Serve him. And so my sonnet ends.
O may he make you rich amends,
For all your loves to Pamela.
Here it is necessary the reader should know, that when Mr B. found Pamela’s virtue was not to be subdued, and he had in vain tried to conquer his passion for her, he had ordered his Lincolnshire coachman to bring his travelling chariot from thence, in order to prosecute his base designs upon the innocent virgin; for he cared not to trust his Bedfordshire coachman, who, with the rest of the servants, so greatly loved and honoured the fair damsel. And having given instructions accordingly, and prohibited his other servants, on pretence of resenting Pamela’s behaviour, from accompanying her any part of the way to her father’s, that coachman drove her five miles on her way; and then turning off, crossed the country, and carried her onward towards Mr B.’s Lincolnshire estate.
It is also to be observed, that the messenger of her letters to her father, who so often pretended business that way, was an implement in his master’s hands, and employed by him for that purpose; and always gave her letters first to him, and his master used to open and read them, and then send them on; by which means, as he hints to her (as she observes in one of her letters, p. 116), he was no stranger to what she wrote. Thus every way was the poor virgin beset.91 The intriguing gentleman thought fit to keep back from her father her three last letters; in which she mentions his concealing himself to hear her partitioning out her clothes, his last effort to induce her to stay a fortnight, his pretended proposal of the chaplain, and her hopes of speedily seeing them, as also her verses; and to send himself a letter to her father, which is as follows:
Honest Goodman Andrews,
You will wonder to receive a letter from me, but I have two motives for writing. The one, to acquaint you, that I have discovered the strange correspondence which has for some time past been carried on between you and your daughter, by means of my servant, John Arnold: whose part in it I shall resent as becomes me.
Strange correspondence, I call it, as the concerns of my family are exposed in it, and as great and indecent liberties are taken with my character.
The other, that it has also come to my knowledge, that the girl has a love affair with a young clergyman, for whom I intend to provide; but who at present has no other dependence, than my favour.
As to the first, I must tell you, that you ought not to have countenanced such culpable freedoms in the girl. Nor would you, I presume (for I am told that you are a prudent man), if you had known, as is the truth, that ever since the death of her kind lady, she has given herself up to the reading of novels and romances, and such idle stuff, and now takes it into her head, because her glass tells her she is pretty, that every body who looks upon her is in love with her. Hence, silly girl! her misrepresentations of those innocent familiarities of mine to her, on certain benevolent occasions (for I am a young man, and pride is not one of my failings) about which she so much alarms you; and which I was the less scrupulous about, as they were really innocent; as the girl was a favourite of my mother; and as I had no mean opinion, young as she is, of her discretion, as. well as of her modesty. But there is a time of life, Goodman Andrews, which may be looked upon as a test of prudence in girls, and in which misconduct blasts many a shining hope.
I say not this, however, to excite your apprehensions. With all her new-shewn faults, I think her a modest and a virtuous girl. If I did not, she would not engage the least of my cares for her, though so earnestly recommended to me by my mother in her last moments.
She has already acquainted you, that she is dismissed from my service; and you expect her soon with you. But you must not be surprized, that you see her not quite so soon as both you and she might hope. For I have thought it worthy of my promises made to her late dear lady, to send her for a little while out of the parson’s way, to a family of great repute; where she will have extraordinary opportunities of improvement, and be treated with great kindness. I will tell you my motives for taking this step; and the rather, as I took it without waiting for your concurrence.
In the first place, you yourself as you must needs acknowledge, have not acted so prudently as might have been expected from a man of your years, on the occasion I have mentioned: and she, perhaps, has been as free to others, as to you (young girls know no bounds to their vanity!) for she is become a mighty letter-writer.
In the next place, there was so much subtlety used, that (as I was resolved to serve and save them both) time was not allowed for consulting you.
For, you must know, that when challenged on proofs incontestibly clear, she would not own her regard for the young parson. Nor that either you or her mother knew anything of the matter. Nor would the young fellow acknowledge, that there was anything between them. I am very angry with him: a man of his cloth to deny facts so plainly proved, as must shew, that if he had not a view to marriage, he had worse.
