In these papers, then, are included, An account of Mrs Jewkes’s arts, to draw me in to approve of Mr Williams’s proposal for marriage; and of my refusing to do so; and desiring you not to encourage his suit to me. Of Mr Williams’s being wickedly robbed, and a visit of the bad woman’s to him; whereby she discovered all his secrets. Of my including to get off, while she was gone; and being ridiculously prevented by my foolish fears. An acknowledgment of my having the key of the back-door. An account of Mrs Jewkes’s writing to my master all the secrets she had discovered of Mr Williams; and of her behaviour to me and him upon it. Of the continuance of my correspondence with Mr Williams by the tiles; begun in the parcel you had. Of my reproaches of Mr Williams for revealing the secrets of his heart to Mrs Jewkes. His letter to me in answer, threatening to expose my master, if he deceived him; and in which he mentions John Arnold’s correspondence with him, and a letter which John sent, and was intercepted, as it seems. An account of the correspondence being carried on by a friend of Mr Williams’s at Gainsborough; and of his design of providing a horse for me, and one for himself, in order to get me off; and of what Mr Williams had owned to Mrs Jewkes; and of my discouraging his proposals. Then it contained a pressing letter of mine to Mr Williams, urging him to oblige me with the means of escaping, before my master came; with his half-angry answer to me. There was also in this parcel your good letter to me, my dear father, sent to me by Mr Williams’s conveyance; in which you tell me, you would have me encourage Mr Williams, but leave it to me to pursue my own inclinations; but in which, however, fortunately enough, you take notice of my being disinclined to marry. Also the substance of my answer to Mr Williams’s chiding letter, in which I promise more patience, &c. Likewise a dreadful letter of my master to Mrs Jewkes, which, by mistake, was directed to me; and one to me, directed, by like mistake, to her; and very free reflections of mine upon both. I had also expressed on that occasion great concern for Mr Williams’s being deceived and ruined; and gave an account of Mrs Jewkes’s glorying in her wicked fidelity; together with a sad description of Monsieur Colbrand, a person he sent down to assist Mrs Jewkes in watching me. My concern was also farther expressed in them for poor Mr Williams’s being arrested and thrown into gaol; nor did I in them spare my master on this occasion. Then they contain ample particulars of a contrivance of mine, to make my escape by the back-door; having, to amuse them, first thrown my petticoat and handkerchief into the pond: an attempt that had like to have ended very dreadfully for me! And then again I lament the ruin of Mr Williams as owing to his endeavours to serve me: and lastly, I relate that I overheard Mrs Jewkes brag of her contrivance to rob Mr Williams, in order to get at my papers; which, however, he preserved, and sent safe to you.
These, down to the issue of my unfortunate plot to escape, are, to the best of my remembrance, the contents of the papers, which this merciless woman seized: for, how badly I came off, and what followed, I still have safe (as I hope) sewed in my under-coat, about my hips.
In vain were all the prayers and tears that I could use to this vile woman, to prevail upon her not to shew them to my master. She had now, she said, found out the reason why I chose to be so much alone; and why I was always employed in writing. Often and often, she told me, she had searched every place she could think of, for writings, to no purpose till now. And she hoped there was nothing in them but what any body might see. ‘For,’ said she, ‘you know, you are all innocence!’ ‘Insolent creature,’ said I, ‘I am sure you are all guilt! And so you must do your worst; for now I can’t help myself; and I see there is no mercy to be expected from you.’
Just now, as my master was upon the stairs, (coming up to me, as I believe) she met him, and gave him my papers. ‘There, sir,’ said she; ‘you always said Mrs Pamela was a great writer; but I never could get any thing of hers before.’
He took them, and went down to the parlour again. And what with the gypsey affair, and what with this, I could not think of going down to dinner; and she told him that too; and so I suppose I shall have him up-stairs, as soon as his company is gone.
SATURDAY, Six o’ Clock
My master came up, and in a pleasanter manner than I expected, said, ‘So, Pamela, we have seized, it seems, your treasonable papers?’ ‘Treasonable! sir,’ said I, very sullenly. ‘Ay,’ said he, ‘I suppose so; for you are a great plotter; but I have not read them yet.’
