This was lucky; for I should have had none else, but at pleasure of my surly governess, as I may call her; but now I can write to ease my mind, though I can’t send it to you; and write what I please, since she knows not how well I am provided: for good Mr Longman gave me above forty sheets of paper, and a dozen pens, and a little phial of ink; which last I wrapped in paper, and put in my pocket, and some wax and wafers.
‘O dear sir,’ said I, ‘you have set me up. How shall I requite you?’ He said, ‘By a kiss, my fair mistress’; and I refused it not; for he is a good old man.
Rachel and Hannah wept when I took my leave; and Jane, who sometimes used to be a little cross to me, and Cicely too, cried very much, and said they would pray for me: but Jane, I doubt, will forget that; for, poor soul! she seldom prays for herself!
Then Arthur the gardener, our Robin the coachman, and Lincolnshire Robin too, who was to carry me, were very civil; and both had tears in their eyes; which I thought then very good-natured in Lincolnshire Robin, because he knew but little of me. But it now appears too plainly, that he might well be concerned; for he had then his instructions, it seems, and knew he was to be an implement to entrap me.
Then our other three footmen, Harry, Isaac, and Benjamin, and grooms, and helpers, were very much affected likewise; and the poor little scullion-boy, Tommy, was overwhelmed with grief.
They had got all together over-night, expecting to be differently employed in the morning; and they all begged to shake hands with me, and I kissed the maidens, and prayed to God to bless them all; and thanked them for all their love and kindness to me: and indeed I was forced to leave them sooner than I wished, because I could not stand it. Harry (I could not have thought it; for he is a little wildish, they say) wept till he sobbed again. John, poor honest John, was not then come back from you. But as for the butler, Mr Jonathan, he could not stay in company.
I thought to have told you a great deal about this; but I have worse things to employ my pen.
Mrs Jervis, good Mrs Jervis, wept all night long. I comforted her all I could: and she made me promise, that if my master went to London to attend parliament, or to Lincolnshire, I would come and stay a week with her. And she would have given me money; but I would not take it.
Next morning came, and I wondered I saw nothing of poor honest John; for I waited to take leave of him, and thank him for all his civilities to me and to you: but I suppose he was sent further by my master, and so could not return; and I desired to be remembered to him.
And when Mrs Jervis told me, with a sad heart, the chariot was ready, with four horses to it, I was just as if I was sinking into the ground, though I wanted to be with you.
My master was above stairs, and never asked to see me. I was glad of it in the main; but, false heart! he knew that I was not to be out of his reach. O preserve me, heaven, from his power, and from his wickedness!
They were none of them suffered to go with me one step, as I writ to you before; for he stood at the window to see me go. And in the passage to the gate (out of his sight) there they stood, all of them, in two rows; and we could say nothing on each side, but, ‘God bless you!’ and ‘God bless you!’ But Harry carried my own bundle, my third bundle, as I was used to call it, to the coach, and some plum-cakes, and thet-bread,93 made for me over night, and some sweet-meats, and six bottles of Canary wine,94 which Mrs Jervis would make me take in a basket, to chear our hearts now-and-then, when we got together, as she said. And I kissed all the maids again, and shook hands with the men again; but Mr Jonathan and Mr Longman were not there; and then I went down steps to the chariot, leaving Mrs Jervis weeping as if she would break her heart.
I looked up when I got to the chariot, and I saw my master at the window, in his gown; and I curt’sied three times to him very low, and prayed for him with my hands lifted up; for I could not speak; indeed I was not able. And he bowed his head to me, which made me then very glad he would take such notice of me; and in I stepped, and my heart was ready to burst with grief; and could only, till Robin began to drive, wave my white handkerchief to them, wet with my tears. And at last away he drove, Jehu-like,95 as they say, out of the court-yard: and I too soon found I had cause for greater and deeper grief.
Well, said I to myself, at this rate of driving I shall soon be with my father and mother; and till I had got, as I supposed, half way, I thought of the good friends I had left. And when, on stopping for a little bait96 to the horses, Robin told me I was near halfway, I thought it was high-time to dry my eyes, and remember to whom I was going; as then, alas for me! I thought. So I began with the thoughts of our happy meeting, and how glad you would both be, to see me come to you safe and innocent; and I tried to banish the other gloomy side from my mind: but yet I sighed now and then, in remembrance of those I had so lately left. It would have been ungrateful, you know, not to love those who shewed so much love for me.
It was about eight in the morning when I set out; and I wondered, and wondered, as I sat, and more when I saw it was about two, by a church-dial in a little village we passed through, that I was still more and more out of my knowledge. Hey-day, thought I, to drive at this strange rate, and to be so long going little more than twenty miles, it is very odd! But, to be sure, thought I, Robin knows the way.
At last he stopped, and looked about him, as if he was at a loss for the road; and I said, ‘Mr Robert, sure you are out of the way!’ ‘I’m afraid I am,’ answered he: ‘but it can’t be much; I’ll ask the first person I see.’ ‘Pray do,’ said I; and he gave his horses a little hay; and I gave him some cake, and two glasses of Canary wine; and he stopped about half an hour in all. Then he drove on very fast again.