Then my mother’s love for the girl, and her recommendation of her to me, gave her a sort of title to my care, and the rather, as you, her honest father, cannot do anything for them, should they marry. I have no doubt, but the foolish fellow would have followed her, had she gone to you: and you might have had difficulty enough to keep asunder two headstrong young people, who, by coming together before they had means to live, might have been the ruin of each other, were his views ever so honourable.
When the living falls, to which I have thoughts of preferring him, and he is thereby in a way to maintain a wife, let them (if you have no objection) come together in God’s name. All my generous and condescending cares for them both, will then be answered.
I have written a long letter to you, Goodman Andrews: and I have no doubt, if you have a grateful heart, but you will think me entitled to your thanks. But I desire not to be answered but by your good opinion, and by the confidence which you may repose in my honour. Being
Your hearty Friend to serve you.
It is easy to guess at the poor old man’s concern upon reading this letter, from so considerable a man. He knew not what course to take, and had no manner of doubt of his daughter’s innocence, and that foul play was designed her. Yet he sometimes hoped the best, and was ready to believe the surmised correspondence between the clergyman and her, having not received the letters she wrote, which would have cleared up that matter.
But after all, he resolved, as well to quiet his own as her mother’s uneasiness, to undertake a journey to Mr B.’s, and leaving his poor wife to excuse him to the farmer who employed him, he set out that very evening, late as it was; and travelling all night, found himself soon after daylight at Mr B.’s gate, before the family was up: and there he sat down to rest himself, till he should see somebody stirring.
The grooms were the first he saw, coming out to water their horses; and he asked in so distressful a manner, what was become of Pamela, that they thought him crazy; and said, ‘Why, what have you to do with Pamela, old fellow? Get out of the horses’ way.’ ‘Where is your master?’ said the poor man; ‘pray, gentlemen, don’t be angry: my heart is almost broken.’ ‘He never gives anything at the door, I assure you,’ says one of the grooms; ‘so you’ll lose your labour.’ ‘I am not a beggar yet,’ said the poor old man; ‘I want nothing of him, but my Pamela! O my child! my child!’
‘I’ll be hanged,’ said one of them, ‘if this is not Mrs Pamela’s father.’ ‘Indeed, indeed,’ said he, wringing his hands, ‘I am’; and weeping, ‘Where is my child, where is my Pamela?’ ‘We beg your pardon, father,’ said one of them; ‘but she is gone home to you: how long have you been come from home?’ ‘O! but last night,’ said he; ‘I have travelled all night: is the ‘squire at home, or is he not?’ ‘Yes, but he is not stirring,’ said the groom, ‘as yet.’ ‘Thank God for that!’ said he; ‘thank God for that! Then I hope I may be permitted to speak to him.’ They asked him to go in, and he stepped into the stable, and sat down on the stairs there, wiping his eyes, and sighing so bitterly, that it grieved the servants to hear him.
The
family was soon raised, with the report of Pamela’s father coming to enquire after his daughter; and the maids would fain have had him go into the kitchen. But Mrs Jervis, having been told of his coming, arose, and hastened down to her parlour, and took him in with her, and there heard all his sad story, and read the letter. She wept bitterly; but yet endeavoured before him to hide her concern; and said, ‘Well, Goodman Andrews, I cannot help weeping to” see you weep; let nobody see my master’s letter, whatever you do. I dare say your daughter’s safe.’
‘But I see,’ said he, ’that you, madam, know nothing about her: if all was right, so good a gentlewoman as you are, would have been let into the secret To be sure you thought she was with me!’
‘My master,’ replied she, ‘does not always inform his servants of his proceedings; but you need not doubt his honour: you have his hand for it. And you may see he can have no design upon her, because he is not from hence, and does not talk of going hence.’ ‘That is all I have to hope for!’ said he; ‘that is all, indeed! But – ‘and was going on, when the report of his coming having reached Mr B. he came down, in his gown and slippers, into the parlour where he and Mrs Jervis were talking.