‘Then, sir,’ said I, ‘it will be truly generous in you not to read them; but to give them to me again unread: they are written to my father and mother only,’ ‘What,’ replied he, ‘can you write to them that I may not see? I must read them before I return them.’ ‘Give me leave to say, sir,’ said I, ‘that you served me not well in the letters I used to write formerly. Was it worthy of the character of such a gentleman to contrive to get into your hands, by that false John Arnold, what your poor servant wrote to her father and mother?’ ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘by all means, every line that such a servant as my Pamela writes, be it to whom it will.’
Your Pamela! thought I. Then the sham-marriage came into my head; and indeed it has not been out of it since the gypsey affair. ‘But,’ said he, ‘have you any thing in these papers you would not have me see?’ ‘To be sure, sir,’ replied I, ‘there is; for what one writes to one’s father and mother is not for every body to see.’ ‘Nor,’ answered he, ‘am I every body.’
‘It was not to your disadvantage,’ added he, ‘that I did see the letters you hint at; for they gave me a very high opinion of you: and if I had not loved you, do you think I would have troubled myself about your letters?’
‘No great pride, sir, to me that! For they gave you such an opinion of me, that you was resolved to ruin me. And what advantage have they brought me, who have been made a prisoner, and used as I have been–’
‘Why, Pamela,’ interrupted he, a little seriously, ‘why this behaviour, for my goodness to you in the garden? This is not of a piece with your gendeness there. And you must not give me cause to think, that you are capable of taking advantage of my kindness to you.’ ‘Ah! sir,’ said I, ‘you know best your own heart and designs! But I fear I was too open-hearted then; and that you still keep your resolution to ruin me, and have only changed the form of your proceedings.’
‘I tell you once again,’ replied he, a little sternly, ‘that you cannot oblige me more, than by placing some confidence in my honour. But I shall possibly account for the cause of your foolish and perverse doubts, in these papers. You have been sincere to your father and mother, I question not, though you begin to make me suspect you. It is impossible you should be thus disobliging, after what last passed in the garden, if you were not prepossessed in some other man’s favour. And let me tell you, that if I find it so, it shall be attended with such effects as will make your heart bleed in every vein.’
He was going away in wrath. ‘One word, sir, one word,’ said I, ‘before you read my papers, since you will read them: pray make allowances for all the harsh reflections you will find in them, on your own conduct to me: and remember only, that they were not written for your sight; but were penned by a poor creature hardly used, and who was in constant apprehension of receiving from you the worst treatment you could inflict upon her.’
‘If that be all,’ said he, ‘and there be nothing of another nature, you have no cause for uneasiness; for read I not in your former letters as many saucy reflections upon myself as there were lines? and yet have I ever upbraided you on that score? Though, perhaps, I wished you had been more sparing of your freedoms of that sort.’
‘I am not afraid, sir,’ said I, ‘of being found guilty of a falsehood in what I have told you. I remember not all I wrote, yet I know I wrote my heart at the time; and that is not deceitful. And be pleased, sir, to bear in mind, that I always declared I thought myself right to endeavour to make my escape from my illegal restraint; and I hope you will not be angry, that I would have done so, if I could.’
‘I will judge you, never fear,’ said he, ‘as favourably
as you deserve; for you have too powerful a pleader within me here,’ putting his hand to his bosom: and saying so, went down stairs.
About nine o’clock he sent for me into the parlour. I went a little fearfully; and he held the papers in his hand, and said, ‘Now, Pamela, you come upon your trial.’ ‘I hope, sir,’ said I, ‘that I have a just judge.’ ‘Ay,’ returned he, ‘and you may hope for a merciful one too, or else I know not what will become of you.
‘I expect,’ continued he, ‘that you will answer directly, and plainly, to every question I shall ask you. In the first place, here are several love-letters between you and Williams.’ ‘Love-letters! sir,’ said I. ‘Well, call them what you will, I do not, with all the allowances you desired me to make for you, entirely like them.’ ‘Do you find, sir, that I gave any the least encouragement to his proposals?’ ‘Encouragement enough, Pamela! for one in your situation! and to a first declaration of love! The discouragement is no other than is practised by all your artful sex, in order to incite ours to pursue you.’ ‘I know nothing, sir,’ said I, ‘of the practices of artful women! I have no art. All I aimed at was all lawful means to preserve my innocence: and to avoid those snares which were laid to bring me to disgrace.’198
‘Well, so much for that,’ replied he. ‘But where (since you have kept so exact a journal of all that has passed) are the accounts previous to these here in my hand? ’ ‘My father has them, sir,’ said I. ‘By whose means?’ ‘By Mr Williams’s, sir.’ ‘Well answered,’ said he. ‘But cannot you contrive to get me a sight of them?’ ‘Contrive to get you a sight of them, sir!’ said I, ‘I wish I could have contrived to have kept from you those you have.’ ‘I must see them, Pamela,’ returned he, ‘or I shall never be easy. I must know how this correspondence, between you and Williams, began: and if I can see them, it shall be better for you, if they answer what these papers in my hand give me hope they will.’
