir, said I, you cannot be my late good lady's son, for she loves me and taught me virtue. You cannot then be my master, for my master demeans himself so to his poor servant. He put his arms round me and his other hand on my neck, which made me more angry and bold, and he said, What them am I? Why, said I, struggling from him and in great passion, to be sure you are Lucifer himself in the shape of my dear master, or you could not use me thus? These are two great liberties, said he in anger, and I desire that you will not repeat them for your own sake. For if you have no decency towards me, I'll have none toward you. I was running from him, and he said, Come back when I bid you. So knowing every place was a light dangerous to me, and I had nobody to run to, I came back at his call. And seeing him look so displeased, I held my hands together and wept, and said, Pray, sir, forgive me. No, said he, rather say, Pray, Lucifer, forgive me. And now, since you take me for the devil, how can you expect any good from me? How rather can you expect anything but the worst treatment from me? You have given me a character, Pamela. And blame me not that I act up to it. Sir, said I, let me beg you to forgive me. I am really sorry for my boldness, but indeed you don't use me like a gentleman. And how can I express my resentment if I mince the matter, while you are so indecent? Precise fool, said he. What indecenties have I offered you? I was bewitched I had not gone through my purpose last Sunday night, and then your licentious tongue had not given the worst name to little puny freedoms that show my love and my folly at the same time. But begone, said he, taking my hand and tossing it from him, and learn another conduct and more wit, and I will lay aside my foolish regard for you and assert myself. Be gone, said he again with a haughty air. Indeed, sir, said I, I cannot go till you pardon me which I beg on my bended knees. I am truly sorry for my boldness. But I see how you go on. You creep by little and little upon me, and now soothe me and now threaten me, and if I should forbear to show my resentment when you offer incivilities to me, would that not be to be lost by degrees? Would it not show that I could bear anything from you if I did not express all the indignation I could express at the first approaches you make to what I dread? And have you not as good as avowed my ruin? And have you once made me hope you will quit your purposes against me? How then, sir, can I act? But by showing my aburrence are every step that makes towards my undoing. And what is left to me but words? And can these words be other than such strong ones, so she'll show the detestation for which, from the bottom of my heart, I have for every attempt upon my virtue? Judge for me, sir, and pardon me. Pardon you, said he, what, when you don't repent? When you have the boldness to justify yourself in your fault, why don't you say you will never again offend me? I will endeavour, sir, said I, always to preserve that decency towards you, which becomes me. But really, sir, I must beg your excuse for saying that when you forget what belongs to decency in your actions, and when words are all that are left me to show my resentment of such actions, I will not promise to forbear the strongest expressions that my distressed mind shall suggest to me, nor shall your angriest frowns deter me when my honesty is in question. What, then, said he, do you beg pardon for? Where is the promise of amendment for which I shall forgive you? Indeed, sir, said I, I earn that it must absolutely depend on your usage of me. For I will bear anything you can inflict upon me with patience, even to the laying down of my life to show my obedience to you in other cases. But I cannot be patient, I cannot be passive when my virtue is at stake. It would be criminal in me if I was. He said he never saw such a fool in his life, and he walked by the side of me some yards without saying a word, and seemed vexed, and at last walked in, bidding me attend him in the garden after dinner. So, having a little time, I went up and wrote thus far. Wednesday night. If, my dear parents, I am not destined more surely than ever for ruin, I have no more comfort before me than ever I knew, and am either nearer my misery or my happiness than ever I was. God protect me from the latter, if it be his blessed will. I have now such a scene to open to you that I know will alarm both your hopes and your fears, as it does mine, and this it is. After my master had dined, he took a turn into the stables to look at his stud of horses, and when he came in he opened the parlor door where Mrs. Dukes and I sat at dinner, and at his entrance we both rose up, but he said, Sit still, sit still, and let me see how you reach your vitals, Pamela. I have said Mrs. Dukes very poorly indeed, sir. No, said I, pretty well, sir, considering. None of your considering, said he, pretty face, and tapped me on the cheek. I blushed, but was glad he was so good-human, but I could not tell how to sit before him, nor to behave myself. So he said, I know, Pamela, you are nice carver, my mother used to say so. My lady, sir, said I, was very good to me in everything, and would always make me do the honours of her table for her, when she was with her few select friends that she loved. Cut up, said he, that chicken. I did so. Now, said he, and took the knife and fork, and put a wing upon my plate. Let me see you eat that. Oh, sir, said I, have eaten a whole breast of chicken already, and cannot eat so much. But he said, I must eat it for his sake, and he would teach me to eat heartily. So I did eat it, but was much confused that he's so kind and unusual freedom and condescension. And good-luck, you cannot imagine how Mrs. Dukes looked instead, and how respectable she seemed to me, and called me good-mad, and I'll assure you, urging me to take a little bit of tart. My master took two or three turns about the room, musing and thoughtful, as I had never before seen him. And at last went out, saying, I am going into the garden. You know, Pamela, what I said to you before dinner. I rose and curtsied, saying I would attend his honour, and he said, do good girl. Well, said Mrs. Dukes, I see how things will go. Oh, madam, as she called me again, I'm sure you'll be our mistress, and then I know what will become of me. Mrs. Dukes said, I, if I can but keep myself virtuous, is the most of my ambition, and I hope no temptation shall make me otherwise. Notwithstanding, I had no reason to be pleased with his treatment of me before dinner, yet I made haste to attend him. And I found him walking by the side of that pond, which, for want of grace and through a sinful despondence, had liked to have been so fatal to me. And the sight of which ever since has been a trouble and reproach to me. And it was by the side of this pond, and not far from the place where I had that dreadful conflict, that my present hopes, if I am not to be deceived again, began to dawn. Which I presumed to flatter myself with being a happy omen for me, as if God Almighty would show your poor, sinful daughter, how well I did to put my feelings before you. And not to throw away myself, because my ruin seemed inevitable to my shortsighted apprehension. So he was pleased to say, Well Pamela, I am glad you have come of your own accord, as I may say, give me your hand. I did so, and he looked at me very steadily, and pressing my hand all the time at last said, I will now talk to you in a serious manner. You have a good heart, and I will give it to you. You have a good deal of wit, a great deal of penetration, much beyond your years, and as I thought, your opportunities. You are possessed of an open, frank and generous mind, and a person so lovely that you excel all your sex in my eyes. All these accomplishments have engaged my affection so deeply that, as I have often said, I cannot live without you. And I would divide with all my soul my estate with you, to make you mine upon my own terms. These you have absolutely rejected, and that though in saucy terms enough, yet in such a manner as to make me admire you all the more. Your pretty chit-chat to Mrs. Dukes the last Sunday night, so innocent and so full of beautiful simplicity, half-desarmed my resolution before I approached your bed. And I see you so watchful over your virtue, that though I hope to find it otherwise, I cannot but confess my passion for you is increased by it. But now what shall I say, Father Pamela? I will make you, through a party, my advisor in this matter, though not perhaps my definite judge. You know I am not a very abandoned profligate. I have hitherto been guilty of no very enormous or vile actions. This of seizing you and confining you thus, may perhaps be one of the worst, at least the persons of real innocent. Had I been utterly given up to my passions, I should before now have gratified them, and not have shown that remorse and compassion for you, which have reprieved you more than once when absolutely in my power, and you are as inviolate a virgin as you were when you first came into my house. But what can I do? Consider the pride of my condition. I cannot endure the thought of marriage, even with a person of equal or superior degree to myself, and have declined several proposals of that kind. How then, with the distance between us and the world's judgment, can I think of making you my wife? Yet I must have you. I cannot bear the thoughts of any other man supplanting me in your affections. And the very apprehension of that has made me hate the name of Williams, and use him in a manner unworthy of my temper. Now, Pamela, judge for me. And since I have told you thus candidly my mind, and I see yours is big with