Sunday Morning.

A Thought came into my Head; I meant no Harm; but it was a little bold. For seeing my Master dressing to go to Church, and his Chariot getting ready, I went to my Closet, and I writ,

And also,

Mrs. Jewkes came up; Always writing, said she! and would see it. And strait, all that ever I could say, carry’d it down to my Master.—He look’d upon it, and said, Tell her, she shall soon see how her Prayers are answer’d. She is very bold. But as she has rejected all my Favours, her Reckoning for all is not far off. I look’d after him, out of the Window, and he was charmingly dress’d: To be sure, he is a handsome fine Gentleman!—What pity his Heart is not as good as his Appearance! Why can’t I hate him?—But don’t be uneasy, if you should see this; for it is impossible I should love him; for his Vices all ugly him over, as I may say.

My Master sends Word, that he shall not come home to Dinner: I suppose he dines with this Sir Simon Darnford. I am much concerned for poor Mr. Williams. Mrs. Jewkes says, he is confined still, and takes on much. All his Trouble is brought upon him for my sake: This grieves me much. My Master, it seems, will have his Money from him. This is very hard; for it is three fifty Pounds, he gave him, as he thought, as a Salary for three Years that he has been with him. But there was no Agreement between them; and he absolutely depended on my Master’s Favour. To be sure, it was the more generous of him to run these Risques for the sake of oppressed Innocence; and I hope he will meet with his Reward in due Time. Alas! for me! I dare not plead for him; that would raise my Oppressor’s Jealousy more. And I have not Interest to save myself!

Sunday.

Mrs. Jewkes has received a Line from my Master. I wonder what it is; but his Chariot is come home without him. But she will tell me nothing; so it is in vain to ask her. I am so fearful of Plots and Tricks, I know not what to do!—Every thing I suspect; for now my Disgrace is avow’d, what can I think!—To be sure the worst will be attempted! I can only pour out my Soul in Prayer to God, for his blessed Protection. But if I must suffer, let me not be long a mournful Survivor!—Only let me not shorten my own Time sinfully!—

This Woman left upon the Table, in the Chamber, this Letter of my Master’s to her; and I bolted myself in, till I had transcrib’d it. You’ll see how tremblingly by the Lines. I wish poor Mr. Williams’s Release at any Rate; but this Letter makes my Heart ake. Yet I have another Day’s Reprieve, thank God!

I had but just finished taking a Copy of this, and laid the Letter where I had it, and unbolted the Door, when she came up in a great Fright, for fear I should have seen it; but I being in my Closet, and that lying as she left it, she did not mistrust. O, said she, I was afraid you had seen my Master’s Letter here, which I carelesly left on the Table. I wish, said I, I had known that. Why sure, said she, if you had, you would not have offer’d to read my Letters. Indeed, said I, I should, at this Time, if it had been in my way—Do, let me see it—Well, said she, I wish poor Mr. Williams well off: I understand my Master is gone to make up Matters with him; which is very good. To be sure, added she, he is a very good Gentleman, and very forgiving!—Why, said I, as if I had known nothing of the Matter, how can he make up Matters with him? Is not Mr. Williams at Stamford? Yes, said she, I believe so; but Parson Peters pleads for him, and he is gone with him to Stamford, and will not be back to Night: So, we have nothing to do, but to eat our Suppers betimes, and go to-bed. Ay, that’s pure, said I; and I shall have good Rest, this Night, I hope. So, said she, you might every Night, but for your own idle Fears. You are afraid of your Friends, when none are near you. Ay, that’s true, said I; for I have not one near me.

So have I one more good honest Night before me! What the next may be, I know not; and so I’ll try to take in a good deal of Sleep, while I can be easy. And so here I say Good-night, my dear Parents; for I have no more to write about this Night: And tho’ his Letter shocks me, yet I will be as brisk as I can, that she mayn’t suspect I have seen it.

Tuesday Night.

For the future, I will always mistrust most when Appearances look fairest. O your poor Daughter, what has she not suffer’d since what I wrote of Sunday Night!—My worst Trial, and my fearfullest Danger! O how I shudder to write you an Account of this wicked Interval of Time! For, my dear Parents, will you not be too much frighten’d and affected with my Distress, when I tell you, that his Journey to Stamford was all abominable Pretence? for he came home privately, and had well nigh effected all his vile Purposes, and the Ruin of your poor Daughter; and that by such a Plot as I was not in the least apprehensive of: And Oh! you’ll hear what a vile and unwomanly Part that wicked Wretch, Mrs. Jewkes, acted in it!

I left off with letting you know how much I was pleased, that I had one Night’s Reprieve added to my Honesty. But I had less Occasion to rejoice than ever, as you will judge by what I have said already. Take then the dreadful Story as well as I can relate it.

The Maid Nan is a little apt to drink, if she can get at Liquor; and Mrs. Jewkes happen’d, or design’d, as is too probable, to leave a Bottle of Cherry-brandy in her way, and the Wench drank some of it more than she should; and when she came in to lay the Cloth, Mrs. Jewkes perceived it, and fell a rating at her most sadly; for she has too many Faults of her own, to suffer any of the like Sort in any body else, if she can help it; and she bid her get out of her Sight, when we had supp’d, and go to-bed, to sleep off her Liquor, before we came to-bed. And so the poor Maid went muttering up Stairs.

