 I but slightly read this letter for the present to give way to one I had hopes of finding by this time from Mr. Williams. I took an evening turn as I called it in Mrs. Jukes's company, and walking by the place I said, Do you think Mrs. Jukes any of my beans can have struck since yesterday? She laughed and said, You are a poor gardener, but I love to see you divert yourself. She passing on, I found my good friend had provided for me, and slipping it in my bosom for her back was towards me. Here, said I, having a bean in my hand, is one of them, but it has not stirred. No, to be sure, said she, and turned upon me a most wicked jest, unbecoming the mouth of a woman about planting, etc. When I came in, I hide to my closet and read as follows. I am sorry to tell you that I have had a repulse from Lady Jones. She is concerned at your case, she says, but don't care to make herself enemies. I applied to Lady Darnford and told her in the most pathetic manner I could your sad story, and showed her your more pathetic letter. I found her well-disposed, but she would advise with Sir Simon, who by the by is not a man of an extraordinary character for virtue. But he said to his lady in my presence, Why, what is all this, my dear, but that our neighbor has a mind to his mother's waiting-mate, and if he takes care she wants for nothing, I don't see any great injury will be done her. He hurts no family by this. So, my dear father and mother, it seems that poor people's honesty is to go for nothing. And I think, Mr. Williams, you of all men, should not engage in this affair against your friend and patron. He spoke this in so determined a manner that the lady had done, and I had only to beg no notice should be taken of the matter as from me. I have hinted your case to Mr. Peters, the minister of this parish, but I am concerned to say that he imputed selfish views to me as if I would make an interest in your affections by my zeal. And when I represented the duties of our function and the like, and protested my disinterestedness, he coldly said, I was very good, but was a young man and knew little of the world. And though it was a thing to be lamented, yet when he and I should set about to reform mankind in this respect, we should have enough upon our hands. For, he said, it was too common and fashionable a case to be withstood by a private clergyman or two. And then he uttered some reflections upon the conduct of the present fathers of the Church in regard to the first personages of the realm as a justification of his coldness on this score. I represented the different circumstances of your affair, that other women lived evilly by their own consent, but to serve you was to save an innocence that had but few examples, and then I showed him your letter. He said it was very pridly written, and he was sorry for you, and that your good intentions ought to be encouraged. But what, said he, would you have me do, Mr. Williams? Why, suppose, sir, said I, you give her shelter in your house with your spouse and niece till she can get to her friends. What, and embroil myself with a man of Mr. B's power and fortune? No, not I, I'll assure you. And I would have you consider what you are about. Besides, she owns, continued he, that he promises to do honorably by her, and her shyness will procure her good terms enough, for he is no covetous nor wicked gentleman except in this case, and is what all young gentlemen will do. I am greatly concerned for him, I assure you, but I am not discouraged by this ill success. Let what will come of it if I can serve you. I don't hear as yet that Mr. B is coming. I am glad of your hint as to that unhappy fellow, John Arnold. Something, perhaps, will strike out from that, which may be useful. As to your packets, if you seal them up and lay them in the usual place, if you find it not suspected, I will watch an opportunity to convey them. But if they are large, you had best be very cautious. This evil woman I find mistrusts me much. I just hear that the gentleman is dying, whose living Mr. B has promised me. I have almost a scruple to take it, as I am acting so contrary to his desires. But I hope he will one day thank me for it. As to money, don't think of it at present. Be assured you may command all in my power to do for you without reserve. I believe, when we hear he is coming, it will be best to make use of the key which I shall soon procure you, and I can borrow a horse for you, I believe, to wait within half a mile of the back door over the pasture, and will contrive by myself or somebody to have you conducted some miles distant to one of the villages thereabouts. So don't be discomforted, I beseech you. I am, excellent Mrs. Pamela, your faithful friend, etc. I made a thousand sad reflections upon the former part of this honest gentleman's kind letter, and but for the hope he gave me at last should have given up my case as quite desperate. I then wrote to thank him most gratefully for his kind endeavors to lament the little concern the gentry had for my deplorable case, the wickedness of the world, first to give way to such iniquitous fashions, and then plead the frequency of them against the attempt to amend them, and how unaffected people were with the distresses of others. I recalled my former hint as to writing to Lady Davers, which I feared I said would only serve to apprise her brother that she knew his wicked scheme and more harden him in it, and make him come down the sooner than to be the more determined on my ruin. Besides that it might make Mr. Williams guessed at as a means of conveying my letter, and being very fearful that if that good lady should interest herself in my behalf, which was a doubt since she both loved and feared her brother, it would have no effect upon him, and that therefore I would wait the happy event I might hope for from his kind assistance in the key and the horse. I intimated my master's letter begging to be permitted to come down. Was fearful it might be sudden, and that I was of opinion no time was to be lost, for we might let slip all our opportunities, telling him the money-trick of this vile woman, etc. I had not time to take a copy of this letter I was so watched, and when I had it ready in my bosom I was easy, and so I went to seek out Mrs. Jukes and told her I would have her advice upon the letter I had received from my master, which point of confidence in her pleased her not a little. I said she, now this is something like, and will take a turn in the garden or wherever you please. I pretended it was indifferent to me, and so we walked into the garden. I began to talk to her of the letter, but was far from acquainting her with all the contents, only that he wanted my consent to come down, and hoped she used me kindly, and the like. And I said, Now Mrs. Jukes, let me have your advice as to this. Why then, said she, I will give it to you freely, even send to him to come down. It will highly oblige him, and I dare say you'll fare the better for it. How the better, said I, I dare say you think yourself that he intends my ruin. I hate, said she, that foolish word your ruin. Why, narrow lady in the land may live happier than you, if you will, or be more honorably used. Well, Mrs. Jukes, said I, I shall not at this time dispute with you about the word's ruin and honorable, for I find we have quite different notions of both. But now I will speak plainer than I ever did. Do you think he intends to make proposals to me as to be a kept mistress, or kept a slave rather, or do you not? Why, lambkin, said she, what dost thou think thyself? I fear, said I, he does. Well, said she, but if he does, for I know nothing of the matter I assure you, you may have your own terms. I see that, for you may do anything with him. I could not bear this to be spoken, though it was all I feared of a long time, and began to exclaim most sadly. Nay, said she, he may marry you as far as I know. No, no, said I, that cannot be. I neither desire nor expect it. His condition don't permit me to have such a thought, and that, in the whole series of his conduct, convinces me of the contrary. And you would have me invite him to come down, would you? Is not this to invite my ruin? Tis what I would do, said she, in your place, and if it was to be as you think, I should rather be out of my pain than live in continual frights and apprehensions as you do. No, replied I, an hour of innocence is worth an age of guilt, and were my life to be made ever so miserable by it, I should never forgive myself if I were not to lengthen out to the longest minute my happy time of honesty. Who knows what providence may do for me? Why, maybe, said she, as he loves you so well, you may prevail upon him by your prayers and tears, and for that reason I should think you'd better let him come down. Well, said I, I will write him a letter because he expects an answer, or maybe he will make a pretense to come down. How can it go? I'll take care of that, said she. It is in my instructions. I, thought I, so I doubt by the hint Mr. Williams gave me about the post house. The gardener coming by, I said, Mr. Jacob, I have planted a few beans, and I call the place my garden. It is just by the door out yonder. I'll show it you. Pray don't dig them up. So I went on with him, and when we had turned the alley out of her sight and were near the place, said I, pray step to Mrs. Duke's and ask her if she has any more beans for me to plant. He smiled, I suppose, at my foolishness, and I popped the letter under the mold and stepped back as if waiting for his return, which, being near, was immediate, and she followed him. What should I do with beans, said she, and sadly scared me, for she whispered me, I am afraid of some fetch. You don't use to send on such simple errands. What fetch, said I, it is hard I can neither stir nor speak, but I must be suspected. Why, said she, my master writes, that I must have all my eyes about me, for though you are as innocent as a dove, yet you are as cunning as a serpent, but I'll forgive you if you cheat me. Then I thought of my money and could have called her names had I dared, and I said, Pray, Mrs. Duke's, now you talk of forgiving me if I cheat you. Be so kind as to pay me my money, for though I have no occasion for it, yet I know you was but in jest and intended to give it me again. You shall have it in a proper time, said she, but indeed I was in earnest to get it out of your hands, for fear you should make an ill use of it. And so we cavalled upon this subject as we walked in, and I went up to write my letter to my master, and, as I intended to show it her, I resolved to write accordingly as to her part of it, for I made little account of his offer of Mrs. Jervis to me instead of this wicked woman, though the most agreeable thing that could have befallen me except my escape from hence, nor indeed anything he said. For to be honorable in the just sense of the word, he need not have caused me to be run away with and confined as I am. I wrote as follows. Honored sir, when I consider how easily you might make me happy, since all I desire is to be permitted to go to my poor father and mother, when I reflect upon your former proposal to me in relation to a certain person, not one word of which is now mentioned, and upon my being in that strange manner run away with, and still kept here a miserable prisoner, do you think, sir, pardon your poor servant's freedom, my fears make me bold, do you think, I say, that your general assurances of honor to me can have the effect upon me that, were it not for these things, all your words ought to have? Oh, good sir, I too much apprehend that