some important meaning, by your eyes, your blushes, and that sweet confusion which I behold struggling in your bosom, tell me, with like openness and candor, what you think I ought to do, and what you would have me do. It is impossible for me to express the agitations of my mind on this unexpected declaration, so contrary to his former behaviour. His manner, too, had something so noble and so sincere as I thought, that alas for me I found I had needed all my poor discretion to ward off the blow which this treatment gave to my most guarded thoughts. I threw myself at his feet, for I trembled and could hardly stand. O sir, said I, spare your poor servant's confusion. O spare the poor Pamela. Speak out, said he, and tell me. What I bid you. What do you think I ought to do? I cannot say what you ought to do, answer I, but only beg that you will not ruin me, and if you think me virtuous, if you think me sincerely honest, let me go to my poor parents. I will vow to you that I will never suffer myself to be engaged without your approbation. Still he insisted upon a more explicit answer to his question of what I thought he ought to do. And I did, as to my poor thoughts of what I ought to do. I must need say that indeed I think you ought to regard the world's opinion, and afford doing anything disgraceful to your birth and fortune. And therefore, if you really honour the poor Pamela with your respect, a little time, absence, and the conversation of worthy persons of my sex, will factually enable you to overcome a regard so unworthy of your condition. And this, good sir, is the best advice I can offer. Charming creature lovely Pamela, said he, with an ardour that was never before so agreeable to me, this generous manner is of a peace with all the rest of your conduct. But tell me still more explicitly what you would advise me to do in the case. Also, said I, take not advantage of my credurity, and in these my weak moments, but were I the first lady in the land instead of the poor abject Pamela, I would, I could tell you, but I can say no more. O dear father and mother, now I know you will indeed be concerned for me, for now I am for myself, and now I begin to be afraid I know too well the reason why all his hard trials of me and my black apprehensions would not let me hate him. But be assured still by God's grace that I shall do nothing unworthy of your Pamela, and if I find that he is still capable of deceiving me, and that this conduct is only put on to delude me more, I shall think nothing in this world so vile and so odious, and nothing if he be not the worst of his kind, as he says, and I hope he is not, so desperately garful as the heart of man. He generously said, I will spare your confusion, Pamela, but I hope I may promise myself that you can love me preferably to any other man, and that no one in the world has any share in your affections, for I am very jealous of what I love, and if I thought you had a secret whispering in your soul that had not come up to a wish for any other man breathing, I should not forgive myself to persist in my affection for you, nor you if you did not frankly equate me with it. As I still continued on my knees on the grass border by the pond side, he set himself down on the grass by me, and took me in his arms. Why hesitate, my dear Pamela, said he, can you not answer me with truth, as I wish, if you cannot speak, and I will forgive you. O good sir, said I, it is not that, indeed it is not, but a frightful word or two that you said to Mrs. Dukes when you thought I was not in hearing comes across my mind, and makes me dread that I am more dangerous than I ever was in my life. You have never found me a common liar, said he, too fearful and foolish Pamela, nor will I answer how long I may hold in my present mind, for my pride struggles hard within me, I'll assure you, and if you doubt me I have no obligation to your confidence or opinion. But at present I am really sincere in what I say, and I expect you will be so, too, and answer directly my question. I find, sir, said I, I know not myself, and your question is of such a nature that I only want to tell you what I heard, and to have your kind answer to it. O else what I have to say to your question may pave the way to my ruin and show a weakness that I did not believe was in me. Well, said he, you may say what you have ever heard, for in not answering me directly you put my soul upon the rack, and half the trouble I have had with you would have brought to my arms one of the finest ladies in England. O, sir, said I, my virtue was as dear to me as if I were of the highest quality, and my doubts for which you know I have had too much reason, have made me troublesome. But now, sir, I will tell you what I heard, which has given me such great uneasiness. You talked to Mrs. Dukes of having begun wrong with me in trying to subdue me with terror and a frost and such like. You remember it well, and that you would for the future change your conduct and try to melt me, that was your word, by kindness. I fear not, sir, the grace of God supporting me, that any act of kindness would make me forget what I owe to my virtue. But, sir, I may, I find, be made more miserable by such acts than by terror, because my nature is too frank or open to make me wish to be ungrateful. And if I should be taught a lesson I never yet learned, with what regret should I descend to the grave to think that I could not hate my undoer, and that at the last great day I must stand up as an accuser of the poor unhappy soul, that I could wish it in my power to save. Exalted girl, said he, what a thought is that. Why now, Pamela, you excel yourself. You have given me a hint that will hold me long. But sweet creature, said he, tell me what is this lesson which you never yet learned, and which you are so afraid of learning? If, sir, said I, you will again generously spare my confusion, I need not speak it. But this I will say, in answer to the question you seem most solicitous about, that I know not the main breathing that I would wish to be married to, or I had ever thought of with such an idea. I had brought my mind so to love poverty, that I hoped for nothing but to return to the best though the poorest of parents, and to employ myself in serving God and comforting them. And you know not, sir, how you disappointed those hopes, and my proposed honest pleasures, when you sent me hither. Well then, said he, I may promise myself that neither the parson nor any other man is any the least secret motive to your steadfast refusal of my offers. Indeed, sir, said I, you may, and as you were pleased to ask, I answer that I have not the least shadow of wish or thought for any man living. But, said he, for I am foolishly jealous, and yet it shows my fondest for you, have you not encouraged Williams to think you will have him? Indeed, sir, I have not, but the very contrary. And would you not have had him, said he, if you had got away by his means? I had resolved, sir, said I, in my mind, otherwise. And he knew it, and the poor man I charged you, said he, say not a word in his favour. You will excite a whirlwind in my soul if you name him with kindness, and then you'll be born away with the tempest. Sir, said I, I have done. Nay, said he, but do not have done. Let me know the whole. If you have any regard for him, speak out, for it would end fearfully for you, for me, and for him, if I found that you disguised any secret of your soul from me in this nice particular. Sir, said I, if I have ever given you cause to think me sincere, say then, said he, interrupting me with great vehemence, and taking both my hands between him, say that you now, in the presence of God, declare you have not any the most hidden regard for Williams or any other man. Sir, said I, I do. As God shall bless me and preserve my innocence, I have not. Well, said he, I will believe you, Pamela, and in time perhaps I may better bear that man's name. And if I am convinced that you are not pre-possessed, my vanity makes me assured that I need not fear a place in your esteem equal if not preferable to any man in England. But yet it stings my pride to the quick that you were so easily bought and such a short acquaintance to run away with that college novice. Oh, good sir, said I, may I be heard one thing, and though I bring upon me your highest indignation, I will tell you perhaps the unnecessary and imprudent, but yet the whole truth. My honesty, I am poor and lowly, I am not entitled to call it honour, was in danger. I saw no means of securing myself from your avowed attempts. You had showed you were not stick at little matters, and from what, sir, could anybody have thought of my sincerity in preferring that to all other considerations if I had not escaped from these dangers? If I could have found any way for it? I am not going to say anything for him, but indeed, sir, I was the cause of putting him upon assisting me in my escape. I got him to acquaint me what gentry they were in the neighbourhood that I might fly to, and profiled upon him. Don't frown at me good, sir, for I must tell you the whole truth. To apply to one Lady Jones, the Lady Danford, and he was so good as to apply to Mr. Peters, the minister. But they all refused me, and then it was he let me know that there was no honourable way but marriage. That I declined, and he agreed to assist me for God's sake. Now, said he, you are going. I boldly put my hand before his mouth, hardly knowing the liberty I took. Pracer said, I don't be angry. I have just done. I would only say that rather than have stayed to be ruined, I would have thrown myself upon the poorest beggar that ever the world saw, if I thought him honest. And I hope, when your dually way all