‘What’s the matter, Goodman Andrews? what’s the matter?’ ‘O my child! ‘said the good old man; ‘give me my child! I beseech you, sir.’ ‘Why, I thought,’ says Mr B., ‘that I had satisfied you about her: sure you have not the long letter I sent you, written with my own hand.’ ‘Yes, yes, but I have, sir, and that brought me hither; and I have walked all night.’ ‘Poor man! ‘returned he, with great seeming compassion, ‘I am sorry for it, truly! Why your daughter has made strange confusion in my family; and if I thought it would have disturbed you so much, I would e’en have let her have gone home; but what I did was to serve her and you too. She is very safe, I do assure you, Goodman Andrews; and you may take my honour for it, I would not injure her for the world. Do you think I would, Mrs Jervis?’ ‘No, I hope not, sir!’ said she. ’Hope not!’ said the poor man, ‘so do I! but, pray, sir, give me my child; that is all I desire; and I’ll take care no clergyman shall come near her.’
‘Why, London is a great way off,’ said Mr B. ‘and I can’t send for her back presently.’ ‘What, then, sir,’ said he, ‘have you sent my poor Pamela to London?’ ‘I would not have it said so,’ replied Mr B., ‘but I assure you, upon my honour, she is quite safe and satisfied, and will quickly inform you by letter, that she is. She is in a reputable family, no less than a bishop’s; and is to wait on his lady, till I get the matter over that I mentioned to you.’
‘O how shall I know this?’ replied he. ‘What!’ said Mr B. pretending anger, ‘am I to be doubted? Do you believe I can have any design upon your daughter? And if I had, do you think I would take such methods as these to effect it? Why, surely, man, thou forgettest whom thou talkest to!’ ‘O, sir,’ said he, ‘I beg your pardon; but consider my dear child is in the case: let me know what bishop, and where; and I’ll travel to London on foot to see my daughter, and then shall be satisfied.’
‘Why, Goodman Andrews, I believe thou hast read romances as well as thy daughter, and thy head’s turned with them. May I not have my word taken? Do you think, once more, I would offer anything dishonourable to your daughter? Pr’ythee, man, recollect a little who I am. But if I am not to be believed, what signifies talking?’ ‘Pray forgive me, sir,’ said the poor man; ‘but there is no harm to say, What bishop’s, and where he lives?’ ‘What, and so you’d go troubling his lordship with your impertinent fears and stories! Will you be satisfied, if you have a letter from her within a week (it may be less if she be not negligent), to assure you all is well with her?’ ‘Why that,’ said the poor man, ‘will be some comfort.’ ‘I can’t answer for her negligence,’ said Mr B. ‘if she don’t write. But if she should send a letter to you, Mrs Jervis (for I desire not to see it; I have had trouble enough about her already) be sure you send it by a man and horse the moment you receive it, to her honest father.’ ‘To be sure I will,’ answered she. ‘Thank your honour,’ said the good man. ‘But must I wait a whole week for news of my child? It will be a year to me.’
‘I tell you,’ said Mr B. ‘it must be her own fault, if she don’t write: it is what I insisted upon for my own reputation; and I shall not stir from this house, I assure you, till she is heard from, and that to satisfaction.’ ‘God bless your honour,’ said the poor man, ‘as you say and mean the truth.’ ‘Amen, Amen, Goodman Andrews,’ returned Mr B., ‘you see I am not afraid to say Amen. So, Mrs Jervis, make the good man welcome, and let me have no uproar about the matter.’
He then, whispering her, bid her give him a couple of guineas to bear his charges home; telling him, he should be welcome to stay there till the letter came, and he would then be convinced of his honour, and particularly that he should not leave his own house for some time to come.
The poor man staid and dined with Mrs Jervis, and in hopes to hear from his beloved daughter in a few days, accepted the present, and set out for his own house.
Mean time Mrs Jervis, and all the family, were in the utmost grief for the trick put upon the poor Pamela, and she and the steward represented it to their master in as moving terms as they durst: but were forced to rest satisfied with his general assurances of intending her no dishonour; which, however, Mrs Jervis little believed, from the pretence he had made in his letter, of the correspondence between Pamela and the young clergyman; which she knew to be all mere invention; though she durst not say so.
But the week after they were made a little more easy, by the following letter brought by an unknown hand, and left for Mrs Jervis. How procured, will be shewn in the sequel.