About two Hours after, which was near Eleven o’Clock, Mrs. Jewkes and I went up to go to-bed; I pleasing myself with what a charming Night I should have. We lock’d both Doors, and saw poor Nan, as I thought, (for Oh! it was my abominable Master, as you shall hear by-and-by) sitting fast asleep, in an Elbow-chair, in a dark Corner of the Room, with her Apron thrown over her Head and Neck. And Mrs. Jewkes said, There is that Beast of a Wench fast asleep, instead of being a-bed! I knew, said she, she had taken a fine Dose. I’ll wake her, said I. No, don’t, said she, let her sleep on; we shall lie better without her. Ay, said I, so we shall, if she don’t get Cold.

Said she, I hope you have no Writing to Night. No, reply’d I, I will go to-bed with you, Mrs. Jewkes. Said she, I wonder what you can find to write about so much; and am sure you have better Conveniencies of that kind, and more Paper, than I am aware of; and I had intended to romage you, if my Master had not come down; for I ’spy’d a broken Tea-cup with Ink, which gave me a Suspicion; but as he is come, let him look after you, if he will; and if you deceive him, it will be his own Fault.

All this time we were undressing ourselves. And I fetch’d a deep Sigh! What do you sigh so for? said she. I am thinking, Mrs. Jewkes, answer’d I, what a sad Life I live, and how hard is my Lot. I am sure the Thief that has robb’d, is much better off than I, ’bating the Guilt; and I should, I think, take it for a Mercy, to be hang’d out of the way, rather than live in these cruel Apprehensions. So, being not sleepy, and in a prattling Vein, I began to give a little History of myself, as I did once before to Mrs. Jervis, in this manner.

Here, said I, were my poor honest Parents; they took care to instil good Principles into my Mind, till I was almost twelve Years of Age; and taught me to prefer Goodness and Poverty to the highest Condition of Life; and they confirm’d their Lessons by their own Practice; for they were, of late Years, remarkably poor, and always as remarkably honest, even to a Proverb; for, as honest as Goodman Andrews, was a Bye-word.

Well then, said I, comes my late dear good Lady, and takes a Fancy to me, and said, she would be the making of me, if I was a good Girl; and she put me to sing, to dance, to play on the Spinnet, in order to divert her melancholy Hours; and also learnt me all manner of fine Needle-work; but still this was her Lesson, My good Pamela, be virtuous, and keep the Men at a Distance: Well, so I was, I hope, and so I did; and yet, tho’ I say it, they all loved me, and respected me; and would do any thing for me, as if I was a Gentlewoman.

But then, what comes next?—Why, it pleased God to take my good Lady; and then comes my Master. And what says he?—Why, in Effect, it is, Be not virtuous, Pamela.

So here have I lived above sixteen Years in Virtue and Reputation, and, all at once, when I come to know what is Good and what is Evil, I must renounce all the Good, all the whole sixteen Years Innocence, which, next to God’s Grace, I owed chiefly to my Parents and my Lady’s good Lessons and Examples, and chuse the Evil; and so, in a Moment’s Time, become the vilest of Creatures! And all this, for what I pray? Why truly, for a Pair of Diamond Ear-rings, a Necklace, and a Diamond Ring for my Finger; which would not become me: For a few paltry fine Cloaths; which when I wore, it would make but my former Poverty more ridiculous to every body that saw me; especially when they knew the base Terms I wore them upon. But indeed, I was to have a great Parcel of Guineas beside; I forget how many; for had there been ten times more, they would have been not so much to me, as the honest Six Guineas you trick’d me out of, Mrs. Jewkes.

Well, forsooth, but then I was to have I know not how many Pounds a Year for my Life; and my poor Father (there was the Jest of it) was to be the Manager for the abandon’d Prostitute his Daughter: And then (there was the Jest again) my kind, forgiving, virtuous Master, would pardon me all my Misdeeds!

Yes, thank him for nothing, truly. And what, pray, are all these violent Misdeeds?—Why, they are for daring to adhere to the good Lessons that were taught me; and not learning a new one, that would have reversed all my former: For not being contented when I was run away with, in order to ruin me; but contriving, if my poor Wits had been able, to get out of my Danger, and preserve myself honest.

Then was he once jealous of poor John, tho’ he knew John was his own Creature, and helped to deceive me.

Then was he outrageous against poor Parson Williams; and him has this good, merciful Master thrown into Gaol; and for what? Why truly, for that, being a Divine, and a good Man, he had the Fear of God before his Eyes, and was willing to forego all his Expectations of Interest, and assist an oppressed poor Creature.

But, to be sure, I must be forward, bold, sawcy, and what not? to dare to run away from certain Ruin, and to try to escape from an unjust Confinement; and I must be married to the Parson, nothing so sure!