your notions of honor and mine are very different from one another, and I have no other hopes but in your continued absence. If you have any proposals to make me that are consistent with your honorable professions, in my humble sense of the word, a few lines will communicate them to me, and I will return such an answer as befits me. But, oh, what proposals can one in your high station have to make to one in my low one? I know what belongs to your degree too well to imagine that anything can be expected but sad temptations and utter distress if you come down, and you know not, sir, when I am made desperate, what the wretched Pamela dares to do. Whatever rashness you may impute to me, I cannot help it, but I wish I may not be forced upon any that otherwise would never enter into my thoughts. Forgive me, sir, my plainness, I should be loathed to behave to my master unbecomingly, but I must need say, sir, my innocence is so dear to me that all other considerations are, and I hope, shall ever be, treated by me as niceties, that odd for that to be dispensed with. If you mean honorably, why, sir, should you not let me know it plainly? Why is it necessary to imprison me to convince me of it, and why must I be close watched and attended, hindered from stirring out, from speaking to anybody, from going so much as to church to pray for you, who have been till of late so generous a benefactor to me? Why, sir, I humbly ask, why all this, if you mean honorably? It is not for me to expostulate so freely, but in a case so near to me, with you, sir, so greatly my superior. Pardon me, I hope you will, but as to seeing you, I cannot bear the dreadful apprehension. Whatever you have to propose, whatever you intend by me, let my ascent be that of a free person, mean as I am, and not of a sordid slave, who is to be threatened and frightened into a compliance with measures, which your conduct to her seems to imply would be otherwise abhorred by her. My restraint is indeed hard upon me. I am very uneasy under it. Shorten it, I beseech you, or, but I will not dare to say more than that I am, your greatly oppressed, unhappy servant. After I had taken a copy of this, I folded it up, and Mrs. Jukes, coming just as I had done, sat down by me and said, when she saw me direct it, I wish you would tell me if you have taken my advice and consented to my master's coming down. If it will oblige you, said I, I will read it to you. That's good, said she, then I'll love you dearly, said I, then you must not offer to alter one word. I won't, replied she, so I read it to her, and she praised me much for my wording it, but said she thought I pushed the matter very close, and it would better bear talking of than writing about. She wanted an explanation or two as about the proposal to a certain person, but I said she must take it as she heard it. Well, well, said she, I make no doubt you understand one another, and will do so more and more. I sealed up the letter, and she undertook to convey it. Sunday. For my part, I knew it in vain to expect to have leave to go to church now, and so I did not ask, and I was the more indifferent because, if I might have had permission, the sight of the neighboring gentry who had despised my sufferings would have given me great regret and sorrow, and it was impossible I should have edified under any doctrine preached by Mr. Peters, so I applied myself to my private devotions. Mr. Williams came yesterday and this day as usual and took my letter, but having no good opportunity, we avoided one another's conversation and kept at a distance. But I was concerned I had not the key, for I would not have lost a moment in that case had I been he and he I. When I was at my devotion Mrs. Jukes came up and wanted me sadly to sing her a psalm as she had often on common days impertuned me for a song upon the spinet, but I declined it, because my spirits were so low I could hardly speak, nor cared to be spoken to. But when she was gone, I, remembering the 137th Psalm to be a little touching, turned to it and took the liberty to alter it somewhat nearer to my case. I hope I did not sin in it, but thus I turned it. One, when sad I sat in the bee hall, all guarded round about, and thought of every absent friend, the tears for grief burst out. Two, my joys and hopes all overthrown, my heartstrings almost broke, unfit my mind for melody, much more to bear a joke. Three, when she to whom my prisoner was said to me tauntingly, now cheer your heart and sing a song and tune your mind to joy. Four, alas, said I, how can I frame my heavy heart to sing, or tune my mind while thus enthralled by such a wicked thing? Five, but yet if from my innocence I even in thought should slide, then let my fingers quite forget the sweet spinot to guide. Six, and let my tongue within my mouth be locked forever fast, if I rejoice before I see my full deliverance past. Seven, and thou, almighty, recompense the evils I endure, from those who seek my sad disgrace so causeless to procure. Eight, remember, Lord, this Mrs. Jukes, when with a mighty sound she cries down with her chastity down to the very ground. Nine, even so shall thou, O wicked one, at length to shame be brought, and happy shall all those be called that my deliverance wrought. Ten, yea, blessed shall the man be called that shames thee of thy evil, and saves me from thy vile attempts, and thee too from the devil. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. I write now with a little more liking, though less opportunity, because Mr. Williams has got a large parcel of my papers, safe in his hands, to send them to you, as he has opportunity. So I am not quite uselessly employed, and I am delivered besides from the fear of their being found if I should be searched or discovered. I have been permitted to take an airing five or six miles with Mrs. Jukes, but though I know not the reason, she watches me more closely than ever, so that we have discontinued by consent for these three days the sunflower correspondence. The poor cookmaid has had a bad misschance, for she has been hurt much by a bull in the pasture by the side of the garden not far from the back door. Now this pasture I am to cross, which is about half a mile, and then is a common and near that a private horse road, where I hope to find an opportunity for escaping as soon as Mr. Williams can get me a horse and has all made ready for me, for he has got me the key which he put under the mold just by the door, as he found an opportunity to hint to me. He just now has signified that the gentleman is dead, whose living he has had hope of, and he came pretendedly to tell Mrs. Jukes of it, and so could speak this to her before me. She wished him joy. See what the world is! One man's death is another man's joy. Thus we thrust out one another. My hard case makes me serious. He found means to slide a letter into my hands and has gone away. He looked at me with such respect and solemnness at parting that Mrs. Jukes said, Why, madame, I believe our young person is half in love with you. Ah, Mrs. Jukes, said I, he knows better. Said she, I believe to sound me. Why, I can't see you can either of you do better, and I have lately been so touched for you, seeing how heavily you apprehend dishonor from my master, that I think it is a pity you should not have Mr. Williams. I knew this must be a fetch of hers, because, instead of being troubled for me as she pretended, she watched me closer and him too. And so I said, There is not the man living that I desire to marry. If I can but keep myself honest, it is all my desire, and to be a comfort and assistance to my poor parents, if it should be my happy lot to be so, is the very top of my ambition. Well, but, said she, I have been thinking very seriously that Mr. Williams would make you a good husband. And as he will owe all his fortune to my master, he will be very glad to be sure to be obliged to him for a wife of his choosing. Especially, said she, such a pretty one, and one so ingenious and gentilely educated. This gave me a doubt whether she knew of my master's intimation of that sort formerly. And I asked her if she had reason to surmise that this was in view. No, she said. It is only her own thought. But it was very likely that my master had either that in view or something better for me. But if I approved of it, she would propose such a thing to her master directly, and gave a detestable hint that I might take resolutions upon it of bringing such an affair to effect. I told her I abhorred her violent sinuation, and as to Mr. Williams, I thought him a civil good sort of man. But as on one side he was above me, so on the other I said of all things I did not love a person. So finding she could make nothing of me, she quitted the subject. I will open his letter by and by and give you the contents of it, for she is up and down so much that I am afraid of her surprising me. Well, I see Providence has not abandoned me. I shall be under no necessity to make advances to Mr. Williams if I was, as I am sure I am not, disposed to it. This is his letter. I know not how to express myself, lest I should appear to you to have a selfish view in the service I would do you. But I really know but one effectual and honorable way to disengage yourself from the dangerous situation you are in. It is that of marriage with some person that you could make happy in your approbation. As for my own part it would be, as things stand, my apparent ruin, and worse still, I should involve you in misery, too. But yet, so great is my veneration for you, and so entire my reliance on Providence upon so just an occasion, that I should think myself but too happy if I might be accepted. I would, in this case, forego all my expectations and be your conductor to some safe distance. But why do I say in this case that I will do whether you think fit to reward me so eminently or not, and I will the moment I hear of Mr. B's setting out, and I think now I have settled a very good method of intelligence of all his motions, get a horse ready, and myself to conduct you. I refer myself wholly to your goodness and direction, and am, with the highest respect, your most faithful, humble servant. Don't think this is a sudden resolution. I always admired your hearsay character, and the moment I saw you wished to serve so much excellence. What shall I say, my dear father and mother, to this unexpected declaration? I want now more than ever your blessing in direction. But, after all, I have no mind to marry. I had rather live with you. But yet, I would marry a man who begs from door to door, and has no home nor being, rather than endanger my honesty. Yet I cannot, me thinks, hear of being a wife. After a thousand different thoughts, I wrote as follows. Reverend Sir, I am greatly confused at the contents of your last. You are much too generous, and I can't bear you should risk all your future prospects for so unworthy a creature. I cannot think of your offer without equal concern and gratitude. For nothing but to avoid my utter ruin can make me think of a change of condition. And so, sir, you ought not to accept of such an involuntary compliance as mine would be were I upon the last necessity to yield to your very generous proposal. I will rely wholly upon your goodness to me in assisting my escape, but shall not, on your account principally, think of the honor you propose for me at present, and never but at the pleasure of my parents, who, poor as they are, in such a weighty point, are as much entitled to my obedience and duty as if they were ever so rich. I beg you therefore, sir, not to think of anything from me but everlasting gratitude which shall always bind me to be your most obliged servant. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, the 14th, 15th, and 16th of my bondage. Mrs. Jukes has received a letter and is much similar to me and to Mr. Williams, too, than she used to be. I wonder I have not won an answer to mine to my master. I suppose I put the matter to home for him, and he is angry. I am not the more pleased with her civility, for she is horrid cunning and is not a witless watchful. I laid a trap to get at her instructions, which she carries in the bosom of her stays, but it has not succeeded. My last letter is come safe to Mr. Williams by the old conveyance, so that he is not suspected. He has intimated that though I have not come so readily as he hoped into his scheme, yet his diligence shall not be slackened, and he will leave it to Providence and himself to dispose of him as he shall be found to deserve. He has signified to me that he shall soon send a special messenger with the packet to you, and I have added to it what has occurred since. Sunday. I am just now quite astonished. I hope all is right, but I have a strange turn to acquaint you with. Mr. Williams and Mrs. Jukes came to me both together, he and ecstasies, she with a strange fluttering sort of air. Well, said she, Mrs. Pamela, I give you joy, I give you joy. Let nobody speak but me. Then she sat down as out of breath, puffing and blowing. Why, everything turns as I said it would, said she. Why, there is to be a match between you and Mr. Williams. Well, I always thought it. Never was so good a master. Go to, go to, naughty mistrustful Mrs. Pamela. Name, Mrs. Williams, said the forward creature, I may as good call you. You ought on your knees to beg his pardon a thousand times for mistrusting him. She was going on, but I said, don't torture me thus, I beseech you, Mrs. Jukes, let me know all. Ah, Mr. Williams, said I, take care, take care. Mistrustful again, said she. Why, Mr. Williams, show her your letter and I will show her mine. They were brought by the same hand. I trumbled at the thoughts of what this might mean, and said, you have so surprised me that I cannot stand nor hear nor read. Why did you come up in such a manner to attack such weak spirits? said he to Mrs. Jukes. Shall we leave our letters with Mrs. Pamela and let her recover from her surprise? I, said she, with all my heart, here is nothing but flaming honour and good will. And so, saying, they left me their letters and withdrew. My heart was quite sick with the surprise, so that I could not presently read them, notwithstanding my impatience, but after a while recovering, I found the contents thus strange and unexpected. Mr. Williams, the death of Mr. Founds, has now given me the opportunity I have long wanted to make you happy, and that in a double respect, for I shall soon put you in possession of his living, and, if you have the art of making yourself well received, of one of the loveliest wives in England. She has not been used, as she has reason to think, according to her merit. But when she finds herself under the protection of a man of virtue and probity, and a happy competency to support life in the manner to which she has been of late years accustomed, I am persuaded she will forgive those seeming hardships, which have paved the way to so happy a lot, as I hope it will be to you both. I have only to account for and excuse the odd conduct I have been guilty of, which I shall do when I see you. But as I shall soon set out for London, I believe it will not be yet this month. Meantime, if you will prevail with Pamela, you need not suspend for that your mutual happiness. Only let me have notice of it first, and that she approves of it, which ought to be, in so material a point, entirely at her option. As I assure you, on the other hand, I would have it at yours, that nothing may be wanting to complete your happiness. I am your humble servant. Was ever the like heard, lie still my throbbing heart, divided as thou art, between thy hopes and thy fears. But this is the letter Mrs. Jukes left with me. Mrs. Jukes, you have been very careful and diligent in the task, which, for reasons I shall hereafter explain, I had imposed upon you. Your trouble is now almost at an end, for I have written my intentions to Mr. Williams so particularly, that I need say the less here, because he will not scruple, I believe, to let you know the contents of my letter. I have only one thing to mention, that if you find what I have hinted to him in the least measure disagreeable to either, you assure them both they are at entire liberty to pursue their own inclinations. I hope you continue your civilities to the mistrustful uneasy Pamela, who now will begin to think better of hers and your friend, etc. I had hardly time to transcribe these letters, though writing so much I write pretty fast, before they both came up again in high spirits. And Mr. Williams said, I am glad at my heart, madame, that I was beforehand in my declarations to you. This generous letter has made me the happiest man on earth. And Mrs. Jukes, you may be sure that if I can procure this fair one's consent, I shall think myself. I interrupted the good man and said, Ah, Mr. Williams, take care, take care, don't let. There I stopped, and Mrs. Jukes said, Still mistrustful, I never saw the like in my life. But I see, said she, I was not wrong, while my old orders lasted, to be wary of you both. I should have had a hard task to prevent you, I find. For, as the saying is, not can restrain consent of Twain. I doubted not her taking hold of his joyful indiscretion. I took her letter and said, Here, Mrs. Jukes, is yours. I thank you for it, but I have been so long in amaze that I can say nothing of this for the present. Time will bring all to light. Sir, said I, here is yours. May everything turn to your happiness. I give you joy of my master's goodness in the living. It will be dying, said he, not a living without you. For bear, sir, said I, while I have a father and mother, I am not my own mistrust, poor as they are, and I'll see myself quite at liberty, before I shall think myself fit to make a choice. Mrs. Jukes held up her eyes and hands, and said, Such art, such caution, such cunning for thy years, well. Why, said I, that he might be more on his guard, though I hope there cannot be deceit in this, it would be a strange villainy, and that is a hard word if there should. I have been so used to be made a fool of by fortune that I hardly can tell how to govern myself, and am almost an infidel as to mankind. But I hope I may be wrong. Henceforth, Mrs. Jukes, you shall regulate my opinions as you please, and I will consult you in everything that I think proper, I said to myself. For, to be sure, though I may forgive her, I can never love her. She left Mr. Williams and me a few minutes together, and I said, Consider, sir, consider what you have done. It is impossible, said he, there can be deceit. I hope so, said I, but what necessity was there for you to talk of your former declaration? Let this be as it will, that could do no good, especially before this woman. Forgive me, sir, they talk of woman's promptness of speech, but indeed I see an honest heart is not always to be trusted with itself in bad company. He was going to reply, but though her task is said to be almost, I took notice of that word, at an end, she came up to us again and said, Well, I had a good mind to show you the way to church tomorrow. I was glad of this, because, though in my present doubtful situation I should not have chosen it, yet I would have encouraged her proposal to be able to judge by her being an earnest or otherwise where there one might depend upon the rest. But Mr. Williams again indiscreetly helped her to an excuse by saying that it was now best to defer it one Sunday until matters were riper for my appearance, and she readily took hold of it and confirmed his opinion. After all, I hope for the best, but if this should turn out to be a plot, I fear nothing but a miracle can save me, but sure the heart of man is not capable of such black deceit. Besides, Mr. Williams has it under his own hand, and he dare not but be an earnest, and then again, though to be sure he has been very wrong to me, yet his education and parents' example have neither of them taught him such very black contrivances, so I will hope for the best. END OF SECTION X Section XI 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. Recording by Melanie Schleder-McKelmont. Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded. By Samuel Richardson. Section XI. Mr. Williams, Mrs. Jukes, and I have been all three walking together in the garden, and she pulled out her key, and we walked a little in the pasture to look at the bowl, an ugly, grim, surly creature that hurt the poor cookmaid, who has got pretty well again. Mr. Williams pointed at the sunflower, but it was forced to be very reserved to him, for the poor gentleman has no guard, no caution at all. We have just subbed together all three, and I cannot yet think that all must be right. Only I am resolved not to marry, if I can help it, and I will give no encouragement. I am resolved, at least, till I am with you. Mr. Williams said, before Mrs. Jukes, he would send a messenger with the letter to my father and mother. I think the man has no discretion in the world, but I desire you will send no answer, till I have the pleasure and happiness, which I now hope for soon, of seeing you. He will, in sending my packet, send the most tedious parcel of stuff, of my oppressions, my distresses, my fears, and so I will send this with it, for Mrs. Jukes gives me leave to send a letter to my father, which looks well. And I am glad I can conclude, after all my sufferings, with my hopes to be soon with you, which I know will give you comfort. And so I rest, begging the continuance of your prayers and blessings, your ever-dutiful daughter. My dear father and mother, I have so much time upon my hands that I am my stride on, to employ myself. The Sunday evening, where I left off, Mrs. Jukes asked me, if I chose to be by myself, and I said, yes, with all my heart, if she pleased. Well, said she, after tonight you shall. I asked her for more paper, and she gave me a bottle of ink, eight sheets of paper, which she said was all her store. For now she would get me to write for her to our master, if she had occasion. And six pens, but the piece of ceiling wax. This looks mighty well. She pressed me, when she came to bed, very much, to give encouragement to Mr. Williams, and said many things in his behalf, and blamed my shyness to him. I told her I was resolved to give no encouragement, till I had talked to my father and mother. She said, he fancied I thought of somebody else, or I could never be so insensible. I assured her, as I could do very safely, that there was not a man on earth I wish to have, and as to Mr. Williams, he might do better by far. And I had proposed so much happiness in living with my poor father and mother, that I could not think of any scheme of life with pleasure, till I had tried that. I asked her for my money, and she said, it was above in her strongbox, but that I should have it to-morrow. All these things look well, as I said. Mr. Williams would go home this night, though late, because he would dispatch a messenger to you with the letter he had proposed from himself, and my packet. But pray don't encourage him, as I said, for he is much too heady and precipitant as to this matter, in my way of thinking. Though, to be sure, he is a very good man, and I am much obliged to him. Monday morning. Alas, a