Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded. Сэмюэл Ричардсон

to such idle purposes. Ay, said she, so you have; well, I’ll give you two sheets more; but let me see how you dispose of them, either written or blank. Well, thought I, I hope still, Argus, to be too hard for thee. Now Argus, the poets say, had a hundred eyes, and was set to watch with them all, as she does.

      She brought me the paper, and said, Now, madam, let me see you write something. I will, said I; and took the pen and wrote, ‘I wish Mrs. Jewkes would be so good to me, as I would be to her, if I had it in my power.’—That’s pretty now, said she; well, I hope I am; but what then? ‘Why then (wrote I) she would do me the favour to let me know, what I have done to be made her prisoner; and what she thinks is to become of me.’ Well, and what then? said she. ‘Why then, of consequence, (scribbled I,) she would let me see her instructions, that I may know how far to blame, or to acquit her.’

      Thus I fooled on, to shew her my fondness for scribbling; for I had no expectation of any good from her; that so she might suppose I employed myself, as I said, to no better purpose at other times: for she will have it, that I am upon some plot, I am so silent, and love so much to be by myself.—She would have made me write on a little further. No, said I; you have not answered me. Why, said she, what can you doubt, when my master himself assures you of his honour? Ay, said I; but lay your hand to your heart, Mrs. Jewkes, and tell me, if you yourself believe him. Yes, said she, to be sure I do. But, said I, what do you call honour? Why, said she, what does he call honour, think you?—Ruin! shame! disgrace! said I, I fear.—Pho! pho! said she; if you have any doubt about it, he can best explain his own meaning:—I’ll send him word to come and satisfy you, if you will.—Horrid creature! said I, all in a fright—Can’st thou not stab me to the heart? I’d rather thou would’st, than say such another word!—But I hope there is no such thought of his coming.

      She had the wickedness to say, No, no; he don’t intend to come, as I know of—But if I was he, I would not be long away. What means the woman? said I.—Mean! said she, (turning it off;) why I mean, I would come, if I was he, and put an end to all your fears—by making you as happy as you wish. It is out of his power, said I, to make me happy, great and rich as he is! but by leaving me innocent, and giving me liberty to go to my dear father and mother.

      She went away soon after, and I ended my letter, in hopes to have an opportunity to lay it in the appointed place. So I went to her, and said; I suppose, as it is not dark, I may take another turn in the garden. It is too late, said she; but if you will go, don’t stay; and, Nan, see and attend madam, as she called me.

      So I went towards the pond, the maid following me, and dropt purposely my hussy: and when I came near the tiles, I said, Mrs. Anne, I have dropt my hussy; be so kind as to look for it; I had it by the pond side. She went back to look, and I slipt the note between the tiles, and covered them as quick as I could with the light mould, quite unperceived; and the maid finding the hussy, I took it, and sauntered in again, and met Mrs. Jewkes coming to see after me. What I wrote was this:

      ‘REVEREND SIR,

      ‘The want of an opportunity to speak my mind to you, I am sure will excuse this boldness in a poor creature that is betrayed hither, I have reason to think, for the worst of purposes. You know something, to be sure, of my story, my native poverty, which I am not ashamed of, my late lady’s goodness, and my master’s designs upon me. It is true he promises honour, and all that; but the honour of the wicked is disgrace and shame to the virtuous: And he may think he keeps his promises, according to the notions he may allow himself to hold; and yet, according to mine and every good body’s, basely ruin me.

      ‘I am so wretched, and ill-treated by this Mrs. Jewkes, and she is so ill-principled a woman, that, as I may soon want the opportunity which the happy hint of this day affords to my hopes, I throw myself at once upon your goodness, without the least reserve; for I cannot be worse than I am, should that fail me; which, I dare say, to your power, it will not: For I see it, sir, in your looks, I hope it from your cloth, and I doubt it not from your inclination, in a case circumstanced as my unhappy one is. For, sir, in helping me out of my present distress, you perform all the acts of religion in one; and the highest mercy and charity, both to the body and soul of a poor wretch, that, believe me, sir, has, at present, not so much as in thought swerved from her innocence.