He would have had but a poor Catch of me, had I consented; but he and you too know I did not want to marry any body. I only wanted to go to my poor Parents, and to have my own Liberty, and not to be confined to such an unlawful Restraint; and which would not be inflicted upon me, but only that I am a poor, destitute, young Body, and have no Friend that is able to right me.

So, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, here is my History in brief. And I am a very unhappy young Creature, to be sure!—And why am I so?—Why, because my Master sees something in my Person that takes his present Fancy; and because I would not be undone.—Why therefore, to chuse, I must, and I shall be undone!—And this is all the Reason that can be given!

She heard me run on all this time, while I was undressing, without any Interruption; and I said, Well, I must go to the two Closets, ever since an Affair of the Closet at the other House, tho’ he is so far off. And I had a good mind to wake this poor Maid. No, don’t, said she, I charge you. I am very angry with her; and she’ll get no Harm there; but if she wakes, she may come to-bed well enough, as long as there is a Candle in the Chimney.

So I looked into the Closets, and kneeled down in my own, as I used to do, to say my Prayers; and this with my under Cloaths in my Hand, all undrest, and passed by the poor sleeping Wench, as I thought, in my Return. But Oh! little did I think, it was my wicked, wicked Master in a Gown and Petticoat of hers, and her Apron over his Face and Shoulders. What Meannesses will not Lucifer make his Votaries stoop to, to gain their abominable Ends!

Mrs. Jewkes, by this time, was got to-bed, on the further Side, as she used to be; and, to make room for the Maid, when she should awake, I got into bed, and lay close to her. And I said, Where are the Keys? tho’ said I, I am not so much afraid to-night. Here, said the wicked Woman, put your Arm under mine, and you shall find them about my Wrist, as they used to be. So I did; and the abominable Designer held my Hand with her Right-hand, as my Right-arm was under her Left.

In less than a Quarter of an Hour, I said, There’s poor Nan awake; I hear her stir. Let us go to sleep, said she, and not mind her: She’ll come to-bed, when she’s quite awake. Poor Soul! said I, I’ll warrant she will have the Head-ach finely to-morrow for it. Be silent, said she, and go to sleep; you keep me awake; and I never found you in so talkative a Humour in my Life. Don’t chide me, said I; I will say but one thing more: Do you think Nan could hear me talk of my Master’s Offers? No, no, said she; she was dead asleep. I’m glad of that, said I; because I would not expose my Master to his common Servants; and I knew you was no Stranger to his fine Articles. Said she, I think they were fine Articles, and you was bewitch’d you did not close in with them: But let us go to sleep. So I was silent; and the pretended Nan (O wicked, base, villainous Designer! what a Plot, what an unexpected Plot was this!) seem’d to be awaking; and Mrs. Jewkes, abhorred Creature! said, Come, Nan!—what are you awake at last? Pr’ythee come to-bed; for Mrs. Pamela is in a talking Fit, and won’t go to sleep one while.

At that the pretended She came to the Bed-side; and sitting down in a Chair, where the Curtain hid her, began to undress. Said I, Poor Mrs. Ann, I warrant your Head achs most sadly! How do you do?—She answer’d not one Word. Said the superlatively wicked Woman, You know I have order’d her not to answer you. And this Plot, to be sure, was laid when she gave her these Orders, the Night before.

I heard her, as I thought, breathe all quick and short: Indeed, said I, Mrs. Jewkes, the poor Maid is not well. What ails you, Mrs. Ann? And still no Answer was made.

But, I tremble to relate it, the pretended She came into Bed; but quiver’d like an Aspin-leaf; and I, poor Fool that I was! pitied her much.—But well might the barbarous Deceiver tremble at his vile Dissimulation, and base Designs.

What Words shall I find, my dear Mother, (for my Father should not see this shocking Part) to describe the rest, and my Confusion, when the guilty Wretch took my Left-arm, and laid it under his Neck, as the vile Procuress held my Right; and then he clasp’d me round my Waist!

Said I, Is the Wench mad! Why, how now, Confidence? thinking still it had been Nan. But he kissed me with frightful Vehemence; and then his Voice broke upon me like a Clap of Thunder. Now, Pamela, said he, is the dreadful Time of Reckoning come, that I have threaten’d.—I scream’d out in such a manner, as never any body heard the like. But there was nobody to help me: And both my Hands were secured, as I said. Sure never poor Soul was in such Agonies as I. Wicked Man! said I; wicked, abominable Woman! O God! my God! this Time, this one Time! deliver me from this Distress! or strike me dead this Moment; and then I scream’d again and again.

Says he, One Word with you, Pamela; one Word hear me but; and hitherto you see I offer nothing to you. Is this nothing, said I, to be in Bed here? To hold my Hands between you? I will hear, if you will instantly leave the Bed, and take this villainous Woman from me!

Said she, (O Disgrace of Womankind!) What you do, Sir, do; don’t stand dilly-dallying. She cannot exclaim worse than she has done. And she’ll be quieter when she knows the worst.