day, we have bad news from poor Mr. Williams. He has had a sad mischance, fallen among rogues, in his way home last night. But by good chance, has saved my papers. This is the account he gives of it to Mrs. Jukes. Good Mrs. Jukes. I have had a sore misfortune in going from you. When I had got as near the town as the dam, and was going to cross the wooden bridge, two fellows got hold of me, and swore bitterly they would kill me, if I did not give them what I had. They rummaged my pockets, and took from me my snuff-box, my seal-ring, and half a guinea, and some silver and half-pence, also my handkerchief, and two or three letters I had in my pockets. By good fortune the letter Mrs. Pamela gave me was in my bosom, and so that escaped. But they bruised my head and face, and cursing me for having no more money tipped me into the dam, crying, Be there, parson, till to-morrow. My shins and knees were bruised much in the fall against one of the stumps, and I had liked to have been suffocated in water and mud. To be sure I shan't be able to stir out this day or two, for I am a frightful spectacle. My hat and wig I was forced to leave behind me, and go home a mile and a half without. But they were found the next morning, and brought me, with my snuff-box, which the rogues must have dropped. My cassock is sadly torn, as is my band. To be sure I was much frightened, for a robbery in these parts has not been known many years. Diligent search is making after the rogues. My humble respects to good Mrs. Pamela. If she pities my misfortunes, I shall be the sooner well, and fit to wait on her and you. This did not hinder me in writing a letter, though with great pain as I do this. To be sure this good man can keep no secret, and sending it away by a man and horse this morning. I am, good Mrs. Jukes, your most obliged humble servant. God be praised it is no worse, and I find I have gotten no cold, though miserably wet from top to toe. My fright, I believe, prevented me from catching cold, for I was not rightly myself for some hours, and know not how I got home. I will write a letter of thanks this night, if I am able, to my kind patron, for his inestimable goodness to me. I wish I was unable to say all I hope, with regard to the better part of his bounty to me, incomparable Mrs. Pamela. The wicked brute fell a laughing when she had read this letter, till her fat side shook. Said she, I can but think how the poor parson looked, after parting with his pretty mistress in such high spirits, when he found himself at the bottom of the dam. And what a figure he best cut in his tattered band and cassock, and with that hat and wig when he got home. I warrant, added she, he was in such a sweet pickle. I said, I thought it was very barbarous to laugh at such a misfortune. But she replied, as he was safe, she laughed, otherwise she would have been sorry, and she was glad to see me so concerned for him. It looked promising, she said. I heeded not her reflections, but as I have been used to causes for mistrusts, I cannot help saying that I don't like this thing, and they're taking his letters most alarms me. How happy it was they missed my packet. I knew not what to think of it. But why should I let every accident break my peace? Yet it will do so while I stay here. Mrs. Jukes is mightily at me to go with her in the chariot to visit Mr. Williams. She is so officious to break on the affair between us that, being a cunning, artful woman, I know not what to make of it. I have refused her absolutely, urging, that except I intended to encourage his suit, I ought not to do it. And she is gone without me. I have strange temptations to get away in her absence, for all these fine appearances. Too sad to have nobody to advise with. I know not what to do, but alas for me, I have no money, if I should, to buy anybody's civilities or to pay for necessaries or lodgings. But I'll go into the garden and resolve afterwards. I have been in the garden and to the back door, and there I stood, my heart up at my mouth. I could not see I was watched, so this looks well. But if anything should go bad afterwards I should never forgive myself for not taking this opportunity. Well, I will go down again and see if all is clear, and how it looks out the back door in the pasture. To be sure, there is witchcraft in this house, and I believe Lucifer is bribed, as well as all about me, and has got into the shape of that nasty grim bull to watch me, for I have been again, and ventured to open the door, and went out without a bow-shot into the pasture, but there stood that horrid bull staring me full in the face with fiery saucer eyes as I thought, so I got in again, for fear he should come at me. Nobody saw me, however. Do you think there are such things as witches and spirits? If there be, I believe, in my heart, Mrs. Jukes has got this bull of her side. But yet what could I do without money or a friend? Oh, this wicked woman, to trick me so! Every thing, man, woman, and beast, is in a plot against your poor Pamela, I think. Then I know not one step of the way, nor how far, to any house or cottage, and whether I could gain protection, if I got to a house. And now the robbers are abroad, too. I may run into as great danger as I want to escape. They great are much, if these promising appearances hold, and sure my master cannot be so black as that they should not. What can I do? I have a good mind to try for it once more, but then I may be pursued and taken, and it will be worse for me, and this wicked woman will beat me, and take my shoes away, and lock me up. But after all, if my master should mean well, he can't be angry at my fears, if I should escape. And nobody can blame me. And I can more easily be induced, with you, when all my apprehensions are over, to consider his proposal of Mr. Williams and I could hear. And he pretends, as you have read in his letter, he will leave me to my choice. Why, then, should I be afraid? I will go down again, I think. But yet my heart misgives me, because of the difficulties before me, in escaping, and being so poor, and so friendless, could God, the preserver of the innocent, direct me what to do? Well, I have just now a sort of strange persuasion upon me, that I ought to try to get away, and leave the issue to Providence. So once more, I'll see, at least, if the bulls still be there. A lack a day, what a fate is this? I have not the courage to go, neither can I think to stay. But I must resolve. The gardener was in sight last time, so made me come up again. But I'll contrive to send him out of the way, if I can. For if I never should have another opportunity, I could not forgive myself. Once more, I'll venture. God direct my footsteps, and make smooth my path, and my way to safety. Well, here I am, come back again. Frightened, like a fool, out of all my purposes. Oh, how terrible everything appears to me! I had got twice as far again as I was before, out the back door. And I'd looked, and saw the bull, as I thought, between me and the door, and another bull coming towards me the other way. Well, thought I, here is double witchcraft, to be sure. Here is the spirit of my master in one bull, and Mrs. Jukes in the other. And now I am gone, to be sure. Oh, help! cried I, like a fool, and ran back to the doors, swift as if I flew. When I had got to the door in my hand, I ventured to look back, to see if these supposed bulls were coming. And I saw they were only two poor cows, a grazing in distant places, that my fears had made all this route about. But as everything is so frightful to me, I find I am not fit to think of my escape. For I shall be as much frightened at the first strange man I meet with, and I am persuaded that fear brings one into more dangers than the caution that goes along with it delivers one from. I then locked the door, and put the key in my pocket. It was in a sad quandary. But I was soon determined, for the maid Nan came in sight, and asked if anything was the matter, that I was so often up and downstairs. God forgive me, but I had a sad lie at my tongue's end. Said I, though Mrs. Jukes is sometimes a little hard upon me, yet I know not where I am without her. I go up, and I come down to walk about in the garden. And not having her, no scarcely what to do with myself. I, said the idiot, she is main good company, madam, no wonder you miss her. So here I am again, and here likely to be, for I have no courage to help myself anywhere else. Oh, why are poor foolish maidens tried with such dangers, when they have such weak minds to grapple with them? I will, since it is so, hope the best. But yet I cannot but observe how grievously everything makes against me. For here are the robbers, though I fell not into their hands myself, yet they gave me as much terror, and had as great an effect upon my fears as if I had. And here is the bull. It has as effectually frightened me, as if I had been hurt by it instead of the cookmaid. And so these joined together, as I may say, to make a very dastard of me. But my folly was the worst of all, because that deprived me of my money. For had I had that, I believe I should have ventured, both the bull and the robbers. Monday afternoon. So Mrs. Jukes has returned from her visit. Well, said she, I would have you set your heart at rest, for Mr. Williams will do very well again. He is not half so bad as he fancied. Oh, these scholars, said she, they have not the hearts of bice. He has only a few scratches on his face, which, said she, I suppose he got by grappling among the gravel at the bottom of the dam, to try to find a hole in the ground to hide himself from the robbers. His shin and his knee are hardly to be seen to all anything. He says in his letter he was a frightful spectacle. He might be so, indeed, when he first came in adores, but he looks well enough now. And only for a few groans now and then, when he thinks of his danger, I see nothing as the matter with him. So, Mrs. Pamela, said she, I would have you be very easy about it. I am glad of it, said I, for all your jokes, to Mrs. Jukes. Well, said she, he talks of nothing but you. And when I told him I would fain have persuaded you to come with me, the man was out of his wits with his gratitude to me, and so has laid open all his heart to me, and told me all that has passed, and was contriving between you two. This alarmed me prodigiously, and the rather, as I saw, by two or three instances, that his honest heart could keep nothing, believing everyone as undesigning as himself. I said, but with a heavy heart, ah, Mrs. Jukes, this might have done with me, had he had any thing that he could have told you of. But, you know well enough, that had we been disposed, we had no opportunity for it, from your watchful care and circumspection. No, said she, that's very true, Mrs. Pamela. Not so much as for that declaration that he owned before me, he had found opportunity for all my watchfulness to make you. Come, come, said she, no more of these shams with me. You have an excellent headpiece for your years. But maybe I am as cunning as you. However, said she, all is well now, because my watchments are now over, by my master's direction. How have you employed yourself in my absence? I was so troubled at what might have passed between Mr. Williams and her, that I could not hide it. And she said, well, Mrs. Pamela, since all matters are likely to be so soon and so happily ended, let me advise you to be a little less concerned at his discoveries, and make me your confidant, as he has done. And I shall think you have some favor for me, and reliance upon me, and perhaps you might not repent it. She was so earnest that