matters, you will forgive me, and not think me so bold and so forward as you have been pleased to call me. Well, said he, even in this your last speech, let me tell you, shows more your honesty of heart than your prudence. You have not over much pleased me. But I must love you, and that vexes me not a little. But tell me, Pamela, for now the former question recurs. Since you so much prize your honour in your virtue, since all attempts against that are so odious to you, and since I have avowedly made several of these attempts, do you think it possible for you to love me preferably to any other of my sex? Ah, sir, said I, and here my doubt recurs, that you may thus graciously use me to take advantage of my credulity. Still perverse in doubting, says he, can it you take me as I am at present? And that I have told you as sincere and undesigning whatever I may be hereafter. Ah, sir, replied I, what can I say? I have already said too much. If this dreadful hereafter should take place, don't bid me say how well I can. And then my face glowing as the fire, I, all abashed, leaned upon his shoulder to hide my confusion. He clasped me to him with great ardour, and said, hide your dear face in my bosom, my beloved Pamela, your innocent freedoms charm me. But then say how well, what? If you all be good, said I, to your poor servant, and spare her, I cannot say too much. But if not, I am doubly undone, undone indeed. Said he, I hope my present temper will hold, for I tell you frankly that I have known, in this agreeable hour, more sincere pleasure than I have experienced in all the guilty tumults that my desiring soul paled me into, in the hopes of possessing you on my own terms. And Pamela, you must pray for the continuance of this temper, and I hope your prayers will get the better of my temptations. This sweet goodness overpowered all my reserves, I threw myself at his feet and embraced his knees. My pleasure, sir, you give me at these gracious words, is not lent your servants to express. I shall be too much rewarded for all my sufferings, if this goodness hold. God grant that it may. For your own soul's sake, as well as mine. I know how happy should I be if— He stopped me and said, But my dear girl, what must me do about the world, and the world's censure? Indeed, I cannot marry him. Now was I again struck all over him. However, soon recollecting myself, sir, said I, I have not the presumption to hope such an honour. If I may be permitted to return in peace and safety to my poor parents to pray for you there, it is all I present request. This, sir, after all my apprehensions and dangers, will be a great pleasure to me. And if I know my own poor heart, I shall wish you happy in a lady of suitable degree, and rejoice most sincerely in every circumstance that shall make for the happiness of my late good lady's most beloved son. Well, said he, this conversation, Pamela, has gone further than I intended. You need not be afraid at this rate of trusting yourself with me, but it is I that ought to be doubtful of myself when I am with you. But before I say anything further on this subject, I will take my proud heart to task, until then let everything be as if this conversation had never passed. Only, let me tell you, that the more confidence you place in me, the more you'll oblige me. But your doubts will only be cause of doubts. And with this ambiguous saying, he saluted me with a more formal manner, if I may so say, than before, and let me his hand, and so we walk toward the house side by side, him seemingly very thoughtful and pensive, as if he had already repented him of his goodness. What shall I do? What steps take if all this be designing? Oh, the perplexities of these cruel doubtings! To be sure if he be false, as I may call it, I have gone too far, much too far. I am ready on their apprehension of this to bite my forward tongue, or rather to beat my more forward heart, the dictator to that poor machine, for what I have said. But sure at least he must be sincere for the time. He could not be so practice at this embler. If he could, oh, desperately wicked is the heart of man. And where could he learn all these barbarous arts? If so, it must be native surely to the sex. But silent be my rash censoring, behest ye stir me too much of my disturbed mind. For have I not a father who is a man, a man who knows no guile, who would do no wrong, who would not deceive or oppress the gainer kingdom? How, then, can I think it is native to the sex? And I must also hope my good lady's son cannot be the worst of men, if he is hard the lot of the excellent woman that bore him. But much harder the hap of your poor Pamela who has fallen into such hands. But yet I will trust in God and hope the best, and so lay down my tired pen for this time. End of Section 15 Section 16 of Pamela or Virtue Rewarded This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Pamela or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson, Section 16 Thursday Morning Somebody wrapped at our chamber door this morning, soon after it was light. Mrs. Jukes asked who it was. My master said, open the door, Mrs. Jukes. Oh, said I, for God's sake, Mrs. Jukes, don't. Indeed, said she, but I must. Then, said I, and clung about her, let me slip on my clothes first. But he wrapped again, and she broke for me, and I was frightened out of my wits and folded myself in the bed clothes. He entered and said, what, Pamela, so fearful after what passed yesterday between us? Oh, sir, sir, said I, I fear my prayers have wanted their wished effect. Pray, good sir, consider. He sat down on the bedside and interrupted me. No need of your foolish fears, I shall say but a word or two and go away. After you went upstairs, said he, I had an invitation to a ball, which is to be this night at Stamford on occasion of a wedding, and I am going to call on Sir Simon and his lady and daughters, for the bride is a relation of theirs, so I shall not be at home till Saturday. I come, therefore, to caution you, Mrs. Jukes, before Pamela, that she may not wonder at being closer confined than for these three or four days passed, that nobody sees her, nor delivers any letter to her in that space. For a person has been seen lurking about and inquiring after her, and I have been well informed that either Mrs. Jervis or Mr. Longman has written a letter with the design of having it conveyed to her. And, said he, you must know, Pamela, that I have ordered Mr. Longman to give up his accounts and have dismissed Jonathan and Mrs. Jervis since I have been here, for their behavior has been intolerable, and they have made such a breach between my sister Davers and me, as we shall never, perhaps, make up. Now, Pamela, I shall take it kindly in you, if you will confine yourself to your chamber pretty much, for the time I am absent, and not give Mrs. Jukes cause of trouble or uneasiness, and the rather, as you know, she acts by my orders. Alas, sir, said I, I fear all these good people have suffered for my sake. Why, said he, I believe so too, and there was never a girl of your innocence that set a large family in such an uproar surely. But let that pass. You know both of you my mind, and in part, the reason of it. I shall only say that I have had such a letter from my sister as I could not have expected. And, Pamela, said he, neither you nor I have reason to thank her, as you shall know, perhaps, at my return. I go in my coach, Mrs. Jukes, because I take Lady Darnford, and Mrs. Peter's niece, and one of Lady Darnford's daughters, along with me, and Sir Simon and his other daughter go in his chariot, so let all the gates be fastened, and don't take any airing in either of the chariots, nor let anybody go to the gate without you, Mrs. Jukes. I'll be sure, said she, to obey your honour. I will give Mrs. Jukes no trouble, sir, said I, and will keep pretty much in my chamber, and not stir so much as into the garden without her. To show you I will obey in everything I can. But I began to fear. I, said he, more plots and contrivances, don't you? But I'll assure you, you never had less reason, and I tell you the truth, for I'm really going to Stamford this time, and upon the occasion I tell you. And so, Pamela, give me your hand and one kiss, and then I am gone. I dares not refuse, and said, God bless you, sir, wherever you go, but I am sorry for what you tell me about your servants. He and Mrs. Jukes had a little talk without the door, and I heard her say, you meet a pence, sir, upon my care and vigilance. He went in his coach, as he said he should, and very richly dressed, which looks as if what he said was likely. But, really, I have been used to so many tricks and plots and surprises that I know not what to think. But I mourn for poor Mrs. Jervis. So here is Parson Williams, here is poor Naughty John, here is good Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. Longman and Mr. Jonathan turned away from me. Mr. Longman is rich indeed, and so need the less matter it. But I know it will grieve him, and for poor Mr. Jonathan, I am sure it will cut that good servant to the heart. Alas for me, what mischiefs I am the occasion of. Or, rather, my master, whose actions towards me have made so many of my kind friends forfeit his favour for my sake. I am very sad about these things. If he really loved me, he thinks he should not be so angry that his servants love me too. I know not what to think. Friday night I have removed my papers from under the rose-bush, for I saw the gardener begin to dig near that spot, and I was afraid he would find them. Mrs. Jukes and I were looking yesterday through the iron gate that fronts the elms, and a gypsy-like body made up to us, and said, If, madame, you will give me some broken