Silence, said he to her; I must say one Word to you, Pamela; it is this: You see, now you are in my Power!—You cannot get from me, nor help yourself: Yet have I not offer’d any thing amiss to you. But if you resolve not to comply with my Proposals, I will not lose this Opportunity: If you do, I will yet leave you.

O Sir, said I, leave me, leave me but, and I will do any thing I ought to do.—Swear then to me, said he, that you will accept my Proposals!—And then, (for this was all detestable Grimace) he put his Hand in my Bosom. With Struggling, Fright, Terror, I fainted away quite, and did not come to myself soon; so that they both, from the cold Sweats that I was in, thought me dying—And I remember no more than that, when, with great Difficulty, they brought me to myself, she was sitting on one side of the Bed, with her Cloaths on; and he on the other with his, and in his Gown and Slippers.

Your poor Pamela cannot answer for the Liberties taken with her in her deplorable State of Death. And when I saw them there, I sat up in my Bed, without any Regard to what Appearance I made, and nothing about my Neck; and he soothing me, with an Aspect of Pity and Concern, I put my Hand to his Mouth, and said, O tell me, yet tell me not, what I have suffer’d in this Distress! And I talked quite wild, and knew not what; for, to be sure, I was on the Point of Distraction.

He most solemnly, and with a bitter Imprecation, vow’d, that he had not offer’d the least Indecency; that he was frighten’d at the terrible manner I was taken with the Fit: That he would desist from his Attempt; and begg’d but to see me easy and quiet, and he would leave me directly, and go to his own Bed. O then, said I, take from me this most wicked Woman, this vile Mrs. Jewkes, as an Earnest that I may believe you!

And will you, Sir, said the wicked Wretch, for a Fit or two, give up such an Opportunity as this?—I thought you had known the Sex better.—She is now, you see, quite well again!

This I heard; more she might say; but I fainted away once more, at these Words, and at his clasping his Arms about me again. And when I came a little to myself, I saw him sit there, and the Maid Nan, holding a Smelling-bottle to my Nose, and no Mrs. Jewkes.

He said, taking my Hand, Now will I vow to you, my dear Pamela, that I will leave you the Moment I see you better, and pacify’d. Here’s Nan knows, and will tell you my Concern for you. I vow to God, I have not offer’d any Indecency to you. And since I found Mrs. Jewkes so offensive to you, I have sent her to the Maid’s Bed, and the Maid shall lie with you to-night. And but promise me that you will compose yourself, and I will leave you. But said I, will not Nan also hold my Hand! And will she not let you come in again to me?—He said, By Heaven! I will not come in again to-night. Nan, undress yourself, go to-bed, and do all you can to comfort the dear Creature: And now, Pamela, said he, give me but your Hand, and say you forgive me, and I will leave you to your Repose. I held out my trembling Hand, which he vouchsafed to kiss; and I said, God forgive you, Sir, as you have been just in my Distress; and as you will be just to what you promise! And he withdrew, with a Countenance of Remorse, as I hoped; and she shut the Doors, and, at my Request, brought the Keys to-bed.

This, O my dear Parents! was a most dreadful Trial. I tremble still to think of it; and dare not recall all the horrid Circumstances of it. I hope, as he assures me, he was not guilty of Indecency; but have Reason to bless God, who, by disabling me in my Faculties, enabled me to preserve my Innocence; and when all my Strength would have signified nothing, magnify’d himself in my Weakness!

I was so weak all Day on Monday, that I lay a-bed. My Master shew’d great Tenderness for me; and, I hope, he is really sorry, and that this will be his last Attempt; but he does not say so neither.

He came in the Morning, as soon as he heard the Door open: And I begun to be fearful. He stopt short of the Bed, and said, Rather than give you Apprehensions, I will come no further. I said, Your Honour, Sir, and your Mercy, is all I have to beg. He sat himself on the side of the Bed, and asked kindly how I did?—Begg’d me to be compos’d; said I still look’d a little wildly. And I said, Pray, good Sir, let me not see this infamous Mrs. Jewkes; I doubt I cannot bear her Sight. She shan’t, said he, come near you all this Day, if you’ll promise to compose yourself. Then, Sir, said I, I will try. He pressed my Hand very tenderly, and went out. What a Change does this shew!—O may it be lasting! But, alas! he seems only to have alter’d his Method of Proceeding, but retains, I doubt, his wicked Purpose!

On Tuesday about ten o’Clock, when my Master heard I was up, he sent for me down into the Parlour. When I came, he said, Come nearer to me, Pamela. I did so, and he took my Hand, and said, You begin to look well again. I am glad of it. You little Slut, how did you frighten me on Sunday Night!—Sir, said I, pray name not that Night; and my Eyes overflow’d at the Remembrance, and I turn’d my Head aside.