‘I will tell you, sir, very faithfully,’ said I, ‘what the beginning was; for I was bold enough to be the beginner.’ ‘That won’t do,’ said he; ‘for though this point may appear a punctilio199 to you, to me it is of high importance.’ ‘If you will permit me, sir,’ said I, ‘to go to my father, I will send the papers to you by any servant you shall send for them.’ ‘Will you so? But I dare say, if you will write for them, they will send them to you: and I desire you will.’
‘As, sir, you have seen all my former letters, through John’s baseness, and now these, through your faithful housekeeper’s wickedness, I think you might see all the rest. But I hope you will not desire it, till I know how much my obeying you in this particular, will be of use to myself.’
‘You must trust to my honour for that. But tell me, Pamela,’ said the artful gentleman, ‘since I have seen these, would you have voluntarily shewn me those, had they been in your possession ? ’
I was not aware of his inference, and said, ‘Yes, truly, sir, I think I should, if you commanded it.’ ‘Well, then, Pamela,’ replied he, ‘as I am sure you have found means to continue your journal, I desire, till the former part to these in my hand can come, that you will shew me the succeeding.’ ‘O sir, sir,’ said I, ‘have you caught me sol But indeed you must excuse me.’
‘Why,’ said he, ‘tell me truly, have you not continued your account till now ? ’ I begged he would not ask me. ‘But I insist upon your answering truly,’ said he. ‘Why, then, sir, I will not tell an untruth; I have’ ‘That’s my good girl,’ said he. ‘I love sincerity at my heart. And you will greatly oblige me, to shew me voluntarily what you have written. I long to see the particulars of your plot, and your disappointment where these papers leave off. As I have furnished you with a subject, I think I have a title to see how you manage it. Besides, there is such a pretty air of romance, as you tell your story, in your plots, and my plots, that I shall be better directed how to wind up the catastrophe of the pretty novel.’
‘If I were your equal, sir,’ returned I, ‘I should say – It is cruel to make a jest of the misfortunes you have studiously involved me in.’
‘My equal, Pamela! You must have thought yourself my equal, at least, by the liberties you have taken with my character, in your letters.’ ‘I would not, sir,’ pertly replied I, ‘have taken those liberties, if you had not given me the cause: and the cause, sir, you know, is before the effect.’
‘You chop logick200 very prettily, Pamela,’ said he. ‘What the deuce do we men go to school for? If our wits were naturally equal to those of women, much time and pains might be spared in our education. Since nature teaches your sex, what in a long course of labour and study, ours can hardly attain to. But,’ continued he, ‘I believe, I must assume to myself, half the merit of your wit; for the innocent exercises you have had for it from me, have certainly sharpened your invention.’
‘Could I, sir,’ replied I, ‘have been without those innocent exercises, as you are pleased to call them, I should have been glad to have been as dull as a beetle.’201 ‘But, then, Pamela, I should not have loved you so well.’ ‘But, then, sir, I should have been safe, easy, and happy.’ ‘Ay, may be so, and may be not; and the wife of some clouterly202 plough-boy.’
‘Sir, I should then have been content and innocent; and that’s better than being a princess, and not so.’ ‘And may-be not,’ said he; ‘for with that pretty face, some of us keen fox-hunters would have found you out; and, in spite of your romantic notions, (which then too, perhaps, would not have had so strong a place in your mind) might have been more happy with the plough-man’s wife, than I have been with my mother’s Pamela.’ ‘I hope, sir,’ said I, ‘you would have been very much mistaken. My father and mother took care to instil into my mind lessons of virtue from my very cradle. My dear good lady, your mother, found them there, or she would not have honoured me as she did with her countenance. O, had the dear lady but have lived!’ And I wiped my eyes.203
‘Well, but,’ resumed he, with quickness, as if he would fly from that subject, ‘as to these writings of yours, that follow your fine plot, I must see them.’ ‘Indeed, sir, you must not, if I can help it’ ‘Nothing,’ said he, ‘pleases me better, than to find that, in all your devices, you have had regard to truth; and have, in all your little pieces of deceit, told very few wilful falsehoods. Now, I expect you will continue this laudable regard to it in your answers to my questions. Let me know then, where you found supplies of pen, ink, and paper, when Mrs Jewkes was so vigilant, and gave you but two sheets at a time? Tell me truth.’