victuals, I will tell both of you your fortunes. I said, Let us hear our fortunes, Mrs. Jukes. She said, I don't like these sorts of people, but we will hear what she'll say to us, however. I shan't fetch you any victuals, woman, but I will give you some pens, said she. But Nan, coming out, she said, Fetch some bread and some of the cold meat, and you shall have your fortune told, Nan. This, you'll think, like some of my other matters, a very trifling thing to write about. But mark the discovery of a dreadful plot which I have made by it. Oh, bless me, what can I think of this naughty, this very naughty gentleman? Now I will hate him most heartily. Thus it was. Mrs. Jukes had no suspicion of the woman, the iron gate being locked, and she on the outside and we on the inside, and so put her hand through. She said, muttering over a parcel of cramped words, Why, madame, you will marry soon, I can tell you. At that she seemed pleased and said, I'm glad to hear that, and shickers fat sides with laughing. The woman looked most earnestly at me all the time, and as if she had meaning. Then it came into my head from my master's caution, that possibly this woman might be employed to try to get a letter into my hands, and I was resolved to watch all her motions. So Mrs. Jukes said, What sort of man shall I have, pray? Why, said she, a man younger than yourself, and a very good husband he'll prove. I am glad of that, said she, and laughed again. Come, madame, let us hear your fortune. The woman came to me and took my hand. Oh, said she, I cannot tell your fortune. Your hand is so white and fine, I cannot see the lines. But, said she, and stooping, pulled up a little tuft of grass. I have a way for that, and so rubbed my hand with the mould part of the tuft. Now, said she, I can see the lines. Mrs. Jukes was very watchful of all her ways, and took the tuft and looked upon it, lest anything should be in that. And then the woman said, Here is the line of Jupiter crossing the line of life and Mars. Odd, my pretty mistress, said she, You had best take care of yourself, for you are hard beset, I'll assure you. You will never be married, I can see, and will die of your first child. Out upon thee, woman, said I. Better thou haths never come here, said Mrs. Jukes whispering. I don't like this, it looks like a cheat. Pray, Mrs. Pamela, go in this moment. So I will, said I, for I have enough of fortune telling. And in I went. The woman wanted sadly to tell me more, which made Mrs. Jukes threaten her, suspecting still the more, and away the woman went, having told Nan her fortune, and she would be drowned. This thing ran strongly in all our heads, and we went after an hour to see if the woman was lurking about, and took Mr. Colbrand for our guard. Looking through the iron gate, he spied a man sauntering about the middle of the walk, which filled Mrs. Jukes with still more suspicions, and she said, Mr. Colbrand, you and I will walk towards this fellow, and see what he saunters there for, and Nan, do you and Madame, stay at the gate. So they opened the iron gate, and walked towards the man, and guessing the woman, if employed, must mean something by the tuft of grass, I cast my eye that way, whence she pulled it, and saw more grass seemingly pulled up. Then I doubted not something was there for me, and I walked to it, and standing over it, said to Nan, That's a pretty sort of wildflower that grows yonder, near the elm, the fifth from us on the left, pray pull it for me. Said she, it is a common weed. Well, said I, but pull it for me, there are sometimes beautiful colors in a weed. While she went on, I stooped, and pulled up a good handful of the grass, and in it a bit of paper, which I put instantly in my bosom, and dropped the grass, and my heart went pit-a-pat at the odd adventure. Said I, let's go in, Mrs. Anne. No, said she, we must stay till Mrs. Jukes comes. I was all impatient to read this paper, and when Cole Bryant and she returned, I went in. Said she, certainly there is some reason for my master's caution, I can make nothing of this centering fellow, but to be sure there was some roguery in the gypsy. Well, said I, if there was she lost her aim, you see. I, very true, said she, but that was owing to my watchfulness, and he was very good to go away, when I spoke to you. I hastened upstairs to my closet, and found the billet to contain, in a hand that seemed disguised and bad spelling the following words. Twenty contrivances have been thought of to let you know your danger, but all have proved in vain. Your friends hope it is not yet too late to give you this caution if it reaches your hands. The squire is absolutely determined to ruin you, and, because he despairs of any other way, he will pretend a great love and kindness to you, and that he will marry you. You may expect a person for this purpose in a few days, but it is a sly artful fellow of a broken attorney that he has hired to personate a minister. The man has a broad face pitted much with the smallpox, and is a very great companion, so take care of yourself. Doubt not this advice. Perhaps you'll have had but too much reason already to confirm you in the truth of it. From your zealous well-wisher, somebody. Now, my dear father and mother, what shall we say of this truly diabolical master? Oh, how shall I find words to paint my griefs and his deceit? I have as good as confessed I love him, but indeed it was on supposing him good. This, however, has given him too much advantage, but now I will break this wicked forward heart of mine if it will not be taught to hate him. Oh, what a black dismal heart he must have! So here is a plot to ruin me, and by my own consent, too. No wonder he did 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 hopes of a happiness that my highest ambition could have aspired to. But how dreadful must it 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 worst, as I had 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 shows he will never leave till he has ruined me. Oh, the wretched, wretched Pamela! Saturday noon, one o'clock. My master has 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. Jukes came upon me by surprise and laid her hands upon it, for she had been looking through the keyhole, 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 might 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' means, to send you all my papers down to Sunday night, the seventeenth day of my imprisonment. But now these papers contain all my matters from that time, to Wednesday the twenty-seventh 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. Jukes' arts to draw me in to approve of Mr. Williams' proposal for marriage, and my refusing to do so, and desiring you not to incur to suit to me. Mr. Williams is 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. Jukes' 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. Jukes, 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. Jukes, 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 he would have me encourage Mr. Williams, but leave it to me, and in which, fortunately enough, you take notice of my being unincline to Mary, 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. Jukes, 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 being taken in, deceived, and ruined, an account of Mrs. Jukes' glorying in her wicked fidelity, a sad description I gave a moisture coal-brun, a person he sent down to assist Mrs. Jukes in watching me, how Mr. Williams was arrested, and thrown into Gale, and the concern I expressed upon it, and my free reflections upon my master for it. A projected condrivements of mine to get away out of the window, and by the back door, and throwing my petticoat and handkerchief into the pond to amuse them while I got off, an attempt that had liked to have ended very dreadfully for me, my further concern for Mr. Williams' ruin on my account, and lastly, my overhearing Mrs. Jukes' 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, so in my undercoat about my hips. In vain were all my prayers and tears to her to get her not to show 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 anybody might see, for, said she, you know you are all innocents, insolent creatures that 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 anything of hers before. He took them, and without coming to me, went downstairs to the parlor again. And what with the gypsy 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 upstairs 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. I, 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 Gypsy affair. But, said he, have you brought anything 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 everybody to see. Nor, said he, am I everybody. 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 to you such an opinion of my innocence that you was resolved to ruin me. And what advantage have they brought me, who have made me 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 peace 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 minds, and yet, you see, I have never abraded you on that score, though perhaps I wish you had been more sparing of your epithets and your freedoms of that sort. Well, sir, said I, since you wills, 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 of 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 and ever 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 favorably as you deserve, for you have too powerful a pleader within me, and so went downstairs. About nine o'clock he sent for me down into the parlor. 