Said he, Place some little Confidence in me: I know what those charming Eyes mean, and you shall not need to explain yourself: For I do assure you, that as soon as I saw you change, and a cold Sweat bedew your pretty Face, and you fainted away, I quitted the Bed, and Mrs. Jewkes did so too. And I put on my Gown, and she fetch’d her Smelling-bottle, and did all we could to restore you; and my Passion for you was all swallow’d up in the Concern I had for your Recovery; for I thought I never saw a Fit so strong and violent in my Life; and fear’d we should not bring you to Life again; for what I saw you in once before was nothing to it. This, said he, might be my Folly, and my Unacquaintedness with what your Sex can shew when they are in Earnest. But this I repeat to you, that your Mind may be intirely comforted.—All I offer’d to you, (and that, I am sure, was innocent) was before you fainted away.

Sir, said I, that was very bad. And it was too plain you had the worst Designs. When, said he, I tell you the Truth in one Instance, you may believe me in the other. I know not, I declare beyond this lovely Bosom, your Sex; but that I did intend what you call the worst, is most certain: And tho’ I would not too much alarm you now, I could curse my Weakness and my Folly, which makes me own, that I love you beyond all your Sex, and cannot live without you. But, if I am Master of myself, and my own Resolution, I will not attempt to force you to any thing again. Sir, said I, you may easily keep your Resolution, if you will send me out of your way, to my poor Parents, that is all I beg.

’Tis a Folly to talk of it, said he. You must not, shall not go! And if I could be assur’d you would not attempt it, you should have better Usage, and your Confinement should be made easier to you. But to what End, Sir, am I to stay, said I? You yourself seem not sure you can keep your own present good Resolutions; and do you think, if I was to stay, when I could get away, and be safe, it would not look, as if either I confided too much in my own Strength, or would tempt my Ruin? And as if I was not in earnest to wish myself safe and out of Danger?—And then, how long am I to stay? And to what Purpose? And in what Light must I appear to the World? Would not that censure me, altho’ I might be innocent? And you will allow, Sir, that if there be any thing valuable or exemplary in a good Name, or fair Reputation, one must not despise the World’s Censure, if one can avoid it.

Well, said he, I sent not for you on this Account, just now. But for two Reasons. The first is, that you promise me, that for a Fortnight to come you will not offer to go away without my express Consent; and this I expect for your own sake, that I may give you a little more Liberty. And the second is, That you will see and forgive Mrs. Jewkes; she takes on much, and thinks, that, as all her Fault was her Obedience to me, it would be very hard to sacrifice her, as she calls it, to your Resentment.

As to the first, Sir, said I, it is a hard Injunction, for the Reasons I have mention’d. And as to the second, considering her vile unwomanly Wickedness, and her Endeavours to instigate you more to ruin me, when your returning Goodness seem’d to have some Compassion on me, it is still harder. But to shew my Obedience to your Commands, (for you know, my dear Parents, I might as well make a Merit of my Compliance, when my Refusal would stand me in no stead) I will consent to both; and to every thing else, that you shall be pleas’d to injoin, which I can do with Innocence.

That’s my good Girl, said he, and kiss’d me. This is quite prudent, and shews me, that you don’t take insolent Advantage of my Favour for you, and will, perhaps, stand you in more stead than you are aware of.

So he rung the Bell, and said, Call down Mrs. Jewkes. She came down, and he took my Hand, and put it into hers; and said, Mrs. Jewkes, I am oblig’d to you for all your Diligence and Fidelity to me; but Pamela, I must own, is not; because the Service I employ’d you in was not so very obliging to her, as I could have wish’d she would have thought it; and you was not to favour her, but obey me. But yet I’ll assure you, at the very first Word, she has once oblig’d me, by consenting to be Friends with you; and, if she gives me no great Cause, I shall not, perhaps, put you on such disagreeable Service again.—Now, therefore, be you once more Bed-fellows and Board-fellows, as I may say, for some Days longer; and see that Pamela sends no Letters nor Messages out of the House, nor keeps a Correspondence unknown to me, especially with that Williams; and, as for the rest, shew the dear Girl all the Respect that is due to one I must love, if she will deserve it, as I hope she will yet; and let her be under no unnecessary or harsh Restraints. But your watchful Care is not, however, to cease: And remember that you are not to disoblige me, to oblige her; and that I will not, cannot, yet part with her.

Mrs. Jewkes look’d very sullen, and as if she would be glad still to do me a good Turn, if it lay in her Power.

I took Courage then to drop a Word or two for poor Mr. Williams; but he was angry with me for it, and said, he could not endure to hear his Name in my Mouth; so I was forc’d to have done for that time.

All this time my Papers that I had bury’d under the Rose-bush, lay there still; and I begg’d for Leave to send a Letter to you. So I should, he said, if he might read it first. But this did not answer my Design; and yet I would have sent you such a Letter as he might see, if I had been sure my Danger was over. But that I cannot; for he now seems to take another Method, and what I am more afraid of, because, may-be, he may watch an Opportunity, and join Force with it, on Occasion, when I am least prepar’d: For now, he seems to abound with Kindness, and talks of Love, without Reserve, and makes nothing of allowing himself in the Liberty of kissing me, which he calls innocent; but which I do not like, and especially in the manner he does it; but for a Master to do it at all to a Servant, has Meaning too much in it, not to alarm an honest Body.

