‘Ay, ay,’ says she, ‘I understand something of the matter. You have so great power over my master, that you will be soon mistress of us all; and so, I will oblige you, if I can. And I must and will call you madam; for I am instructed to shew you all respect, I assure you.’ See, my dear father, see what a creature this is!
‘Who instructed you to do so?’ said I. ‘Who! my master, to be sure,’ answered she. ‘Why,’ said I, ‘how can that be? You have not seen him lately.’ ‘No, that’s true; but I have been expecting you here sometime,’ [O the deep laid wickedness! thought I] ‘and besides, I have a letter of instructions by Robin; but, perhaps, I should not have said so much.’ ‘If you would shew me those instructions,’ said I, ‘I should be able to judge how far I could, or could not, expect favour from you, consistent with your duty.’ ‘I beg your excuse, fair mistress, for that,’ returned she; ‘I am sufficiently instructed, and you may depend upon it, I will observe my orders; and so far as they will let me, so far will I oblige you; and that is saying all in one word.’
‘You will not, I hope,’ replied I, ‘do an unlawful or wicked thing, for any master in the world.’ ‘Look-ye,’ said she, ‘he is my master; and if he bids me do a thing that I can do, I think I ought to do it; and let him, who has power to command me, look to the lawfulness of it.’ ‘Suppose,’ said I, ‘he should bid you cut my throat, would you do it?’ ‘There’s no danger of that,’ replied she; ‘but to be sure I would not; for then I should be hanged; since that would be murder.’ ‘And suppose,’ said I, ‘he should resolve to ensnare a poor young creature, and ruin her, would you assist him in such wickedness? And do you not think, that to rob a person of her virtue, is worse than cutting her throat?’
‘Why now,’ said she, ‘how strangely you talk! Are not the two sexes made for each other? And is it not natural for a man to love a pretty woman? And suppose he can obtain his desires, is that so bad as cutting her throat?’ And then the wretch fell a laughing, and talked most impertinently, and shewed me, that I had nothing to expect either from her virtue or compassion. And this gave me the greater mortification; as I was once in hopes of working upon her by degrees.
We ended our argument, as I may call it, here; and I desired her to shew me to the apartment allotted for me. ‘Why,’ said she, ‘lie where you list, madam; I can tell you, I must sleep with you for the present.’ ‘For the present!’ said I, and torture then wrung my heart! ‘But is it in your instructions, that you must be my bed-fellow?’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ replied she. ‘I am sorry for it,’ said I. ‘Why,’ said she, ‘I am wholesome, and cleanly too, I’ll assure you.’ ‘I don’t doubt that,’ said I; ‘but I love to lie by myself.’ ‘How so?’ returned she; ‘was not Mrs Jervis your bed-fellow at the other house?’
‘Well,’ said I, quite sick of her and my condition, ‘you must do as you are instructed. I can’t help myself; and am a most miserable creature.’
She repeated her insufferable nonsense, ‘Mighty miserable indeed, to be so well beloved by one of the finest gentlemen in England!’
I am now come down in my writing to this present SATURDAY, and a deal I have written
My wicked bed-fellow has very punctual orders, it seems; for she locks me and herself in, and ties the two keys (for there is a double door to the room with different locks) about her wrist, when she goes to-bed. She talks of the house having been attempted to be broke open two or three times; whether to fright me, I can’t tell; but it makes me fearful; though not so much as I should be, if I had not other and greater fears.
I slept but little last night, and arose, and pretended to sit by the window which looks into the spacious gardens; but I was writing all the time, from break of day, to her getting up, and after, when she was absent.
At breakfast she presented the two maids to me, the cook and house-maid: poor souls they seem to be, and equally devoted to her and ignorance.
There are (besides the coachman Robert) a groom, a helper, a footman; all strange creatures, that promise nothing; and all likewise devoted to this woman. The gardener looks like a good honest man; but he is kept at distance, and seems reserved. Yet who knows, but I may find a way to escape before my wicked master comes?