‘I will, sir. Little did I think I should have such occasion for them as I have had; but, when I went away from your house, good Mr Longman, at my request, furnished me with a little store of each.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said he, ‘it must be good Mr Longman! All your confederates, every one of them, are good; but such of my servants as have done their duty, and obeyed my orders, and myself too, are painted out by you, in your papers, as black as devils.’
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘I hope you won’t be angry; but do you think that I have painted some of your servants in worse colours than the parts they acted require?’
‘I will not lose my question,’ said he. ‘Tell me, where did you hide your paper, pens, and ink? ’
‘Some, sir, in one place, some in another; that I might have some left, if others should be found.’ ‘That’s a good girl! I love you for your sweet veracity. Now tell me, where it is you hide your other written papers, your saucy journal?’ ‘I must beg your excuse, sir.’ ‘But, indeed,’ said he, ‘you will not have it; for I will know, and I will see them!’ ‘This is very hard, sir,’ said I; ‘but I must say, you shall not, if I can help it.’
He then sat down, and took both my hands, and said, ‘Well said, my pretty Pamela, if you can help it! But I will not let you help it. Tell me, are they in your pocket?’ ‘No, sir,’ said I, my heart up at my mouth. ‘I know you won’t tell a downright. fib for the world,’ said he; ‘but for equivocation! no Jesuit204 ever went beyond you. Answer me then, are they in neither of your pockets?
’205 ‘No, sir,’ said I. ‘Are they not,’ said he, ‘about your stays?’ ‘No, sir,’ replied I; ‘but pray no more questions; for, excuse me, sir, but ask me ever so often, I will not tell you.’
‘O,’ said he, ‘I have a way for your will-not’s. I can do as they do abroad, when the criminals won’t confess; torture them till they do.’ ‘But pray, sir,’ said I, ‘is this fair, just, or honest? I am no criminal.’
‘O my girl!’ said he, ‘many an innocent person has been put to the torture. But let me know where they are, and you shall escape the question,206 as it is called abroad.’
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘the torture is not used in England, and I hope you won’t bring it up.’ ‘Admirably said!’ replied the naughty gentleman. ‘But I can tell you of as great a punishment: if a criminal won’t plead with us here in England, we press him to death, or till he does plead. And so now, Pamela, this is a punishment shall certainly be yours, if you won’t tell without.’
Tears stood in my eyes, and I said, ‘This, sir, is very cruel! very barbarous!’ ‘No matter,’ returned he; ‘it is but like a Ludfer, you know. And after I have done so many things by you, which you think heinous, what I shall further do on this occasion, ought not to surprize you.’
‘But, sir,’ said I, (dreadfully afraid he had some notion they were about me) ‘if you will be thus unreasonably obeyed, let me go up to them, and read them over again, to see what I have written, that follows the letters you have.’
‘I will see them all,’ said he, ‘down to this very day, if you have written so far! Or at least till within this week. But say, Pamela, tell me truth; are they above?’ I was more affrighted. He saw my confusion. ‘Tell me truth,’ said he. ‘Why, sir,’ answered I, ‘I have sometimes hid them under the dry mould in the garden; sometimes in one place, sometimes in another; and those you have in your hand, were several days under a rose-bush in the garden.’ ‘Artful girl,’ said he; ‘what’s this to my question? Are they not about you?’ ‘If,’ said I, ‘I must pluck them from behind the tapestry, won’t you see in which apartment?’ ‘Still more and more artful!’ said he. ‘Is this an answer to my question? I have searched every place above, and in your closet, for them, and can’t find them; I will therefore know where they are. Now,’ said he, ‘it is my opinion they are about you; and I never undressed a girl in my life; but I will now begin to strip my pretty Pamela, and hope I shall not go far before I find them.’ And he began to unpin my handkerchief.
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