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. I, 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, hear our 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 incurred his proposal, or do you not? Why, said he, you discourage his address and appearance, but no otherwise than all your cuttings are due 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 are devils goddess, though, 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 abilities I have serve only to make me more miserable. I have no pleasure in my memory, which impresses things upon me that I could be glad never were or everlastingly to forget. Well, said he, so much for that. But where are the accounts, since you have kept so exact a journal of all that has befallen you, previous to these here in my hand? My father has them, sir, said I. By whose means, said he? By Mr. Williams's, said I. Well answered, said he, but cannot you contrive to get me a sight of them? That would be pretty, said I. I wish I could have contrived to have kept those you have from your sight. Said he, I must see them, Pemela, or I shall never be easy. For I must know how this correspondence between you and Williams began, and if I can see them it shall be better for you if they answer what these give me hope they will. I can tell you, sir, very faithfully, said I, what the beginning was, for I was bold enough to be the beginner. That won't do, said he, for though this may appear a punctilio to you, to me it is of high importance. Sir, said I, if you pleased to let me go to my father, I will send them to you by any messenger you shall send for them. Will you so? But I dare say, if you will write for them, they will send them to you, without the trouble of such a journey to yourself, and I beg you will. I think, sir, said I, as you have seen all my former letters through John's baseness, and now these through your faithful housekeeper's officious watchfulness, you might see all the rest, but I hope you will not desire it, till I can see how much my pleasing you in this particular will be of use to myself. You must trust my honour for that. But tell me, Pemela, said the sly gentleman, since I have seen these, would you have voluntarily shown me these, had they been in your possession? I was not aware of this inference, and said, Yes, truly, sir, I think I should, if you commanded it. Well, then, Pemela, said he, as I am sure you have found means to continue your journal, I desire, till the former part can come, that you will show me the succeeding. Oh, sir, sir, said I, have you caught me so, but indeed you must excuse me there. Why, said he, tell me truly, have you not continued your account till now? Don't ask me, sir, said I, but I insist upon your answer, replied he. Why, then, sir, I will not tell an untruth I have. That's my good girl, said he, I love sincerity at my heart. In another, sir, I said, I presume you mean. Well, said he, I'll allow you to be a little witty upon me, because it is in you, and you cannot help it. But you will greatly oblige me to show me voluntarily what you have written. I long to see the particulars of your plot, and your disappointment, where your papers live off, for you have so beautiful a manner, that it is partly that, and partly my love for you, that has made me desirous of reading all you write. Though a great deal of it is against myself. For what you must expect to suffer a little, and as I have furnished you with the subject, I have a title to see the fruits of your pen. Besides, said he, there is such a pretty era romance, as you relate them in your plots, and my plots, that I shall be better directed in what manner to wind up the catastrophe of the pretty novel. If I was your equal, sir, said I, I should say this is a very provoking way of jeering at the misfortunes you have brought upon me. Oh, said he, the liberties you have taken with my character in your letters, sets us upon a par, at least in that respect. Sir, I could not have taken those liberties if you had not given me the cause, and the cause, sir, you know, is before the effect. True, Pamela, said he, you chop logic very prettily. What the deuce do we men go to school for? If our wits were equal to women's, we might spare much time and pain in our education, for nature teaches your sex, what in a long course of labour and study ours can hardly attain to. But indeed, every lady is not a Pamela. You delight to banter your poor servants, said I. Nay, continued he, I believe I must assume to myself half the merit of your wit, too, for the innocent exercises you have had for it, from me, have certainly sharpened your invention. Sir, said I, could I have been without those innocent exercises, as you are pleased to call them, I should have been glad to have been as dull as beetle. But then, Pamela, said he, I should not have loved you so well. But then, sir, I should have been safe, easy, and happy. I, maybe so, and maybe not, and the wife, too, of some cloudily plow-boy. But then, sir, I should have been content and innocent, and that's better than being a princess, and not so. And maybe not, said he, for if you had had that pretty face, some of us keen fox hunters should have found you out, and, in spite of your romantic notions, which then, too, perhaps would not have had so strong a place in your mind, I'd have been more happy with the plow-end's wife than I have been with my mother's Pamela. I hope, sir, said I, God would have given me more grace. Well, but, resumed he, as to these writings of yours, that follow your fine plot, I must see them. Indeed, sir, you must not, if I can help it. Nothing, said he, pleases me better than that, in all your arts, shifts, and strategicians, you have had a great regard to truth, and have, in all your little pieces of deceit, told very few willful fibs. Now I expect you'll continue this laudable rule in your conversation with me. Let me know, then, where you have found supplies of pen, ink, and paper, when Mrs. Jukes was so vigilant and gave you butt-tooth sheets at a time. Tell me truth. Why, sir, little did I think I should have such occasion for them. But, when I went away from your house, I begged some of each of good Mr. Longman, who gave me plenty. Yes, yes, said he, it must be good, Mr. Longman. All of your confederates are good, every one of them. But such of my servants's have done their duty, and obeyed my orders, are painted out by you as black as devils. Nay, so am I too, for that matter. Sir, said I, I hope you won't be angry, but, saving yourself, do you think they are painted worse than they deserve, or worse than the parts they acted required? You say, saving myself, Pamela, but is not that saying a mere compliment to me, because I am present and you are in my hands? Tell me truly. Good sir, excuse me, but I fancy I might ask you, why you should think it so, if there was not a little bit of conscience that told you there was butt-to-much reason for it. He kissed me and said, I must either do thus, or be angry with you, for you are very saucy, Pamela. But, with your bewitching chitchat and pretty impertinence, I will not lose my question. Where did you hide your papers, pen, and ink? Some, sir, in one place, some in another, that I might have some left, if others should be found. That's a good girl, said he, I love you for your sweet veracity. Now tell me where it is you hide your written papers, your saucy journal. I must beg your excuse for that, sir, said I. But, indeed, answered he, you will not have it, for I will know and I will see them. This is very hard, sir, said I, but I must say you shall not, if I can help it. We were standing most of this time, but he then sat down and took me by both my hands and said, well said my pretty Pamela, if you can help it, but I will not let you help it. Tell me, are they in your pocket? No, sir, said I, my heart up at my mouth. Said he, I know you won't tell a downright fib for the world, but for equivocation, no jizz would ever want beyond you. Answer me, then, are they in neither of your pockets? No, sir, said I. Are they not, said he, about your stays? No, sir, replied I, but pray no more questions, for ask me ever so much I will not tell you. Oh, said he, I have a way for that. I can do as they do abroad when the criminals won't confess, torture them till they do. But pray, sir, said I, is this fair, just or honest, I am no criminal and I won't confess. Oh, my girl, said he, many an innocent person has been put to the torture, but let me know where they are and you shall escape the question, as they call it abroad. Sir, said I, the torture is not used in England and I hope you won't bring it up. Admirebly said, said the naughty gentleman, but I can tell you of as good a punishment. If a criminal won't plead with us here in England we press him to death or till he does plead. And so now, Pamela, that is a punishment that shall certainly be yours if you won't tell without. Tears stood in my eyes and I said, this, sir, is very cruel and barbarous. No matter, said he, it is but like your Lucifer you know in my shape. And after I have done so many heinous things by you as you think, you have no great reason to judge so hardly of this, or at least it is but a peace with the rest. But sir, said I, dreadfully afraid he had some notion they were about me. If you will be obeyed in this unreasonable manner, though it is sad tyranny to be sure, let me go up to them and read them over again, and you shall see so far as to the end of the sad story that follows those you have. I'll see them all, said he, down to this time if you have written so far, or at least till within this week. Then let me go up to them, said I, and see what I have written and to what day to show them to you, for you won't desire to see everything. But I will, replied he. But say, Pamela, tell me truth, are they above? I was much affrightened. He