I had so much to think of, of the dangers I now doubted not I had escaped, of the good friends I had left, and my best friends I was going to, and the many things I had to relate to you; that I the less thought of the way, till I was startled out of my meditations by the sun beginning to set, and still the man driving on, and his horses in a foam; and then I began to be alarmed all at once, and called to him; and he said, he had wretched ill luck, for he had come several miles out of the way, but was now right, and should get in still before it was quite dark. My heart began then to misgive me, and I was much fatigued; for I had had very little sleep for several nights before; and at last I called out to him, and said, ‘Lord protect me, Mr Robert; how can this be! In so few miles to be so much out! How can this be?’ He answered fretfully, as if he was angry with himself; and said, he was bewitched, he thought ‘There is a town before us,’ said I. ‘What do you call it? If we are so much out of the way, we had better put up there; for the night comes on apace.’ ‘I am just there,’ said he. ‘’Tis but a mile on one side of the town before us.’ ‘Nay,’ replied I, ‘I may be mistaken; for it is a good while since I was this way; but I am sure the face of the country here is nothing like what I remember it.’
He still pretended to be much out of humour with himself; and at last stopped at a farm house, about two miles beyond the village I had seen; and it was then almost dark, and he alighted, and said, ‘We must put up here. I know the people are very worthy people; and I am quite out.’
Lord, thought I, be good to the poor Pamela! And I prayed most fervently for the Divine Protection.
The farmer’s wife, and maid, and daughter, came out; and the wife said, ‘What brings you this way at this time of night, Mr Robert? And with a gentlewoman too?’ Laying then all circumstances together, the blackest apprehensions filled my mind, and I fell a crying, and said, ‘God give me patience! I am undone for certain! Pray, mistress, do you know ’Squire B. of Bedfordshire?’
The wicked coachman would have prevented her from answering me; but the daughter said, ‘Know his worship! yes, surely! why he is my father’s landlord!’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘I am undone, undone for ever! O wicked wretch! what have I done to you,’ said I to the coachman, ‘to induce you to serve me thus? Vile tool of a wicked master!’ ‘Faith,’ said the fellow, ‘I’m sorry this ta
sk was put upon me: but I could not help it. But make the best of it now. These are very civil reputable folks; and you’ll be safe here, I assure you.’ ‘Let me get out,’ said I, ‘and I’ll walk back to the town we came through, late as it is. For I will not enter this house.’
‘You will be very well used here, I assure you, young gentlewoman,’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘and have better conveniences than any where in the village.’ ‘I matter not conveniences,’ said I: ‘I am betrayed and undone! As you have a daughter of your own, pity me, and let me know, if your landlord be here!’ ‘No, I assure you, he is not,’ said she.
And then came the farmer, a good sort of man, grave, and well-behaved; and he spoke to me in such honest-seeming terms, as a little pacified me; and seeing no help for it, I went in; and the wife immediately conducted me up stairs to the best apartment, and told me, that was mine as long as I stayed; and nobody should come near me but when I called. I threw myself on the bed in the room, tired and frightened to death almost, and gave way to my grief.
The daughter came up, and said, Mr Robert had given her a letter to give me; and there it was. I raised myself, and saw it was the hand and seal of the wicked wretch my master, directed To Mrs Pamela Andrews. This was a little better than to have him here; though, if he had, he must have been brought through the air; for I thought I was.
The good woman (for I began to see things about a little reputable, and no guile appearing in them, but rather a face of concern for my grief) offered me a glass of some cordial97 water, which I accepted, for I was ready to faint; and then I sat up in a chair. And they lighted a brush-wood fire; and said, if I called, I should be waited upon instantly; and so left me to ruminate on my sad condition, and to read my letter, which I was not able to do presently. After I was a little come to myself, I found it to contain the following words:
’Dear PAMELA,
‘The regard’98 I have for you, and your obstinacy, have constrained me to act by you in a manner that I know will give you equal surprize and apprehension. But, by all that is good and holy, I intend nothing dishonourable by you! Suffer not your fears therefore to incite a behaviour in you, that will be disreputable to yourself, as well as to me, in the eyes of the people of the house where you will be when you receive this. They are my tenants, and very honest civil people.
‘You will by this time be far on your way to the place I have allotted for your abode for a few weeks, till I have managed some particular affairs; after which I shall appear to you in a very different light, from that in which you may at present, from your needless apprehensions, behold me.
‘To convince you, mean time, that I intend to act by you with the utmost honour, I do assure you, that the house to which you are going, shall be so much at your command, that I will not myself approach it without your leave. Make yourself easy therefore; be discreet and prudent; and a happy event shall reward your patience.
‘I pity you for the fatigue you will have, if this comes to your hand in the place where I have directed it to be given you.
‘I will write to your father, to satisfy him that nothing but what is strictly honourable is intended you by
Your true Friend.’