Wednesday Morning.

I Find I am watched and suspected still very close; and I wish I was with you; but that must not be, it seems, this Fortnight. I don’t like this Fortnight, and it will be a tedious and a dangerous one to me, I doubt.

My Master just now sent for me down to take a Walk with him in the Garden. But I like him not at all, nor his Ways. For he would have all the way his Arm about my Waist, and said abundance of fond Things to me, enough to make me proud, if his Design had not been apparent. After walking about, he led me into a little Alcove, on the further Part of the Garden; and really made me afraid of myself. For he began to be very teazing, and made me sit on his Knee, and was so often kissing me, that I said, Sir, I don’t like to be here at all, I assure you. Indeed you make me afraid!—And what made me the more so, was what he once said to Mrs. Jewkes, and did not think I heard him, and which, tho’ always uppermost with me, I did not mention before, because I did not know how to bring it in, in my Writing.

She, I suppose, had been encouraging him in his Wickedness; for it was before the last dreadful Trial; and I only heard what he answer’d.

Said he, I will try once more; but I have begun wrong. For I see Terror does but add to her Frost; but, she is a charming Girl, and may be thaw’d by Kindness; and I should have melted her by Love, instead of freezing her by Fear.

Is he not a wicked sad Man for this?—To be sure, I blush while I write it. But I trust, that that God, who has deliver’d me from the Paw of the Lion and the Bear; that is, his and Mrs. Jewkes’s Violences; will also deliver me from this Philistine, myself, and my own Infirmities, that I may not defy the Commands of the Living God!

But, as I was saying, this Expression coming into my Thoughts, I was of Opinion, I could not be too much on my Guard, at all times; more especially when he took such Liberties: For he professed Honour all the Time with his Mouth, while his Actions did not correspond. I begg’d and pray’d he would let me go: And had I not appear’d quite regardless of all he said, and resolv’d not to stay, if I could help it, I know not how far he would have proceeded: For I was forc’d to fall down upon my Knees.

At last he walk’d out with me, still bragging of his Honour, and his Love. Yes, yes, Sir, said I, your Honour is to destroy mine; and your Love is to ruin me, I see it too plainly. But, indeed, I will not walk with you, Sir, said I, any more. Do you know, said he, who you talk to, and where you are?

You may believe I had Reason to think him not so decent as he should be; for I said, As to where I am, Sir, I know it too well, and that I have no Creature to befriend me: And, as to who you are, Sir, let me ask you, what you would have me answer?

Why tell me, said he, what Answer you would make? It will only make you angry, said I; and so I shall fare worse, if possible. I won’t be angry, said he. Why then, Sir, said I, you cannot be my late good Lady’s Son; for she lov’d me, and taught me Virtue. You cannot then be my Master; for no Master demeans himself so to his poor Servant.

He put his Arm round me, and his other Hand on my Neck; which made me more angry and bold, and he said, What then am I? Why, said I, (struggling from him, and in a great Passion) to be sure you are Lucifer himself in the Shape of my Master, or you could not use me thus. These are too great Liberties, said he, in Anger, and I desire that you will not repeat them, for your own sake: For if you have no Decency towards me, I’ll have none to you.

I was running from him; and he said, Come back, when I bid you.—So, knowing every Place was alike dangerous to me, and I had nobody to run to, I came back, at his Call, and I held my Hands together, and wept, and said, Pray, Sir, forgive me! No, said he, rather say, Pray, Lucifer, forgive me; and now, since you take me for the Devil, how can you expect any Good from me?—How, rather, can you expect any thing but the worst Treatment from me?—You have given me a Character, Pamela, and blame me not that I act up to it.

Sir, said I, let me beg you to forgive me. I am really sorry for my Boldness; but indeed you don’t use me like a Gentleman; and how can I express my Resentment, if I mince the Matter, while you are so indecent?

Precise Fool, said he, what Indecencies have I offer’d you?—I was bewitch’d I had not gone thro’ my Purpose last Sunday Night; and then your licentious Tongue had not given the worst Names to little puny Freedoms, that shew my Love and my Folly at the same time. But begone, and learn another Conduct and more Wit, and I will lay aside my foolish Regard for you, and assert myself. Begone, said he, again, with a haughty Air.

Indeed, Sir, said I, I cannot go, till you pardon me, which I beg on my bended Knees. I am truly sorry for my Boldness.—But I see how you go on: You creep by little and little upon me; and now sooth me, and now threaten me; and if I should forbear to shew my Resentment, when you offer Incivilities to me, would not that be to be lost by degrees? Would it not shew that I could bear any thing from you, if I did not express all the Indignation I could express, at the first Approaches you make to what I dread? And, have you not as good as avow’d my Ruin?—And have you once made me hope, you will quit your Purposes against me? How then, Sir, can I act, but by shewing my Abhorrence of every Step that makes towards my Undoing? And what is left me but Words? And can these Words be other than such strong ones, as shall shew the Detestation, which, from the Bottom of my Heart, I have for every Attempt upon my Virtue? Judge for me, Sir, and pardon me.