saw my confusion. Tell me truth, said he. Why, sir, answered I, I have sometimes hit them under the dry mold in the garden, sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, and those you have in your hand were several days under a rose-bush in the garden. Artful slut, said he, what's this to my question? Are they not about you? If, said I, I must pluck them out of my hiding-place behind the weighing-scot, won't you see me? Still more and more artful, said he, is this an answer to my question? I have searched every place above and in your closet for them, and cannot find them, so I will know where they are. Now, said he, it is my opinion that they are about you, and I never undressed a girl in my life, but I will now begin to strip my pretty Pamela, and I hope I shall not go far before I find them. I fell a-crying, and said, I will not be used in this manner. Pray, sir, said I, for he began to unpin my hankerchief. Consider. Pray, sir, do, and pray, said he, do you consider, for I will see these papers. But maybe, said he, they are tight about your knees with your garters, and stooped. Was anything so violent, so wicked? I fell on my knees, and said, what can I do? What can I do? If you let me go up, I'll fetch them to you. Will you, said he, on your honor, let me see them uncartailed, and not offer to make them away? No, not a single paper? I will, sir. On your honor? Yes, sir. And so he let me go upstairs, crying sadly for vexation to be so used. Surely nobody was ever so served as I am. I went to my closet, and there I sat me down, and could not bear the thought of giving up my papers. Besides, I must all undress me in a manner to untack them, so I writ thus. Sir, to expostulate with such an arbitrary gentleman I know will signify nothing, and most hardly do you use the power you so wickedly have got over me. I have heart enough, sir, to do a deed that would make you regret using me thus, and I can hardly bear it, and what I am further to undergo. But a superior consideration withholds me, thank God it does. I will, however, keep my word if you insist upon it when you have read this. But, sir, let me beg of you to give me time till tomorrow morning that I may just run them over and see what I put into your hands against me, and I will then give my papers to you without the least alteration or adding or diminishing. But I should beg still to be excused if you please, but if not, spare them to me but till tomorrow morning, and this, so hardly am I used, shall be thought of a favour, which I shall be very thankful for. I guessed it would not be long before I heard from him, and he accordingly sent up Mrs. Jukes for what I had promised, so I gave her this note to carry to him, and he sent word that I must keep my promise, and he would give me till morning, but that I must bring them to him without his asking again. So I took off my undercoat, and with great trouble of mine, unsued them from it, and there is a vast quantity of it. I will just slightly touch upon the subjects, because I may not, perhaps, get them again for you to see. They began with an account of my attempting to get away out of the window first, and then throwing my petticoat and handkerchief into the pond. How sadly I was disappointed, the lock of the back door being changed. How, in trying to climb over the door, I tumbled down, and was piteously bruised, the bricks giving way and tumbling upon me. How, finding I could not get off and dreading the hard usage I should receive, I was so wicked as to think of throwing myself into the water. My sad reflections upon this matter. How Mrs. Jukes used me upon this occasion when she found me. How my master had liked to have been drowned in hunting, and my concern for his danger notwithstanding his usage of me. Mrs. Jukes wicked reports to frighten me that I was to be married to the ugly Swiss, who was to sell me on the wedding day to my master. Her vile way of talking to me like a London prostitute. My apprehensions of seeing preparations made for my master's coming. Her causeless fears that I was trying to get away again when I had no thoughts of it, and my bad usage upon it. My master's dreadful arrival, and his hard, very hard treatment of me, and Mrs. Jukes insulting of me. His jealousy of Mr. Williams and me. How Mrs. Jukes vilely instigated him to wickedness. And down to there I put into one parcel, hoping that would content him. But for fear it should not, I put into another parcel the following viz. A copy of his proposals to me. Of a great parcel of gold, and fine clothes and rings, and an estate of I can't tell what a year, and fifty pounds a year for the life of both of you, my dear parents, to be his mistress. With an insinuation that, maybe, he would marry me at the year's end. All sadly vile. With threatenings if I did not comply that he would ruin me without allowing me anything. A copy of my answer, refusing all, with just abhorrence. But begging it last his goodness towards me, and mercy on me, in the most moving manner I could think of. An account of his angry behavior, and Mrs. Jukes' wicked advice hairpond. His trying to get me to his chamber, and my refusal to go. A deal of stuff and chit chat between me and the odious Mrs. Jukes, in which she was very wicked and very insulting. Two notes I wrote, as if to be carried to church, to pray for his reclaiming and my safety, which Mrs. Jukes seized, and officiously showed him. A confession of mine that, notwithstanding his bad usage, I could not hate him. My concern for Mr. Williams. A horde contrivance of my masters to ruin me, being in my room, disguised in the clothes of the maid who lay with me and Mrs. Jukes, how narrowly I escaped, it makes my heart ache to think of it still, by falling into fits. Mrs. Jukes detestable part in this sad affair. How he seemed moved at my danger, and for bore his abominable designs and assured me he had offered no indecency. How ill I was for a day or two after, and how kind he seemed. How he made me forgive Mrs. Jukes. How, after this, and great kindness pretended, he made root offers to me in the garden, which I escaped. How I resented them. Then I had written. How kindly he behaved himself to me, and how he praised me, and gave me great hopes of his being good at last. Of the too tender impression this made upon me, and how I began to be afraid of my own weakness and consideration for him, though he had used me so ill. How sadly jealous he was of Mr. Williams, and how I, as justly could, cleared myself as to his doubts on that score. How, just when he raised me up to the highest hope of his goodness, he dashed me sadly again, and went off more coldly, my free reflections upon this trying occasion. This brought matters down from Thursday, the twentieth day of my imprisonment, to Wednesday, the forty-first, and here I was resolved to end, let what would come, for only Thursday, Friday, and Saturday remained to give an account of, and Thursday he set out to a ball at Stanford, and Friday was the Gypsy story, and this is Saturday, his return from Stanford. And truly I shall have but little heart to write if he is to see all. So these two parcels of papers I have got ready for him against tomorrow morning. To be sure I have always used him very freely in my writings, and showed him no mercy, but yet he must thank himself for it, for I have only read truths, and I wish he had deserved a better character at my hands, as well as for his own sake as mine. So, though I don't know whether ever you'll see what I write, I must say that I will go to bed with remembering you in my prayers, as I always do, and as I know you do me, and so, my dear parents, good night. Sunday morning. I remembered what he said of not being obliged to ask again for my papers, and what I should be forced to do and could not help, I thought I might as well do in such a manner as might show I would not to oblige on purpose, though I stomach this matter very heavily too. I had therefore got in readiness my two parcels, and he, not going to church in the morning, bid Mrs. Jukes tell me he was gone into the garden. I knew that was for me to go to him, and so I went, for how can I help being at his back, which grieves me not a little, though he is my master, as I may say, for I am so holy in his power that it would do me no good to incense him, and if I refused to obey him in little manners, my refusal and greater would have the last wait. So I went down to the garden, but as he walked in one walk I took another that I might not seem too forward neither. He soon spied me, and said, Do you expect to be courted to come to me? Sir, said I, and crossed the walk to attend him. I did not know what I should interrupt you in your meditations this good day. Was that the case, said he, truly, and from your heart? Why, sir, said I, I don't doubt but you have very good thought sometimes, though not towards me. I wish, said he, I could avoid thinking so well of you as I do, but where are the papers? I dare say you had them about you yesterday, for you say in those I have that you will bury your writings in the garden for fear you should be searched if you did not escape. This, added he, gave me a glorious pretense to search you, and I had been vexing myself all night that I did not strip you garment by garment till I had found them. Oh, fie, sir, said I, let me not be scared with hearing that you had such a thought in earnest. Well, said he, I hope you have not now the papers to give me, for I had rather find them myself I'll assure you. I did not like this way of talk at all, and thinking it best not to dwell upon it, said, well, but, sir, you will excuse me, I hope, giving up my papers. Don't trifle with me, said he, where