Dear Mrs Jervis,
I must acquaint you, that instead of being carried by Robin to my father’s I have been most vilely tricked,92 and am driven to a place which I am not at liberty to mention. I am not, however, used unkindly, in the main; and I write to beg of you to let my dear father and mother (whose hearts must be well-nigh broke) know that I am well, and that I am, and by the Grace of God, ever will be, their honest, as well as dutiful daughter. I am, dear Mrs Jervis,
Your obliged Friend,
PAMELA ANDREWS.
I must neither send date nor place: but have most solemn assurances of honourable usage. This is the only time my low estate has been a trouble to me, since it has subjected me to the terrors I have undergone. Love to your good self, and all my dear fellow-servants. Adieu! Adieu! But pray for your poor PAMELA.
This, though it was far from quieting Mrs Jervis’s apprehensions, was shewn to the whole family, and to Mr B. himself, who pretended not to know how it came; and Mrs Jervis sent it away to the good old couple. They at first suspected it was forged, and not their daughter’s hand; but finding the contrary, they were a little easier; and having enquired of all their acquaintance, what could be done, and no one being able to put them in a way how to proceed, with effect, on so extraordinary an occasion, against so rich and so resolute a man; and being afraid to make matters worse (though they saw plainly enough that she was in no bishop’s family, and so mistrusted all the rest of his story), they applied themselves to prayers for their poor daughter, and for a happy issue to an affair that almost distracted them.
We shall now leave the honest old pair, praying for their dear Pamela; and return to the account she herself gives of all this; having written it journal-wise, to amuse and employ her time, in hopes some opportunity might offer to send it to her friends, (and, as was her constant view) that she might afterwards look back upon her dangers; and either approve or repent of her conduct in them.
LETTER XXXII
O my dearest Father and Mother,
Let me write, and bewail my miserable fate, though I have no hope that what I write can be conveyed to your hands! I have now nothing to do but write, and weep, and fear, and pray! But yet what can I hope for, when I seem to be devoted as a victim to the will of a wicked violator of all the laws of God and man! But, gracious Father of all Mer
cies, forgive me my impatience. Thou best knowest what is fit for thine handmaid! And as Thou sufferest not thy poor creatures to be tempted above what they can bear, I will resign myself to thy will. And still, I hope, desperate as my condition seems, that as these trials are not the effects either of my presumption or vanity, I shall be enabled to overcome them, and in thine own good time be delivered from them.
Thus do I hourly pray! And! O join with me, my dear parents! But, alas! how can you know, how can I reveal to you, the dreadful situation of your poor daughter! The unhappy Pamela may be undone, before you can know her hard lot!
O the unparalelled wickedness of such men as these, who call themselves gentlemen! who pervert the bounty of Providence to them, to their own everlasting perdition, and to the ruin of oppressed innocence!
But now I will tell you what has befallen me. And yet how shall you receive what I write? Here is no honest John to carry my letters to you! And, besides, I am watched in all my steps; and no doubt shall be, till my hard fate ripen his wicked projects for my ruin. I will every day, however, write my sad state; and some way, perhaps, may be opened to send the melancholy scribble to you. But when you know it, what will it do but aggravate your troubles? For what, alas! can the abject poor do against the mighty rich, when they are determined to oppress?
I will begin with my account from the last letter I wrote you, in which I inclosed my poor verses; and continue it at times, as I have opportunity; though, as I said, I know not how it can reach you.
The often wished-for Thursday morning came, when I was to set out. I had taken my leave of my fellow-servants over-night and a mournful leave it was to us all: for men, as well as women-servants, wept to part with me; and, for my part, I was overwhelmed with tears on the affecting instances of their love. They all would have made me little presents; but I would not take anything from the lower servants. But Mr Longman would make me accept of several yards of Holland, and a silver snuff-box, and a gold ring, which he desired me to keep for his sake; and he wept over me; but said, ‘I am sure, so good a maiden God will bless; and though you return to your poor father again, and his low estate, yet Providence will find you out: remember I tell you so; and one day, though I may not live to see it, you will be rewarded.’ ‘O dear Mr Longman,’ said I, ‘you make me too rich; and yet I must be further indebted to you: for I shall be often scribbling’ (I little thought it would so soon be my only employment), ‘and I will beg you, sir, to favour me with some paper; and as soon as I get home, I will write you a letter, to thank you for all your kindness to me; and a letter also to good Mrs Jervis.’