I mistrusted she did this to pump me. And I knew how, now, to account for her kindness to Mr. Williams and her visit to him, which was only to get out of him what she could. Why, Mrs. Juke, said I, is all this fishing about for something, where there is nothing, if there be an end of your watchments, as you call them. Nothing, said she, but womanish curiosity, I'll assure you, for one is naturally led to find out matters, where there is such privacy intended. Well, said I, pray, let me know what he has said, and then I'll give you an answer to your curiosity. I don't care, said she, whether you do or not, for I have as much as I wanted from him. And I despair of getting out of you anything you had in the mind should I know, my little cunning dear. Well, said I, name of said what he would, I care not, for I am sure he can say no harm of me, and so let us change the talk. I was the easier, indeed, because for all her pumps she gave no hint of the key in the door, et cetera, which he had communicated to her. She would not have foreborn giving me a touch of. And so we gave up one another, as despairing to gain our ends of each other. But I am sure he must have said more than he should. And I am the more apprehensive all is not right, because she has now been, actually, these two hours, shut up a writing, though she pretended she had given me up all her stores of papers, et cetera, and that I should write for her. I begin to wish I had ventured everything and gone off when I might. Oh, when will this state of doubt in an easiness end? She has just been with me, and says, She shall send a messenger to bed for sure, and he shall carry a letter of thanks for me, if I will write it for my master's favor to me. Indeed, said I, I have no thanks to give, till I am with my father and mother. And besides, I sent a letter, as you know, but have had no answer to it. She said, she thought that his letter to Mr. Williams was sufficient, and the least I could do was to thank him, if but in two lines. No need of it, said I, for I don't intend to have Mr. Williams. What then is that letter to me? Well, said she, I see that are quite unfathomable. I don't like all this. Oh, my foolish fears of bulls and robbers! For now all my uneasiness begins to double upon me. Oh, what has this incautious man said? That, no doubt, is the subject of her long letter. I will close this day's writing with just saying, that she is mighty silent and reserved to what she was. It says nothing but no, or yes, to what I ask. Something must be hatching, I doubt. I the rather think so, because I find she does not keep her word with me, about lying by myself and my money, to both which points she returned suspicious answers, saying as to the one, why, you are mighty earnest for your money, I shan't run away with it. And to the other, good luck, you need not be so willing, as I know of, to part with me for a bed-fellow, till you are sure of one you like better. This cut me to the heart, and at the same time, stopped my mouth. Tuesday, Wednesday. Mr. Williams has been here, but we have had no opportunity to talk together. He seemed confounded at Mrs. Duke's change of temper, and reservedness, after her kind visit, and their freedom with one another, and much more at what I am going to tell you. He asked, if I would take a turn in the garden, with Mrs. Duke's in him. No, said she, I can't go. Said he, may not Mrs. Pamela take a walk? No, said she, I desire she won't. Why, Mrs. Duke, said he, I am afraid I have somehow disabliged you. Not at all, replied she, but I suppose you will soon be at liberty to walk together as much as you please, and I have sent a messenger for my last instructions about this, and more weighty matters. And when they come, I shall leave you to do as you both will, but, till then, it is no matter how little you are together. This alarmed us both, and he seemed quite struck of a heap, and put on, as I thought, a self-accusing countenance. So I went behind her back, and held my two hands together, flat, with a bit of paper, I had between them, and looked at him, and he seemed to take me, as I intended, intimating the renewing of the correspondence by the tiles. I'd left them both together, and retired to my closet to write a letter for the tiles, but having no time for a copy, I will give you the substance only. I expostulated with him, on his too great openness and easiness, to fall into Mrs. Juke's snares, told him my apprehensions of foul play, and gave briefly the reasons which moved me, begged to know what he had said, and intimated that I thought there was the highest reason to resume our prospect of the escape by the back door. I put this in the usual place in the evening, and now wait with impatience for an answer. Thursday I have the following answer. Dearest Madam, I am utterly confounded, and must plead guilty to all your just reproaches. I wish I were master of all but half your caution and discretion. I hope, after all, this is only a touch of this ill woman's temper, to show her power in importance, for I think Mr. B. neither can nor dare deceive me in so black a manner. I would expose him all the world over, if he did. But it is not, cannot be in him. I have received a letter from John Arnold, in which he tells me that his master is preparing for his London journey, and believes afterwards he will come into these parts. But he says Lady Davers is at their house, and is to accompany her brother to London, or meet him there, he does not which. He professes great zeal and affection to your service, and I find he refers to a letter he sent me before, but which has not come to my hand. I think there can be no treachery, for it is a particular friend at Gainesboro that I have ordered him to direct to, and this has come safe to my hands by this means, for well I know I durst trust nothing to Brett at the post house here. This gives me a little pain, but I hope all will end well, and we shall soon hear if it be necessary to pursue our former intentions. If it be, I will lose no time to provide a horse for you, and another for myself, for I can never do either God or myself better service, though I were to forgo all my expectations for it here. I am your most faithful, servant. I was too free indeed with Mrs. Jukes, led to it by her dissimulation, and by her pretended concern to make me happy with you. I hinted that I would not have scrupled to have procured your deliverance by any means, and that I had proposed to you as the only honourable one, marriage with me. But I assured her, though she would hardly believe me, that you discouraged my application, which is too true. But not a word of the backdoor key, et cetera. Mrs. Jukes continues still sullen and ill-natured, and I am almost afraid to speak to her. She watches me as close as ever, and pretends to wonder why I shun her company as I do. I have just put under the tiles these lines inspired by my fears, which are indeed very strong, and I doubt not without reason. Sir. Everything gives me additional disturbance. The missed letter of John Arnold's makes me suspect a plot. Yet I am loathed to think myself of so much importance as to suppose everyone in a plot against me. Are you sure, however, the London journey is not to be a Lincolnshire one? May not John, who has been once a traitor, be so again? Why need I be thus in doubt? If I could have this horse, I would turn the reins on his neck, and trust to Providence to guide him for my safeguard. For I would not endanger you, now just upon the edge of your preferment. Yet, sir, I fear your fatal openness will make you suspected as accessory. Let us be ever so cautious. Were my life in question, instead of my honesty, I would not wish to involve you, or anybody, in the least difficulty, for so worthless a poor creature. But, oh, sir, my soul is of equal importance with the soul of a princess, though my quality is inferior to that of the meanest slave. Save then my innocence, good heaven, and preserve my mind spotless. And happy shall I be to lay down my worthless life, and see an end to all my troubles and anxieties. Forgive my impatience. But my presaging mind bodes horrid mischiefs. Everything looks dark around me, in this woman's impenetrable sullenness and silence, without any apparent reason, from a conduct so very contrary, bid me fear the worst. Blame me, sir, if you think me wrong, and let me have your advice what to do, which will oblige your most afflicted servant. Friday I have this half-angry answer, but what is more to me that all the letters in the world could be yours, my dear father, enclosed. Madam. I think you are too apprehensive by much. I am sorry for your uneasiness. You may depend upon me in all I can do. But I make no doubt of the London journey, nor of John's contrition in fidelity. I have just received from my Gainesboro friend this letter, as I suppose, from your good father, in a cover directed for me, as I had desired. I hope it contains nothing to add to your uneasiness. Pray, dearest madam, lay aside your fears, and wait a few days for the issue of Mrs. Duke's letter, and mine of thanks to Mr. B. Things, I hope, must be better than you expect. Providence will not desert such piety and innocence. And be this your comfort and reliance, which is the best advice that can be at present given by your most faithful, humble servant. Notabene. The father's letter was as follows. My dearest daughter, our prayers are at length heard, and we are overwhelmed with joy. Oh, what sufferings, what trials has thou gone through? Blessed be the divine goodness which has enabled thee to withstand so many temptations. We have not yet had leisure to read through your long accounts of all your hardships. I say long, because I wonder how you could find time and opportunity for them. But otherwise they are the delight of our spare hours, and we shall read them over and over, as long as we live, with thankfulness to God, who has given us so virtuous and so discreet a daughter. How happy is our lot in the midst of our poverty! Oh, let none ever think children a burden to them, when the poorest circumstances can produce so much riches in a Pamela. Persist, my dear daughter, in the same excellent course, and we shall not envy the highest estate, but defy them to produce such a daughter as ours. I said we had not read through all yours in course. We were too impatient, and so turned to the end, where we could find your virtue within view of its reward, and your master's heart turned to see the folly of his ways in the injury he had attended to our dear child. For, to be sure, my dear, he would have ruined you if he could. But seeing your virtue his heart is touched, and he has, no doubt, been awakened by your good example. We don't see that you can do any way so well as to come to the present proposal and make a Mr. Williams, the worthy Mr. Williams, God bless him, happy. And though we are poor and can add no merit, no reputation, no fortune to our dear child, but rather must be a disgrace to her, as the world will think, yet I hope I do not sin in my pride to say that there is no good ban of a common degree, especially as your late lady's kindness gave you such good opportunities, which you have had the grace to improve, but may think himself happy in you. But as you say, you had rather not merry at present, far be it from us to offer violence to your inclination. So much prudence, if you have shown in all your conduct, would make it very wrong in us to mistrust in this, or to offer to direct you in your choice. But alas, my child, what can we do for you, to partake our hard lot and involve yourself