I wondered I saw not Mr Williams the clergyman, but would not ask after him, apprehending it might give some jealousy to Mrs Jewkes; but when I had seen the rest, he was the only one I had hopes of; for I thought his cloth would set him above assisting in my ruin. But in the afternoon he came; for it seems he has a little Latin school in the next village, about three miles distant, on the small profit of which he lives content, in hopes that something better will soon fall out through my master’s favour.
He is a sensible, and seems to be a serious young gentleman; and when I saw him, I confirmed myself in my hopes of him; for he seemed to take great notice of my distress and grief (which I could not hide if I would) though he was visibly afraid of Mrs Jewkes, who watched all our motions and words.
He has an apartment in the house; but only comes hither on Saturday afternoons and Sundays: and he preaches sometimes for the minister of the village.
I hope to go to church with him to-morrow: sure it is not in her instructions to deny me! My master cannot have thought of every thing; and something may strike out for me there.
I have asked her, for a feint, to help me to pens and ink, though I have been using my own so freely, when her absence would permit; for I desired to be left to myself as much as possible. She says she will oblige me; but then I must promise not to send any thing I write out of the house, without her seeing it. I said, I wanted only to divert my. melancholy; for I loved writing, as well as reading; but I had nobody to send to, she knew well enough.
‘No, not at present, may be,’ said she; ‘but I am told you are a great writer, and it is in my instructions to see all you write; so look you here,’ added she, ‘I will let you have a pen and ink and two sheets of paper; for this employment will divert you: but, as I told you, I must always see your writing, be the subject what it will.’ ‘That’s very hard,’ said I; ‘but may I not have to myself the closet in the room where we lie, with the key to lock up my things?’ ‘I believe I may consent to that,’ answered she; ‘and I will set it in order for you, and leave the key in the door. And there is an harpsichord too,’ said she. ‘Mr Williams says it is in tune, and you may play upon it to divert you; for I know my old lady taught you music: and you may, moreover, take what books you will out of my master’s library. You love books too well to damage them.’
This was agreeable enough. These books and my pen will be all my amusement; for I have no work given me to do; and though the harpsichord be in tune, I am sure I shall not find my mind in tune to play upon it. I went directly, and picked out some books from the library, with which I filled a shelf in the closet she gave me possession of; and from these I hope to receive improvement, as well as amusement. But no sooner was her back turned, than I set about hiding a pen of my own here, and another there, for fear I should come to be denied, and a little of my ink in a broken china-cup, and a little in a small phial I found in the closet; and a sheet of the paper here-and-there among my linen, with a bit of the wax, and a few of the wafers, given me by good Mr Longman, in several places, lest I should be searched; and something I hope may happen to open a way for my deliverance, by these or some other means. How happy shall I think myself, if I can by any means get away before my wicked master arrives! If I cannot, what will become of your poor Pamela? Since he will have no occasion, I am sure, to send this vile woman out of the way, as he would have done Mrs Jervis once!
I was going to beg your prayers, as I used to do; but, alas! you cannot know my distress; yet I am sure I have your hourly prayers. I will write on, as things happen, that if a way should open, my scribble may be ready to be sent to you. If I can escape with my innocence, with what pleasure shall I afterwards read these my letters, as I may call them!
O how I want such an obliging honest-hearted man as John Arnold!
SUNDAY
Alas! Alas! I am denied by this barbarous woman to go to church! And she has behaved very rudely to poor Mr Williams, for pleading for me. I find he is to be forbid the house, if she pleases. Poor gentleman! all his dependence is upon my master, who intends to give him a very good living when the incumbent dies; and he has kept his bed these four months of old age and dropsy.
Mr Williams pays me great respect, and I see pities me; and would perhaps assist me in an escape from these dangers, if I knew how to communicate my thoughts to him. I should be very much grieved to ruin a poor young gentleman, by engaging him to favour me: yet one would do any thing that one honestly might, to preserve one’s innocence; and Providence would, perhaps, make it up to Mr Williams!
Something, I hope, will offer. Mr Williams whisperingly hinted just now, that he wanted an opportunity to speak to me.