are they? I think I was very good to you last night, to humor you as I did. If you had either added or diminished, and have not strictly kept your promise, will be to you. Indeed, sir, said I, I have neither added nor diminished. But there is the parcel that goes with my set attempt to escape, and the terrible consequences it had like to have followed with, and it goes down to the naughty articles you sent me, and as you know all that has happened since, I hope these will satisfy you. He was going to speak, but I said, to drive him from thinking of any more, and I must beg you, sir, to read the matter favorably if I have exceeded in any liberties of my pen. I think, said he, half smiling, you may wonder at my patience, that I can be so easy to read myself abused as I am by such a saucy sir, said I, I have wondered you should be so desirous to see my bold stuff, and for that very reason I have thought it a very good or a very bad sign. What, said he, is your good sign, that it may have an effect upon your temper at last in my favor when you see me so sincere. Your bad sign? Why, that if you can read my reflections and observations upon your treatment of me with tranquility and not be moved, it is a sign of a very cruel and determined heart. Now pray, sir, don't be angry at my boldness in telling you so freely my thoughts. You may, perhaps, that he be least mistaken when you think of your bad sign. God forbid, said I. So I took out my papers and said, here, sir, they are. But if you pleased to return them without breaking the seal it will be very generous, and I will take it for a great favor and a good omen. He broke the steel instantly and opened them. So much for your omen, replied he. I am sorry for it, said I, very seriously, and was walking away. Whether now, said he, I was going in, sir, that you might have time to read them if you thought fit. He put them into his pocket and said, You have more than these. Yes, sir, but all they contain you know as well as I. But I don't know, said he, the light you put things in, and so give them to me if you have not a mind to be searched. Sir, said I, I can't stay if you won't forbear that ugly word. Give me then no reason for it. Where are the other papers? Why, then, unkind, sir, if it must be so, here they are. And so I gave him out of my pocket the second parcel, sealed up as the former with this superscription. From the naughty articles down through sad attempts to Thursday the forty-second day of my imprisonment. This is last Thursday, is it? Yes, sir, but now you will see what I write. I will find some other way to employ my time. For how can I write with any face what must be for your perusal and not for those I intended to read my melancholy stories? Yes, said he, I would have you continue your penmanship by all means, and I assure you in the mind I am in I will not ask you for any after these, except anything very extraordinary occurs. And I have another thing to tell you, added he, that if you send for those from your father and let me read them I may very probably give them all back again to you, and so I desire you will do it. This a little encourages me to continue my scribbling, but for fear of the worst I will when they come to any bulk contrive some way to hide them, if I can, that I may protest I have them not about me, which before I could not say of a truth, and that made him so resolutely bent to try to find them upon me, for which I might have suffered frightful indecencies. He led me then to the side of the pond and sitting down on the slope made me sit by him. Come, said he, this being the scene of part of your project and where you so artfully threw in some of your clothes, I will just look upon that part of your relation. Sir, said I, let me then walk about at a little distance, for I cannot bear the thought of it. Don't go far, said he. When he came, as I suppose, to the place where I mentioned the bricks falling upon me, he got up and walked to the door and looked upon the broken part of the wall, for it had not been mended and came back, reading on to himself towards me, and took my hand and put it under his arm. Why this, said he, my girl, is a very moving tale. It was a very desperate attempt, and, had you got out, he might have been in great danger, for you had a very bad and lonely way, and I had taken such measures that, that you have been where you would, I should have had you. You may see, sir, said I, what I ventured rather than be ruined, and you will be so good as hence to judge of the sincerity of my profession that my honesty is dear to me than my life. Romantic girl, said he, and read on. He was very serious at my reflections on what God had enabled me to escape, and when he came to my reasonings about throwing myself into the water, he said, walk gently before, and seemed so moved that he turned away his face from me, and I blessed this good sign, and began not so much to repent at his seeing this mournful part of my story. He put the papers in his pocket when he had read my reflections, and thanks for escaping from myself, and said, taking me about the waste, oh, my dear girl, you have touched me sensibly with your mournful relation, and your sweet reflections upon it. I should truly have been very miserable had it taken effect. I see you have been used too roughly, and it is a mercy you stood proof in that fatal moment. Then he most kindly folded me in his arms. Let us, say I too, my Pamela, walk from this accursed piece of water, for I shall not with pleasure look upon it again to think how near it was to have been fatal to my fair one. I thought, added he, of terrifying you to my will since I could not move you by love, and Mrs. Jukes too well obeyed me when the terrors of your return after your disappointment were so great that you had hardly courage to withstand them, but had like to have made so fatal a choice to escape the treatment you apprehended. Oh, sir, said I, I have reason I am sure to bless my dear parents and my good lady or mother for giving me something of a religious education. For, but for that and God's grace, I should more than upon one occasion have attempted at least a desperate act, and the less I wonder how poor creatures who have not the fear of God before their eyes and give way to despondency cast themselves into perdition. Come, kiss me, said he, and tell me you forgive me for pushing you into so much danger and distress. If my mind hold, and I can see those former papers of yours, and these that are in my pocket give me no cause to alter my opinion, I will endeavor to defy the world and the world's censures and make my Pamela amends if it be in the power of my whole life, for all the hardships I have made her undergo. All this looked well, but you shall see how strangely it was all turned. For this sham marriage then came into my mind again, and I said, your purse servant is far unworthy of this great honor, for what will it be but to create envy to herself and discredit to you? Therefore, sir, permit me to return to my poor parents, and that is all I have to ask. He was in a fearful passion, then, and is it thus, said he, in my fond conceding moments that I am to be despised and answered, precise, perverse, unseasonable Pamela, be gone from my sight, and know as well how to behave in a hopeful prospect as in a distressful state, and then, and not till then, shalt thou attract the shadow of my notice. I was startled and going to speak, but he stabbed with his foot and said, be gone, I tell you, I cannot bear this stupid romantic folly. One word, said I, but one word I beseech you, sir. He turned from me in great wrath and took down another alley, and so I went, with a very heavy heart, and fear I was too insistible, just at a time when he was so condescending. But if it was a piece of art of his side as I apprehended to introduce the sham wedding, and, to be sure, he is very full of strategic and art, I think I was not so much to blame. So I went up to my closet and wrote thus far, while he walked about till dinner was ready, and he is now sat down to it as I hear by Mrs. Duke's very sullen, thoughtful, and out of humor, and she asks, what have I done to him? Now, again, I dread to see him. When will my fears be over? Three o'clock. Well, he continues exceeding wrath. He has ordered his traveling chariot to be got ready with all speed. What is to come next, I wonder. Sure I did not say so much, but see the lordliness of a high condition. A poor body must not put in a word when they take it into their heads to be angry. When a fine time a person of an equal condition would have had of it if she were even to marry such a one, his poor dear mother spoiled him at first. Nobody must speak to him or contradict him as I have heard when he was a child, and so he has not been used to be controlled and cannot bear the least thing that crosses his violent will. This is one of the blessings attending to men of high condition. Much good may do them with their pride of birth and pride of fortune, say I. All that it serves for, as far as I can see, is to multiply their disquietes and everybody's else that has to do with them. So, so, where will this end? Mrs. Jukes has been with me from him, and she says, I must get out of the house this moment. Well, said I, but whether am I to be carried next? Why home, said she, to your father and mother, and can it be, said I? No, no, I doubt I shall not be so happy as that. To be sure some bad design is on foot again. To be sure it is. Sure, sure, said I, Mrs. Jukes. He has not found out some other housekeeper worse than you. She was very angry you may well think, but I know she can't be made worse than she is. She came up again. Are you ready, said she? Bless