into as hard a life would not help us, but add to your afflictions? But it will be time enough to talk of these things, when we have the pleasure you now put us in hope of, of seeing you with us, which God grant. Amen, amen, say, your most indulgent parents, amen. Our humblest service and thanks to the worthy Mr. Williams, again we say, God bless him, forever. Oh, what a deal we have to say to you! God give us a happy meeting. We understand the squire is sitting out for London. He is a fine gentleman, and has wit at will. I wish he was as good, but I hope he will now reform. Oh, what inexpressible comfort my dear father has your letter given me! You ask, what could you do for me? What is it you cannot do for your child? You can give her the advice she has so much wanted, and still wants, and will always want. You can confirm her in the paths of virtue, into which you first initiated her. And you can pray for her, with heart so sincere and pure, that are not to be met within palaces. Oh, how I long to throw myself at your feet, and receive from your own lips the blessings of such good parents! But alas! How are my prospects again overcrowded, to what they were when I closed my last parcel? More trials, more dangers, I fear, must your poor Pamela be engaged in. But, through the divine goodness, and your prayers, I hope at last to get well out of all my difficulties, and the rather, as they are not the effect of my own vanity or presumption. But I will proceed with my hopeless story. I saw Mr. Williams was a little nettle that my impatience, and so I wrote to assure him I would be as easy as I could, and wholly directed by him, especially as my father, whose respects I mentioned, had assured me my master was setting out for London, which he must have somehow from his own family, or he would not have written me word of it. SATURDAY SUNDAY Mr. Williams has been here both these days as usual, but is very indifferently received still by Mrs. Jukes, and, to avoid suspicion, I left them together, and went up to my closet most of the time he was here. He and she, I found by her, had a quarrel, and she seems quite out of humor with him. But I thought it best not to say anything. And, he said, he would very little trouble the house till he had an answer to his letter from Mr. B., and she returned, the less the better. Poor man, he has got but little by his openness, making Mrs. Jukes as confident, as she bragged, and would have had me to do likewise. I am more and more satisfied there is mischief brewing, and shall begin to hide my papers, and be circumspect. She seems mighty impatient for an answer to her letter to my master. Monday, Tuesday, the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth days of my heavy restraint. Still more and more strange things to write. A messenger is returned, and now all is out. Oh, wretched, wretched Pamela, what at last will become of me? Such strange turns and trials sure never poor creature of my years experienced. He brought two letters, one to Mrs. Jukes and one to me. But as the greatest wits may be sometimes mistaken, they being folded and sealed alike, that for me was directed to Mrs. Jukes, and that for her was directed to me. But both are stark not. Abominably bad. She brought me up that directed for me, and said, Here's a letter for you. Longed looked for is come at last. I will ask the messenger a few questions, and then I will read mine. So she went down, and I broke it open in my closet, and found it directed to Mrs. Pamela Andrews. But when I opened it, it began, Mrs. Jukes, I was quite confounded, but thought I, this may be a lucky mistake. I may discover something, and so I read on these horrid contents. Mrs. Jukes, what you write me has given me no small disturbance. This wretched fool's plaything, no doubt, is ready to leap at anything that offers, rather than express the least sense of gratitude for all the benefits she has received from my family, and which I was determined more and more to heap upon her. I reserve her for my future resentment, and I charge you double your diligence in watching her, to prevent her escape. I send this by an honest swiss who attended me in my travels, a man I can trust, and so let him be your assistant, for the artful creature is enough to corrupt a nation, by her seeming innocence and simplicity, and she may have got a party perhaps among my servants with you, as she has here. Even John Arnold, whom I confided in, and favored more than any, has proved an execrable villain, and shall meet his reward for it. As to that college novice, Williams, I need not bid you take care he sees not this painted bobble, for I have ordered Mr. Shorter, my attorney, to throw him instantly into jail, on an action of debt, for money he has had of me, which I had intended never to carry to account against him, for I know all his rascally practices, hence what you write me of his perfidious intrigue with that girl, and his acknowledged contrivances for her escape, when he knew not for certain that I designed her any mischief, and when, if he had been guided by a sense of piety, or compassion for injured innocents as he pretends, he would have expostulated with me, as his function, and my friendship for him might have allowed him. But to enter into a vile intrigue with the amiable gouga, to favor her escape in so base a manner to say nothing of his disgraceful practices against me, in Sir Simon Darnford's family, of which Sir Simon himself has informed me, is a conduct that, instead of preferring the ungrateful wretch as I had intended, shall pull down upon him utter ruin. Mr. Colbrand, my trusty Swiss, will obey you without reserve, if my other servants refuse. As for her denying that she encouraged his declaration, I believe it not. It is certain the speaking picture with all that pretended innocence and bashfulness would have run away with him. Yes, she would run away with a fellow that she had been acquainted with, and that not intimately, if you were as careful as you ought to be. Not a few days, at a time when she had the strongest assurances of my honour to her. Well, I think I now hate her perfectly, and though I will do nothing to her myself, yet I can bear for the sake of my revenge and my injured honour and slighted love, to see anything even what she most fears be done to her, and then she may be turned loose to her evil destiny, and echo to the woods and groves her piteous lamentations for the loss of her fantastical innocence, which the romantic idiot makes such a work about. I shall go to London with my sister Davvers, and for the moment I can disengage myself, which, perhaps, may be in three weeks from this time, I will be with you, and decide her fate and put an end to your trouble. Meantime, be doubly careful for this innocent, as I have warned you, is full of contrivances. I am your friend. I had but just read this dreadful letter through when Mrs. Jukes came up in a great fright, guessing at the mistake, and that I had her letter, and she found me with it open in my hand, just sinking away. What business said she had you to read my letter, and snatched it from me? You see, said she, looking upon it, it says Mrs. Jukes at top you ought in manners to have read no further. Oh, add not, said I, to my afflictions, I shall be soon out of all your ways. Mrs. too much, too much, I never can support this, and threw myself upon the couch in my closet and wept most bitterly. She read it in the next room, and came in again afterwards. Why, this, said she, is a sad letter indeed. I am sorry for it. But I heard you would carry your niceties too far. Leave me, leave me, Mrs. Jukes, said I, for a while. I cannot speak nor talk. Poor heart, said she. Well, I'll come up again presently, and hope to find you better. But here, take your own letter. I wish you well. But this is a sad mistake, and so she put down by me that which was intended for me. But I have no spirit to read it at present. Oh, man, man, hard-hearted, cruel man, what mischievous art thou not capable of, unrelenting, persecutor as thou art. I set ruminating, when I had a little come to myself, upon the terms of this wicked letter, and had no inclination to look into my own. The bad names, fools plaything, artful creature, wicked bobble, gugaw, speaking picture, are hard words for your poor Pamela, and I began to think whether I was not indeed a very naughty body, and had not done vile things. But when I thought of his having discovered poor John, and of Sir Simon's base officiousness, in telling him of Mr. Williams, with what he had resolved against him in revenge for his goodness to me, I was quite dispirited, and yet still more about that fearful coal-brand, and what he could see done to me. For then I was ready to gasp for breath, and my heart quite failed me. Then how dreadful are the words, that he will decide my fate in three weeks. Gracious heaven, said I, strike me dead before that time with a thunderbolt, or provide some way for my escaping these threatened mischiefs. God forgive me, if I sinned. At last I took up the letter directed for Mrs. Jukes, but designed for me, and I find that little better than the other. These are the hard terms it contains. Well have you done, perverse, forward, artful, yet foolish Pamela, to convince me before it was too late, how ill I had done to place my affections on so unworthy an object. I have vowed honor and love to your unworthiness, believing you a mirror of bashful modesty and unspotted innocence, and that no perfidious designs lurked in so fair a bosom. But now I have found you out, you specious hypocrite, and I see that, though you could not repose the least confidence in one you had known for years, and who, under my good mother's misplaced favor for you, had grown up in a manner with you, when my passion, in spite of my pride, and the difference of our condition, made me stoop to a meanness that now I despise myself for. Yet you could enter into an intrigue with a man you never knew, till within these few days passed, and resolved to run away with a stranger whom your fair face and insinuating arts had bewitched to break through all the ties of honor and gratitude to me, even at a time when the happiness of his future life depended upon my favor. Henceforth, for Pamela's sake, whenever I see a lovely face will I mistrust a deceitful heart, and whenever I hear of the greatest pretenses to innocence will I suspect some deep-laid mischief. You were determined to place no confidence in me, though I have solemnly over and over engaged my honor to you. What, though I had alarmed your fears in sending you one way, when you hoped to go another, yet had I not, to convince you of my resolution to do justly by you, although with great reluctance such then was my love for you, engaged not to come near you without your own consent, was not this a voluntary demonstration of the generosity of my intention to you? Yet how have you requited me, the very first fellow that your charming face and insinuating address could influence? You have practiced upon, corrupted, too, I may say, and even ruined, as the ungrateful wretch shall find, and thrown your forward self upon him, as therefore you would place no confidence in me. My honor owes you nothing, and in little time you shall find how much you have erred in treating as you have done, a man who was once your affectionate and kind friend. Mrs. Jukes has directions concerning you, and if your lot is now harder than you might wish, you will bear it the easier because your own rash folly has brought it upon you. Alas, for me, what a fate is mine to be thus thought