The wretch (I think I will always call her the wretch henceforth) insults me more and more. I was but talking to one of the maids just now, indeed a little to sound her; and she popped upon us, and said, ‘Nay, madam, don’t offer to tempt poor innocent country wenches to betray their trust: you wanted her, I heard you say, to take a walk with you. But I charge you, Nan, never stir with her, nor obey her, without letting me know it; no, not in the smallest trifles. I say, walk with you!’ repeated she, with disdain, ‘and where would you go, I tro’?’ ‘Why, barbarous Mrs Jewkes,’ said I, ‘only to look a little up the elm walk, since you would not let me go to church.’
‘Nan,’ said she, to shew me how much they were all in her power, and to carry her insolence to the utmost height, ‘pull off madam’s shoes, and bring them to me. I have taken care of her others.’ ‘Indeed she shan’t,’ said I. ‘Nay,’ said Nan, ‘but I must, if my mistress’ bids me; so pray, madam, don’t hinder me.’ And so, indeed, (would you believe it?) she took my shoes off; I was too much surprized to make resistance. I have not yet power to relieve my mind by my tears. I am quite stupified!
Now I will give you a picture of this wretch! She is a broad, squat, pursy,108 fat thing, quite ugly, if any thing human can be so called; about forty years old. She has a huge hand, and an arm as thick — I never saw such a thick arm in my life. Her nose is flat and crooked, and her brows grow down over her eyes; a dead, spiteful, grey, goggling eye: and her face is flat and broad; and as to colour, looks as if it had been pickled a month in saltpetre. I dare say she drinks. She has a hoarse man-like voice, and is as thick as she’s long; and yet looks so deadly strong, that I am afraid she would dash me at her foot in an instant, if I were to vex her. So that with a heart more ugly than her face, she is at times (especially when she is angry) perfectly frightful: and I shall be ruined, to be sure, if heaven protects me not; for she is very, very wicked.
What poor and helpless spite is this! But the picture is too near the truth notwithstanding. She sent me a message just now, that I shall have my shoes again, if I will let her walk with me (let her waddle with me rather, she should have said) in the garden.
Since I am so much in the power of this hated wretch, I will go with her. O for my worthy, dear Mrs Jervis! Or, rather, to be safe with my dear father and mother!
I have just now some joy to communicate to you. This moment I am told John, honest John, is come on horseback! A blessing on his faithful heart! What pleasure does this news give me! But I’ll tell you more by-and-by. I must not let her know I am so glad to see this worthy John. But, poor man! he looks sad, as I see him out of the window! What can be the matter! I hope you, my dear parents, are well, and Mrs Jervis, and Mr Longman, and every body, my master not excepted – for I wish him to live, and repent of all his wickedness.
O my dear father! what a world do we live in!
Here is John arrived, as I told you. He came to me, with Mrs Jewkes, who whispered, that I would say nothing about the shoes, for my own sake, as she said.
John saw my distress, by my red eyes, and my haggard looks, I suppose; and his own eyes ran over, though he would have hid his tears, if he could, from Mrs Jewkes. ‘O Mrs Pamela!’ said he; ‘O Mrs Pamela!’ ‘Well, honest fellow-servant,’ said I, ‘I cannot help it at present: I am obliged to your honesty and kindness, however.’ And then he wept more.
My heart was ready to break to see his grief; for it is a touching thing to see a man cry. ‘Tell me the worst,’ said I, ‘honest, worth John, tell me the worst. Is my master coming?’ ‘No, no,’ said he, and sobbed. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘is there any news of my poor father and mother? How do they do?’ ‘I hope, well,’ said he; ‘I know nothing to the contrary.’ ‘There is no mishap, I hope, to Mrs Jervis, or Mr Longman, or to any of my fellow-servants!’ ‘No,’ with a long N—o, as if his heart would burst. ‘Well, thank God then!’ said I.
‘The man’s a fool,’ said Mrs Jewkes, ‘I think; what ado is here! why, sure thou’rt in love, John. Dost thou not see young madam is well? What ails thee, man?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ śaid he; ‘but I am such a fool, as to cry for joy to see good Mrs Pamela. But,’ turning to me, ‘I have a letter for you.’