Pardon you, said he, what, when you don’t repent?—When you have the Boldness to justify yourself in your Fault? Why don’t you say, you never will again offend me? I will endeavour, Sir, said I, always to preserve that Decency towards you which becomes me. But really, Sir, I must beg your Excuse for saying, That when you forget what belongs to Decency in your Actions, and when Words are all that are left me, to shew my Resentment of such Actions, I will not promise to forbear the strongest Expressions that my distressed Mind shall suggest to me; nor shall your angriest Frowns deter me, when my Honesty is in Question.

What then, said he, do you beg Pardon for? Where is the Promise of Amendment for which I should forgive you? Indeed, Sir, said I, I own that must absolutely depend on your Usage of me: For I will bear any thing you can inflict upon me with Patience, even to the laying down of my Life, to shew my Obedience to you in other Cases; but I cannot be patient, I cannot be passive, when my Virtue is at Stake!—It would be criminal in me, if I was.

He said he never saw such a Fool in his Life! And he walk’d by the Side of me some Yards, without saying a Word, and seem’d vex’d; and, at last walked in, bidding me attend him in the Garden after Dinner. So, having a little Time, I went up, and wrote thus far.

Wednesday Night.

If, my dear Parents, I am not destin’d more surely than ever for Ruin, I have now more Comfort before me, than ever I yet knew. And am either nearer my Happiness or my Misery than ever I was. God protect me from the latter, if it be his blessed Will! I have now such a Scene to open to you, that I know will alarm both your Hopes and your Fears, as it does mine. And this it is.

After my Master had din’d, he took a Turn into the Stables, to look at his Stud of Horses; and, when he came in, he open’d the Parlour-door, where Mrs. Jewkes and I sat at Dinner; and, at his Entrance, we both rose up; but he said, Sit still, sit still; and let me see how you eat your Victuals, Pamela. O, said Mrs. Jewkes, very poorly, Sir, I’ll assure you. No, said I, pretty well, Sir, considering. None of your Considerings! said he, Pretty-face, and tapp’d me on the Cheek. I blush’d, but was glad he was so good-humour’d; but I could not tell how to sit before him, nor to behave myself. So he said, I know, Pamela, you are a nice Carver. My Mother us’d to say so. My Lady, Sir, said I, was very good to me, in every thing, and would always make me do the Honours of her Table for her, when she was with her few select Friends that she lov’d. Cut up, said he, that Chicken. I did so. Now, said he, and took a Knife and Fork, and put a Wing upon my Plate, let me see you eat that. O Sir, said I, I have eat a whole Breast of a Chicken already, and cannot eat so much. But he said, I must eat it for his sake, and he would learn me to eat heartily: So I did eat it; but was much confused at his so kind and unusual Freedom and Condescension. And, good Sirs! you can’t imagine how Mrs. Jewkes look’d, and star’d, and how respectful she seem’d to me, and call’d me good Madam! I’ll assure you! urging me to take a little Bit of Tart.

My Master took two or three Turns about the Room, musing and thoughtful, as I had never before seen him; and at last he went out, saying, I am going into the Garden: You know, Pamela, what I said to you before Dinner. I rose and curcheed, saying, I would attend his Honour; and he said, Do, good Girl!

Well, said Mrs. Jewkes, I see how things will go. O Madam, as she call’d me again, I am sure you are to be our Mistress! And then I know what will become of me. Ah! Mrs. Jewkes, said I, if I can but keep myself virtuous, ’tis the utmost of my Ambition; and, I hope, no Temptation shall make me otherwise.

Notwithstanding I had no Reason to be pleas’d with his Treatment of me before Dinner, yet I made haste to attend him; and I found him walking by the Side of that Pond, which, for Want of Grace, and thro’ a sinful Despondence, had like to have been so fatal to me, and the Sight of which, ever since, has been a Trouble and Reproach to me. And it was by the Side of this Pond, and not far from the Place where I had that dreadful Conflict, that my present Hopes, if I am not to be deceiv’d again, began to dawn, which I presume to flatter myself with being an happy Omen for me, as if God Almighty would shew your poor sinful Daughter, how well I did, to put my Affiance in his Goodness, and not to throw away myself, because my Ruin seem’d inevitable to my short-sighted Apprehension.

So he was pleas’d to say, Well, Pamela, I am glad you are come of your own Accord, as I may say: Give me your Hand. I did so; and he look’d at me very steadily, and pressing my Hand all the time, at last said, I will now talk to you in a serious manner.

You have a great deal of Wit, a great deal of Penetration, much beyond your Years; and, as I thought, your Opportunities. You are possess’d of an open, frank and generous Mind; and a Person so lovely, that you excel all your Sex in my Eyes. All these Accomplishments have engag’d my Affections so deeply, that, as I have often said, I cannot live without you; and I would divide with all my Soul, my Estate with you, to make you mine upon my own Terms. These you have absolutely rejected; and that, tho’ in sawcy Terms enough, yet, in such a manner, as makes me admire you more. Your pretty Chit-chat to Mrs. Jewkes, the last Sunday Night, so innocent, and so full of beautiful Simplicity, half disarmed my Resolutions before I approach’d your Bed. And I see you so watchful over your Virtue, that tho’ I hop’d to find it otherwise, I cannot but say, my Passion for you is increas’d by it. But now what shall I say further, Pamela?—I will make you, tho’ a Party, my Adviser in this Matter; tho’ not perhaps my definitive Judge.