me, said I, you are very hasty. I have heard of this not a quarter of an hour ago. But I shall be soon ready, for I have but little to take with me, and no kind friends in this house to take leave of, to delay me. Yet, like a fool, I can't help crying. Pray, said I, just step down and ask if I may not have my papers. So I am quite ready now against she comes up with an answer, and so I will put up these few writings in my bosom that I have left. I don't know what to think, nor how to judge, but I shall never believe I am with you till I am on my knees before you begging both of your blessings. Yet I am sorry he is so angry with me. I thought I did not say so much. There is, I see, the chariot drawn out, the horses too, the grim coal-brand going to get on horseback. What will be the end of all this? Monday Well, where this will end, I cannot say. But here I am, at a little poor village, almost such a one is yours. I shall learn the name of it by and by, and Robin assures me, he has orders to carry me to you, my dear father and mother. Oh, that he may say truth and not deceive me again. But having nothing else to do, and I am sure I shall not sleep a wink tonight if I was to go to bed, I will write my time away, and take up my story where I left off on Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Jukes came up to me with this answer about my papers. My master says he will not read them yet, lest he should be moved by anything in them to alter his resolution. But if he should think it worthwhile to read them, he will send them to you afterwards, to your fathers. But, said she, here are your guineys that I borrowed, for all is now over with you, I find. She saw me cry and said, do you repent? Of what? said I. Nay, I can't tell, replied she, but, to be sure, he has had a taste of your satirical flings, or he would not be so angry. Oh! continued she, and held up her hand. Thou hast the spirit. But I hope it will now be brought down. I hope so too, said I. Well, added I, I am ready. She lifted up the window and said, I'll call Robin to take your portmanteau. Bag and baggage, proceeded she, I'm glad you're going. I have no words, said I, to throw away upon you, Mrs. Jukes. But, making her very low curtsy, I most heartily thank you for all your virtuous civilities to me. And so I do, for I'll have no portmanteau I'll assure you, nor anything but these few things that I brought with me in my handkerchief, besides what I have on. For I had all this time worn my own bought clothes, though my master would have had it otherwise often, but I had put up paper, ink, and pens, however. So down I went, and as I passed by the parlor she stepped in and said, Sir, you have nothing to say to the girl before she goes. I heard him reply, though I did not see him. Who bid you say that girl, Mrs. Jukes, in that manner? She has offended only me. I beg your honours, pardon, sir, the wretch, but if I was your honour, she should not, for all the trouble she has cost you go away scot-free. No more of this, as I told you before, said he. What, when I have such proof that her virtue is all her pride, shall I rob her of that? No, and did he, let her go, perverse and foolish as she is, but she deserves to go honest and she shall go so. I was so transported with this unexpected goodness that I opened the door before I knew what I did, and said, falling on my knees at the door with my hands folded and lifted up. Oh, thank you, thank your honour, a million of times. May God bless you for this instance of your goodness to me. I will pray for you as long as I live and social my dear father and mother. And, Mrs. Jukes, said I, I will pray for you too, poor wicked wretch that you are. He turned from me and went into his closet and shut the door. He need not have done so, for I would not have gone nearer to him. Surely I did not say so much to incur all this displeasure. I think I was loath to leave the house. Can you believe it? What could be the matter with me, I wonder. I felt something so strange and my heart was so lumpish. I wonder what ailed me. But this was so unexpected. I believe that was all. Yet I am very strange still. Surely, surely I cannot be like the old murmuring Israelites, too long after the onions and garlic of Egypt when they had suffered their such heavy bondage. I'll take thee, a lumpish, contradictory, ungovernable heart, to severe task for this thy strange impulse when I get to my dear fathers and mothers, and if I find anything in thee that should not be, depend upon it thou shalt be humbled, if strict abstinence, prayer, and mortification will do it. But yet, after all, this last goodness of his has touched me too sensibly. I wish I had not heard it almost, and yet, me thinks, I am glad I did, for I should rejoice to think the best of him for his own sake. Well, and so I went out to the chariot, the same that had brought me down. So, Mr. Robert, said I, here I am again, a poor sporting feast for the great, a mere tennis-ball of fortune. You have your orders, I hope. Yes, madame, said he. Pray now, said I, don't madame me, nor stand up with your hat off to such a one as I. Had not my master, said he, ordered me to not be wanting in respect to you, I would have shown you all I could. Well, said I, with my heart very full, that's very kind, Mr. Robert. Mr. Colbrand, mounted on horseback with pistols before him, came up to me as soon as I got in with his hat off, too. What, Bonjour, said I, are you to go with me, part of the way, he said, to see you safe? I hope that's kind, too, in you, Mr. Colbrand, said I. I had nobody to wave my handkerchief to now, nor to take leave of, and so I resigned myself to my contemplations, with this strange rayward heart of mine, that I never found so ungovernable and awkward before. So a wager of the chariot, and when I had gotten out of the elm-walk and 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-ward 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. Lackaday, 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 blessed in one another. Yet this pleases me too, he was so good, he would not let Mrs. Duke speak ill of me, and scorn to take her odious unwombly advice. Oh, 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 so 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 said Elhouse, rather than in, 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 last behind the coach, I did not desire it, but I shall not come quite empty. A thorough riddance of me, I see. Bag in baggage, as Mrs. Duke 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 when he came, but neither of them would sit, nor put their hats on. What Maka do 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 fathers, 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 bated, as we were to do at Mrs. Duke's relations. May I not, said I, beg the favor to see it tonight. He seemed so loathed 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 to open it without breaking the seal and will take a copy of it by and by. For Robin is in and out. There is 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 desire to be. And I hope I shall forbear thinking of you with the least shadow of that fondness my foolish heart has 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 that time that I was inclined to pass over all other considerations for an honorable 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, until 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 I well know my weakness in your favor. 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, that 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 twelve months compliment, though but a mere compliment to my ashes. Your papers shall be faithfully returned to you, and I have paid so dear for my curiosity and the affection they have riveted 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 wrecked somewhere. I doubt not your prudence and 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 so new plot, has affected me more than anything of that sort could have done. For here is plainly his great value for me confessed, and his rigorous behavior accounted for in such a manner as this tortures me much. And this wicked gypsy story is, as it seems, a forgery upon us both, and has quite ruined me. For, oh, my dear parents, forgive me, but I found to my grief before that my heart was too partial on 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 anybody 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, craft, craft 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 I 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-turvy, and I have made an escape to become 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, but to be sure, my dear sir, I will keep a longer time than a twelve-month, as a true widow for a compliment, and more than a compliment to your ashes. Oh, the dear word! How kind, how moving, how affectionate is the word! Oh, why was I not a duchess to show my gratitude for it? But must labour under the weight of an obligation, even had this happiness befall on me, that would have pressed me to death, and which I could never return by a whole life of faithful love and cheerful obedience. Oh, forgive your poor daughter! I am sorry to find this trial so, so or 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 benefit of your good lessons and examples, I hope, will enable me to get over this so heavy a trial. Oh, 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-deserviced 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 hath 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 show you this my weakness or tear it out of my writing, memorandum, to consider of this when I get home.