I took it, and saw it was from my master; so I put it in my pocket.
‘And here is one for you, Mrs Jewkes,’ continued he; ‘but yours, Mrs Pamela, requires an answer, which I must carry back early in the morning; or to-night, if you please to write time enough for me to set out’.
‘You have no more notes or letters, John,’ said Mrs Jewkes, ‘for Mrs Pamela, have you?’ ‘No,’ answered he, ‘I have only, besides the letter, every body’s kind love and service.’ ‘Aye, to us both, to be sure,’ said Mrs Jewkes.
I retired to read the letter, blessing John as I went, and calling him a good man.
This is a copy of it.
‘Dear PAMELA,
‘I send purposely to you on an affair that concerns you very much, and me somewhat, but chiefly for your sake. I am sensible that I have proceeded by you in such a manner as may justly alarm you, and give concern to your honest friends. All my pleasure is, that I can and will make you amends for the uneasiness I have given you. I sent to your father the day after your departure, and assured him of my honour to you; and made excuses, such as ought to have satisfied him, for your not going to him. But he came to me next morning, and expressed so much uneasiness, on account of your health and welfare, that, in pity to him, and to your mother (whose apprehensions, he said, would be greater than his own, since he himself was willing to rely upon my solemn assurances of acting honourably by you), I promised that he should see a letter written from you to Mrs Jervis, to satisfy him that you are well, and not unhappy.
‘As compassion to your aged parents, for whom you have so laudable an affection, is solely my motive, I have no doubt but you will oblige me with transcribing, in the form of a letter, directed to Mrs Jervis, to be sent to them, the few inclosed lines. And the less doubt have I, as in writing them, I have put myself as near as possible in your situation, and expressed your sense with a warmth, that I fear will have too much possessed you. I must desire that you will not alter one tittle of the prescribed form. If you do, it will be impossible for me to send it, or that it should answer the considerate end which I propose by it
‘I have already promised you, that I will not approach you without your consent. If I find you easy, and satisfied in your present abode, I will keep my word. Nor shall your restraint last long: only till I have managed an affair with Lady Davers;109 which once determined, I will lose no time to convince you of the honour of my intentions in your favour. Mean time, I am,
Your true Friend, &c.’
The letter he prescribed for me was this:
’Dear Mrs JERVIS,
‘I must acquaint you, that instead of being carried by Robin to my father’s, I have been driven to a place which I am not at liberty to mention. I am not, however, used unkindly; 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 ever will be, their honest as well as dutiful dau
ghter. I am, dear Mrs Jervis,
Your obliged friend, PAMELA ANDREWS.
‘I must neither send date nor place; but have most solemn assurance of honourable usage.’
I knew not what to do on this most strange request. But my heart bled so much for you, my dear father, who had taken the pains to go yourself, and enquire after your poor daughter, as well as for my mother, that I resolved to write, and pretty much in the above* form, that it might be sent to pacify you, till I could let you, some-how or other, know the true state of the matter. I shall inclose a copy, and what I write to my wicked master himself:
‘What, sir, have I done, that I should be singled out to be the only object of your cruelty? And how can I have the least dependence upon your solemn assurances, after what has passed, and being not permitted to write to my friends, or to let them know where I am?
‘Nothing but your promise of not seeing me here in my deplorable bondage, can give me the least ray of hope.
‘Do not, I beseech you, drive your distressed servant upon a rock, that may be the ruin both of her soul and body! You don’t know, sir, how dreadfully I dare, weak as I am of heart and intellect, were I to find my virtue in danger. Why, O why, should a poor unworthy creature, who ought to be below the notice of such a gentleman as you, be made the sport of a high condition? Can there be any other reason assigned for your proceedings by her, but this one, that she is not able to defend herself, nor has a friend that can right her?
‘I have, sir, in part to shew my obedience, but, indeed, I own, more to give ease to the minds of my poor distressed parents, followed pretty much the form you have prescribed for me, in a letter to Mrs Jervis; and the alterations I have made (for I could not help a few), are of such a nature, as, though they shew my just discontent, yet must answer the end you are pleased to say you propose by this letter.