I but too well apprehended, that this letter was written only to pacify me for the present; but as my danger was not so immediate as I had had reason to dread, and as he had promised to forbear coming to me, and that he would write to you, my dear father, to quiet your concern, and that you might contrive some way to help me, I was a little more easy than before: and made shift to taste of a boiled chicken they had got for me. But the table was hardly taken away, when the coachman came (with a look of a hangman, as I thought) and calling me madam at every word, begged that I would get ready to pursue my journey by five in the morning, or else he should be late in. I was quite grieved at this; for! began not to dislike my company, considering how things stood, and was in hopes to get a party among them, by whose connivance I might throw myself into some worthy protection in the neighbourhood, and not be obliged to go forward.
However, I returned a slight answer to the wicked Robert; and, since my time was intended to be short, I resolved to make the best use of it; and therefore, as soon as he was withdrawn, I began to tamper with the farmer and his wife,99 and was going to represent my case to them, when the farmer interrupted me, and said, They were well informed of the matter; and hinted, that young women in this age were too apt to throw themselves away, to their own disparagement, and to the grief of their friends.
I told them, that this was far from being my case; that I was a young creature who had been taken into Mr B.’s family to wait upon his mother, who was the best of ladies: and that since her much lamented death, finding I could not live in it with reputation and safety, I was resolved to quit it, and return to my parents, who were the worthiest people in the world, but of low fortunes and degree: but that, when I was in expectation of being carried to them, I had been betrayed, and brought hither, in the way to a worse place, no doubt. That as they had a daughter of their own (who sat by us, and seemed moved by my story, and the earnest manner in which I told it; for I could not help mingling my words with my tears) I besought them to take pity of a helpless young maiden, who valued her honour above her life; and to whose ruin they would be accessary, if they did not contribute to save her when it was in their power so to do. And of that I was sure such good worthy people as they seemed to be, would not for the world be guilty.
‘That, for certain,’ replied the farmer, ‘we would not: but hark you me, young gentlewoman, let me tell you we have very good authority to question the truth of your relation; and have reason to think, that all will be well with you, if you act up to the discretion that seems to be in you, and if you will be governed by your best friends.’
‘The authority you speak of,’ returned I, ‘must be from some vile story told you by this wicked coachman, and I beg you will call him in: and when he comes, you shall find he will not be able to gainsay me. Dear, good, worthy people, let him be called in.’
‘No need of that, young gentlewoman,’ replied the farmer. ‘We have better authority than Mr Robert’s. Our worthy landlord himself has informed us, under his own hand, how matters stand with you: and really I must say, it never was a good world since young women would follow their own headstrong wills, and resolve to dispose of themselves without the knowledge and consent of those who were born before them.’ And here he slapt his clenched fist upon the table, and looked with a peevish earnestness upon his daughter, and then upon his wife.
You may believe that this intelligence very much affected and surprized me; since it discovered the deep arts of my wicked master, and how resolved he seems to be on my ruin, by the pains he takes to deprive me of all hopes of freeing myself from his power. I begged, however, that they would be so kind as to let me see what my master had written. The good woman said she knew not if that would be proper. ‘Not proper!’ said I. ‘Can there be anything in a letter that has convinced such good people as you seem to be, of the justice of the writer’s intentions, that is not proper to be shewn to one who is most interested in the contents of the letter? Let me see it, I beseech you, that I may either take shame to myself, or defend my character, which is all I have in the world to trust to.’
’Well, I think you may see it,’ said the farmer, ‘I think you may. There it is,’ pulling it out of his pocket-almanack-book.
I read its contents, and afterwards procured leave to take a copy of it; which follows:
‘Farmer MONKTON,100
‘I send to your house, for one night only, a young gentlewoman, much against her will, who has deeply embarked in a love affair, which, if carried on to effect, must be her ruin, as well as the ruin of the person to whom she wants to betroth herself; and for whom I have as much regard as I have for her.
‘As I know the step I have taken will oblige her father, [See, my dear father!] when he knows my motives, I have directed her to be carried to one of my houses (where
she will be well used), in order to try, if, by absence and by expostulation, they can both, or either of them, be brought to know their own interest.
‘I am sure you will use her kindly; for, excepting this matter, which she will not own, [A wicked wretch, I am sure!] she wants not either sense or prudence.
‘I have written a letter to her, which Robert will give her at your house. The girl is lively, and will be out of humour, possibly, on the supposed disappointment of her love scheme. I have therefore written nothing in it but what may tend to soothe her, and have not hinted to her [O the artful wretch!] the true reason for the step I have taken. [What reason have I for apprehensions from such a false-hearted contriver!] Young people of that sex, you know, Farmer Monkton, think hardly of everything that thwarts their headstrong inclinations. Nor had I given myself all this trouble to thwart her, had not my dear mother recommended her to my care in her last hours; and were the young fellow in a way to maintain her. It is an ungrateful thing to endeavour to save people against their will. [God forgive me, my dear father! But how do I hate this vile hypocritical master!]
‘I will acknowledge any trouble you shall be at on this occasion the first opportunity, though I shall not be that way, while the young creature is at the house to which I shall send her, that I may not give reason for suspicions. We live, you know, farmer, in a censorious world.’