      ‘Is there not some way to be found out for my escape, without danger to yourself? Is there no gentleman or lady of virtue in this neighbourhood, to whom I may fly, only till l can find a way to get to my poor father and mother? Cannot Lady Davers be made acquainted with my sad story, by your conveying a letter to her? My poor parents are so low in the world, they can do nothing but break their hearts for me; and that, I fear, will be the end of it.

      ‘My master promises, if I will be easy, as he calls it, in my present lot, he will not come down without my consent. Alas! sir, this is nothing: For what’s the promise of a person who thinks himself at liberty to act as he has done by me? If he comes, it must be to ruin me; and come to be sure he will, when he thinks he has silenced the clamours of my friends, and lulled me, as no doubt he hopes, into a fatal security.

      ‘Now, therefore, sir, is all the time I have to work and struggle for the preservation of my honesty. If I stay till he comes, I am undone. You have a key to the back garden door; I have great hopes from that. Study, good sir, and contrive for me. I will faithfully keep your secret.—Yet I should be loath to have you suffer for me! I say no more, but commit this to the happy tiles, in the bosom of that earth, where, I hope, my deliverance will take root, and bring forth such fruit, as may turn to my inexpressible joy, and your eternal reward, both here and hereafter: As shall ever pray, ‘Your oppressed humble servant.’

      Thursday.

      This completes a terrible week since my setting out, as I hoped to see you, my dear father and mother. O how different were my hopes then, from what they are now! Yet who knows what these happy tiles may produce!

      But I must tell you, first, how I have been beaten by Mrs. Jewkes! It is very true!—And thus it came about:

      My impatience was great to walk in the garden, to see if any thing had offered, answerable to my hopes. But this wicked Mrs. Jewkes would not let me go without her; and said, she was not at leisure. We had a great many words about it; for I told her, it was very hard I could not be trusted to walk by myself in the garden for a little air, but must be dogged and watched worse than a thief.

      She still pleaded her instructions, and said she was not to trust me out of her sight: And you had better, said she, be easy and contented, I assure you; for I have worse orders than you have yet found. I remember, added she, your asking Mr. Williams, If there were any gentry in the neighbourhood? This makes me suspect you want to get away to them, to tell your sad dismal story, as you call it.

      My heart was at my mouth; for I feared, by that hint, she had seen my letter under the tiles: O how uneasy I was! At last she said, Well, since you take on so, you may take a turn, and I will be with you in a minute.

      When I was out of sight of her window, I speeded towards the hopeful place; but was soon forced to slacken my pace, by her odious voice: Hey-day, why so nimble, and whither so fast? said she: What! are you upon a wager? I stopt for her, till her pursy sides were waddled up to me; and she held by my arm, half out of breath: So I was forced to pass by the dear place, without daring to look at it.

      The gardener was at work a little farther, and so we looked upon him, and I began to talk about his art; but she said, softly, My instructions are, not to let you be so familiar with the servants. Why, said I, are you afraid I should confederate with them to commit a robbery upon my master? May be I am, said the odious wretch; for to rob him of yourself, would be the worst that could happen to him, in his opinion.

      And pray, said I, walking on, how came I to be his property? What right has he in me, but such as a thief may plead to stolen goods?—Why, was ever the like heard? says she.—This is downright rebellion, I protest!—Well, well, lambkin, (which the foolish often calls me,) if I was in his place, he should not have his property in you long questionable. Why, what would you do, said I, if you were he?—Not stand shill-I-shall-I, as he does; but put you and himself both out of your pain.—Why, Jezebel, said I, (I could not help it,) would you ruin me by force?—Upon this she gave me a deadly slap upon my shoulder: Take that, said she; whom do you call Jezebel?

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