artful and forward and ungrateful, when all I intended was to preserve my innocence, and when all the poor little shifts which his superior, wicked wit and cunning have rendered ineffectual, were forced upon me in my own necessary defense. When Mrs. Jukes came up to me again, she found me bathed in tears. She seemed as I thought to be moved to some compassion, and finding myself now entirely in her power, and that it is not for me to provoke her, I said. It is now I see in vain for me to contend against my evil destiny, and the superior arts of my barbarous master. I will resign myself to the divine will, and prepare to expect the worst, but you see how this poor Mr. Williams is drawn in and undone. I am sorry I am made the cause of his ruin, poor, poor man, to be thus involved, and for my sake too. But if you'll believe me, said I, I gave no encouragement to what he proposed, as to marriage, nor would he have proposed it, I believe, but as the only honourable way he thought was left to save me. And his principal motive to it at all was virtue and compassion to one in distress. What other view could he have? You know I am poor and friendless. All I beg of you is to let the poor gentleman have notice of my master's resentment, and let him fly the country, and not be thrown into jail. This will answer my master's end as well, for it will as effectually hinder him from assisting me, as if he was in a prison. Ask me, said she, to do anything that is in my power consistent with my duty and trust, and I will do it, for I am sorry for you both, but to be sure I shall keep no correspondence with him, nor let you. I offered to talk of a duty superior to that she mentioned, which would oblige her to help distressed innocence, and not permit her to go the lengths enjoined by lawless tyranny. But she plainly bit me be silent on that head, for it was in vain to attempt to persuade her to betray her trust. All I have to advise you, said she, is to be easy. Lay aside all your contrivances and arts to get away, and make me your friend, by giving me no reason to suspect you, for I glory in my fidelity to my master, and you have both practiced some strange sly arts to make such a progress as he has owned there was between you, so seldom as I thought you saw one another, and I must be more circumspect than I have been. This doubled my concern, for I now apprehended I should be much closer watched than before. Well, said I, since I have by the strange accident discovered my hard destiny, let me read over again that fearful letter of yours, that I may get it by heart, and with it feed my distress, and make calamity familiar to me. Then said she, let me read yours again, I gave her mine, and she lent me hers, and so I took a copy of it, with her leave. Because as I said I would buy it, prepare myself for the worst. And when I had done, I pinned it on the head of the couch. This said I, is the use I shall make of this wretched copy of your letter, and here you shall always find it wet with my tears. She said she would go down to order supper, and insisted upon my company to it. I would have excused myself, but she began to put on a commanding air, that I durst not oppose, and when I went down she took me by the hand and presented me to the most hideous monster I ever saw in my life. Here, Mr. Colbrand, said she, Here is your pretty ward and mine. Let us try to make her time with us easy. He bowed and put on his foreign grimaces, and seemed to bless himself. And in broken English told me, I was happy in the de-affections of the finest gentleman in the world. I was quite frightened and ready to drop down, and I will describe him to you, my dear father and mother. But now you will ever see this, and you shall judge if I had not reason, especially not knowing he was to be there, and being apprised as I was of his hated employment, to watch me closer. He is a giant of a man for stature, taller by a good deal than Harry Mollich in your neighborhood, and large, boned, and scraggie, and has a hand I never saw such and one in my life. He has great staring eyes like a bowls that frightened me so, fast jawbones sticking out, eyebrows hanging over his eyes, two great scars upon his forehead, and one on his left cheek, and two large whiskers, and a monstrous wide mouth, blubber lips, long yellow teeth, and a hideous grin. He wears his own frightful long hair, tied up in a great black bag, a black crepe-neck cloth, about a long ugly neck, and his throat sticking out like a wien. As to the rest he was dressed well enough and had a sword on, with a nasty red knot to it, leather garters buckled below his knees and a foot, near as long as my arm, I verily think. He said, he frightened the lady, and offered to withdraw, but she bit him not, and I told Mrs. Jukes, that as she knew I had been crying, she should not have called me to the gentleman without letting me know he was there. I soon went up to my closet, for my heart ached all the time I was at table, not being able to look upon him without horror, and this brute of a woman, though she saw my distress before this addition to it, no doubt did it on purpose to strike more terror into me, and indeed it had its effect, for when I went to bed I could think of nothing but his hideous person, and my master's more hideous actions, and thought them too well paired, and when I dropped asleep I dreamed they were both coming to my bedside, with the worst designs, and I jumped out of my bed in my sleep and frightened Mrs. Jukes, till waking with the terror. I told her my dream, and the wicked creature only laughed, and said, All I feared was but a dream, as well as that, and when it was over, and I was well awake I should laugh at it as such, and now I am come to the close of Wednesday the twenty-seventh day of my distress. Poor Mr. Williams is actually arrested and carried away to Stamford. So there is an end of all my hopes from him, poor gentleman. His over-security and openness have ruined us both. I was but too well convinced that we ought not to have lost a moment's time, but he was half angry, and thought me too impatient, and then his fatal confessions, and the detestable artifice of my master. But one might well think that he who had so cunningly and so wickedly contrived all his stratagems hitherto that it was impossible to avoid them would stick at nothing to complete them. I fear I shall soon find it so. But one stratagem I have just invented, though a very discouraging one to think of, because I have neither friends nor money, nor know one step of the way if I was out of the house, but let bulls and bears and lions and tigers and what is worse false treacherous deceitful men stand in my way, I cannot be in more danger than I am, and I depend nothing upon his three weeks. For how do I know now he is in such a passion, and has already begun his vengeance on poor Mr. Williams, that he will not change his mind, and come down to Lincolnshire before he goes to London? My stratagem is this. I will endeavor to get Mrs. Jukes to go to bed without me, as she often does, while I sit locked up in my closet, and as she sleeps very sound in her cursed sleep, of which she never fails to give notice by snoring. If I can but then get out between the two bars of the window, for you know I am very slender, and I find I can get my head through. Then I can drop upon the leds underneath, which are little more than my height, and which leds are over a little summer parlor that juts out towards the garden, and as I am light I can easily drop from them, for they are not high from the ground. Then I shall be in the garden, and then, as I have the key of the back door, I will get out. But I have another piece of cunning still. Good heaven, succeed to me my dangerous but innocent devices. I have read of a great captain, who, being in danger, leaped overboard into the sea, and his enemies as he swam, shooting at him with bows and arrows, he unloosed his upper garment, and took another course, while they stuck that full of their darts and arrows, and so he escaped and lived to triumph over them all. So what will I do but strip off my upper petticoat, and throw it into the pond with my neck-hankerchief? For to be sure, when they miss me, they will go to the pond first, thinking I have drowned myself, and so when they see some of my clothes floating there, they will be all employed in dragging the pond, which is a very large one, and as I shall not, perhaps, be missed till the morning. This will give me opportunity to get a great way off, and I am sure I will run for it when I am out, and so I trust that Providence will direct my steps to some good place of safety, and make some worthy body, my friend. For sure, if I suffer ever so, I cannot be in more danger, nor in worse hands than where I am, and with such avowed bad designs. O my dear parents, don't be frightened when you come to read this, but all will be over before you can see it, and so God direct me for the best. My writings for fear I should not escape, I will bury in the garden, for to be sure I shall be searched and used dreadfully if I can't get off, and so I will close here for the present to prepare for my plot. Prosper thou, O gracious protector of oppressed innocence. This last effort of thy poor handmaid, that I may escape the crafty devices and snares that have begun to entangle my virtue, and from which but by this one trial I see no way of escaping. O, whatever becomes of me, bless my dear parents, and protect poor Mr. Williams from ruin. For he was happy before he knew me. Just now, just now, I heard Mrs. Jukes, who is in her cups, own to the horrid coal-brand, that the robbing of poor Mr. Williams was a contrivance of hers, and executed by the groom and a helper in order to seize my letters upon him, which they missed. They are now both laughing at the dismal story, which they little think I overheard. O, how my heart aches! For what are not such wretches capable of? Can you blame me for endeavouring, through any danger, to get out of such clutches? Past eleven o'clock Mrs. Jukes has come up and gone to bed, bids me not stay long in my closet, but come to bed. O, for a dead sleep, for a treacherous brute! I never saw her so tipsy, and that gives me hopes. I have tried again, and find I can get my head through the iron bars. I am now all prepared, as soon as I hear her fast, and now I'll seal up these, and my other papers, my last work. And to thy providence, O my gracious God, commit the rest. Once more, God bless you both, and send us a happy meeting, if not here, in his heavenly kingdom. Amen. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, the 28th, 29th, 30th, and 31st days of my distress, and distress indeed. For here I am still, and everything has been worse and worse. O, the poor, unhappy Pamela, without any hope left and ruined in all my contrivances. But O, my dear parents, rejoice with me even in this low plunge of my distress, for your poor Pamela has escaped from an enemy worse than any she ever met with, an enemy she never thought of before, and was hardly able to stand against. I mean the weakness and presumption both in one of her own mind, which had well nigh had not the Divine Grace interposed, sunk her into the lowest last abyss of misery and perdition. I will proceed as I have opportunity with my sad relation, for my pen and ink, in my now doubly secured closet, are all I have to employ myself with, and indeed I have been so weak, that till yesterday evening I have not been able to hold a pen. I took with me but one shift, besides what I had on, and two handkerchiefs and two caps which my pocket held, for it was not for me to encumber myself, and all my stock of money which was but five or six shillings, to set out for I knew not where, and got out of the window, not without some difficulty, sticking a little at my shoulders and hips, but I was resolved to get out if possible. And it was farther from the leds than I thought, and I was afraid I had sprained my ankle, and when I had dropped from the leds to the ground it was still farther off, but I did pretty well there at least. I got no hurt to hinder me from pursuing my intentions. So being now on the ground I hid my papers under a rose-bush, and covered them with mould, and there they still lie as I hope. When I hide away to the pond the clock struck twelve just as I got out, and it was a dark, misty night and very cold, but I felt it not then. When I came to the pond side I flung in my upper coat as I had designed, and my neck handkerchief, and a round-eared cap with a knot, and then with great speed ran to the door and took the key out of my pocket, my poor heart beating all the time against my bosom as if it would have forced its way through it, and beat it well might, for I then, too late, found that I was most miserably disappointed, for the wicked woman had taken off that lock, and put another on, so that my key would not open it. I tried and tried and, feeling about, I found a padlock besides on another part of the door. Oh, then how my heart sunk! I dropped down with grief and confusion, unable to stir or support myself for a while, but my fears awakening my resolution, and knowing that my attempt would be as terrible for me as any other danger I could then encounter. I clambered up upon the ledges of the door, and upon the lock, which was a great wooden one, and reached the top of the door with my hands, then little thinking I could climb so well, I made shift to lay hold on the top of the wall with my hands. But alas for me, nothing but ill luck, no escape for poor Pamela. The wall being old, the bricks I held by gave way, just as I was taking a spring to get up, and down came I, and received such a blow upon my head, with one of the bricks, that it quite stunned me, and I broke my shins and my ankle besides, and beat off the heel of one of my shoes. In this dreadful way, flat upon the ground, lay poor I, for I believe five or six minutes, and then, trying to get up, I sunk down again two or three times, and my left hip and shoulder were very stiff and full of pain with bruises, and besides my head bled and ached grievously with the blow I had with the brick, yet these hurts I valued not, but crept a good way upon my feet and hands, in search of a ladder I just recollected to have seen against the wall two days before, on which the gardener was nailing an ectorene branch that was loosened from the wall, but no ladder could I find, and the wall was very high, what now thought I must become of the miserable Pamela. Then I began to wish myself most heartily again in my closet, and to repent of my attempt, which I now censured as rash, because it did not succeed. God forgive me, but a sad thought came just then into my head. I tremble to think of it. Indeed my apprehensions of the usage I should meet with had like to have made me miserable forever. Oh, my dear, dear parents, forgive your poor child, but being then quite desperate, I crept along till I could raise myself on my staggering feet, and away limp die, what to do, but to throw myself into the pond, and so put a period to all my griefs in this world. But oh, to find them infinitely aggravated, had I not by the divine grace been withheld in a miserable eternity, as I have escaped this temptation, blessed be God for it, I will tell you my conflicts on this dreadful occasion, that the divine mercies may be magnified in my deliverance, that I am yet on this side the dreadful gulf from which there could have been no return. It was well for me, as I have since thought, that I was so maimed, as made me the longer before I got to the water. For this gave me time to consider, and abated the impetuousness of my passions, which possibly might otherwise have hurried me in my first transport of grief, on my seeing no way to escape, and the hard usage I had reason to expect from my dreadful keepers, to throw myself in. But my weakness of body made me move so slowly, that it gave time, as I said, for a little reflection, a ray of grace, to dart in upon my benighted mind, and so when I came to the pond-side, I sat myself down on the sloping bank, and began to ponder my wretched condition, and thus I reasoned with myself. Pause here a little, Pamela, on what thou art about before thou takest the dreadful leap, and consider whether there be no way yet left, no hope, if not to escape from this wicked house, yet from the mischiefs threatened thee in it. I then considered, and after I had cast about in my mind everything that could make me hope, and saw no probability, a wicked woman, devoid of all compassion, a horrid helper just arrived, in this dreadful coal-brand, an angry and resenting master, who now hated me, and threatened the most deflicting evils, and that I should, in all probability, be deprived even of the opportunity. I now had before me to free myself from all their persecutions. What hast thou to do, distressed creature, said I to myself, but throw thyself upon a merciful God, who knows how innocently I suffered, to avoid the merciless wickedness of those who are determined on my ruin? And then thought I, and oh, that thought was surely of the devil's instigation, for it was very soothing and powerful with me. These wicked wretches, who now have no remorse, no pity on me, will then be moved to lament their misdoings, and when they see the dead corpse of the unhappy Pamela dragged out to these dewy banks, and lying breathless at their feet, they will find that remorse to soften their obdurate heart, which now has no place there. And my master, my angry master, will then forget his resentments and say, oh, this is the unhappy Pamela that I have so causelessly persecuted and destroyed. Now do I see she preferred her honesty to her life, will he say, and is no hypocrite nor deceiver, but really was the innocent creature she pretended to be? Then thought I, will he perhaps shed a few tears over the poor corpse of his persecuted servant, and though he may give out, it was love and disappointment, and that perhaps in order to hide his own guilt, for the unfortunate Mr. Williams, yet will he be inwardly grieved, and order me a decent funeral, and save me, or rather this part of me, from the dreadful stake and the highway interment. And the young men and maidens all around my dear fathers will pity poor Pamela. But oh, I hope I shall not be the subject of their ballads and elegies, but that my memory for the sake of my dear father and mother may quickly slide into oblivion. I was once rising so indulgent, was I, to this sad way of thinking, to throw myself in. But again my bruises made me slow, and I thought, what are thou about to do, wretched Pamela? How knowest thou, though the prospect be all dark to thy short-sighted eye, what God may do for thee, even when all human means fail? God Almighty would not lay me under these sore afflictions, if he had not given me strength to grapple with them, if I will exert it as I ought. And who knows but that the very presence I so much dread of my angry and designing master, for he has had me in his power before, and yet I have escaped. May be better for me than these persecuting emissaries of his, who for his money are true to their wicked trust, and are hardened by that, and a long habit of wickedness, against compunction of heart. God can touch his heart in an instant, and if this should not be done, I can then but put an end to my life by some other means, if I am so resolved. But how do I know, thought I, that even these bruises and maims that I have gotten while I pursued only the laudable escape I had meditated, may not kindly have furnished me with the opportunity I am now tempted with, to precipitate myself, and of surrendering up my life spotless and unguilty, to that merciful being who gave it. Then thought I, who gave thee presumptuous as thou art, a power over thy life, who authorized thee to put an end to it, when the weakness of thy mind suggests not to thee a way to preserve it with honor. How knowest thou what purposes God may have to serve by the trials with which thou art now exercised? Art thou to put abound to the divine will, and to say, thus much will I bear, and no more, and wilt thou dare to say, that if the trial be augmented and continued, thou wilt sooner die than bear it? This act of despondency, thought I, is a sin, that if I pursue it, admits of no repentance, and can therefore hope no forgiveness, and wilt thou to shorten thy transitory griefs, heavy as they are, and weak as thou fanciest thyself, plunge both body and soul into everlasting misery? Hitherto, Pamela, thought I, thou art the innocent, the suffering Pamela, and wilt thou to avoid thy sufferings, be the guilty aggressor? And because wicked men persecute thee, wilt thou fly in the face of the Almighty, and distrust his grace and goodness, who can still turn all these sufferings to benefits? And how do I know, but that God, who sees all the lurking vileness of my heart, may have permitted these sufferings on that very score, and to make me rely solely on his grace and assistance, who perhaps have too much prided myself in a vain dependence on my own foolish contrivances? Then again thought I, wilt thou suffer in one moment all the good lessons of thy poor, honest parents, and the benefit of their example, who have persisted in doing their duty, with resignation to the divine will amidst the extreme degrees of disappointment, poverty, and distress, and the persecutions of an ungrateful world, and merciless creditors, to be thrown away upon thee, and bring down, as in all probability, this thy rashness will, their gray hairs with sorrow to the grave, when they shall understand that their beloved daughter, slighting the tenders of divine grace, despairing of the mercies of a protecting God, has blemished in this last act a whole life, which they had hitherto approved and delighted in. What then presumptuous Pamela, dost thou here, thought I? Quit with speed, these perilous banks, and fly from these curling waters that seem in their meaning murmurs this still night, to reproach thy rashness, tempt not God's goodness on the mossy banks that have been witnesses of thy guilty purpose, and while thou hast power left thee, avoid the tempting evil, lest thy grand enemy, now repulsed by divine grace, and due reflection, return to the assault with a force that thy weakness may not be able to resist, and let one rash moment destroy all the convictions, which now have awed thy rebellious mind into duty and resignation to the divine will, and so saying, I arose, but was so stiff with my hurts, so cold with the moist dew of the night, and the wet grass on which I had sat, as also with the damp surrising from so large a piece of water, that with great pain I got from this pond, which now I think of with terror, and bending my limping steps towards the house, look refuge in the corner of an outhouse, where wood and coals are laid up for family use, till I should be found by my cruel keepers and consigned to a more wretched confinement, and worse usage than I had hitherto experienced, and there behind a pile of firewood I crept and lay down, as you may imagine, with a mind just broken, and a heart sensible to nothing but the extremist woe and dejection.