You know I am not a very abandon’d Profligate: I have hitherto been guilty of no very enormous or vile Actions. This of seizing you, and confining you thus, may, perhaps, be one of the worst, at least to Persons of real Innocence. Had I been utterly given up to my Passions, I should before now have gratify’d them, and not have shewn that Remorse and Compassion for you, which have repriev’d you more than once, when absolutely in my Power; and you are as inviolate a Virgin as you was when you came into my House.

But, what can I do? Consider the Pride of my Condition. I cannot endure the Thought of Marriage, even with a Person of equal or superior Degree to myself; and have declin’d several Proposals of that kind: How then, with the Distance between us, and in the World’s Judgment, can I think of making you my Wife?—Yet I must have you; I cannot bear the Thoughts of any other Man supplanting me in your Affections. And the very Apprehension of that, has made me hate the Name of Williams, and use him in a manner unworthy of my Temper.

Now, Pamela, judge for me; and, since I have told you thus candidly my Mind, and I see yours is big with some important Meaning, by your Eyes, your Blushes, and that sweet Confusion which I behold struggling in your Bosom, tell me with like Openness and Candour, what you think I ought to do, and what you would have me do.——

It is impossible for me to express the Agitations of my Mind on this unexpected Declaration, so contrary to his former Behaviour. His Manner too had something so noble, and so sincere, as I thought; that, alas for me! I found I had Need of all my poor Discretion, to ward off the Blow which this Treatment gave to my most guarded Thoughts. I threw myself at his Feet, for I trembled and could hardly stand; O Sir, said I, spare your poor Servant’s Confusion; O spare the poor Pamela!—I cannot say what you ought to do: But I only beg you will not ruin me; and, if you think me virtuous, if you think me sincerely honest, let me go to my poor Parents. I will vow to you, that I will never suffer myself to be engag’d without your Approbation. As to my poor Thoughts, of what you ought to do, I must needs say, that, indeed, I think you ought to regard the World’s Opinion, and avoid doing any thing disgraceful to your own Birth and Fortune; and therefore, if you really honour the poor Pamela with your Respect, a little Time, Absence, and the Conversation of worthier Persons of my Sex, will effectually enable you to overcome a Regard so unworthy of your Condition: And this, good Sir, is the best Advice I can offer.

Charming Creature, lovely Pamela, said he, (with an Ardor, that was never before so agreeable to me) this generous Manner is of a Piece with all the rest of your Conduct. But tell me more explicitly, what you would advise me in the Case.

O Sir, said I, take not Advantage of my Credulity, and these my weak Moments; but, were I the first Lady in the Land, instead of the poor abject Pamela, I would, I could tell you. But I can say no more.

O my dear Father and Mother! now I know you will indeed be concern’d for me!—For now I am for myself!—And now I begin to be afraid, I know too well the Reason, why all his hard Trials of me, and my black Apprehensions, would not let me hate him.

But be assur’d still, by God’s Grace, that I shall do nothing unworthy of your Pamela; and if I find that he is still capable of deceiving me, and that this Conduct is only put on to delude me more, I shall think nothing in this World so vile and so odious; and nothing, if he be not the worst of his Kind (as he says, and, I hope, he is not) so desperately guileful as the Heart of Man!

He generously said, I will spare your Confusion, Pamela. But I hope, I may promise myself, that you can love me preferably to any other Man; and that no one in the World has had any Share in your Affections; for I am very jealous of what I love, and if I thought you had a secret Whispering in your Soul, that had not yet come up to a Wish, for any other Man breathing, I should not forgive myself to persist in my Affection for you; nor you, if you did not frankly acquaint me with it.

As I still continued on my Knees, on the Grass Slope by the Pond-side, he sat himself down on the Grass by me, and took me in his Arms, Why hesitates my Pamela, said he?—Can you not answer me with Truth, as I wish? If you cannot, speak, and I will forgive you.

O, good Sir, said I, it is not that; indeed it is not: But a frightful Word or two that you said to Mrs. Jewkes, when you thought I was not in hearing, comes cross my Mind; and makes me dread, that I am in more Danger than ever I was in my Life.

You have never found me a common Liar, said he, (too fearful and foolish Pamela!) nor will I answer how long I may hold in my present Mind; for my Pride struggles hard within me, I’ll assure you; and if you doubt me, I have no Obligation to your Confidence or Opinion. But at present, I am really sincere in what I say: And I expect you will be so too; and answer directly my Question.

I find Sir, said I, I know not myself; and your Question is of such a Nature, that I only want to tell you what I heard, and to have your kind Answer to it; or else, what I have to say to your Question, may pave the Way to my Ruin, and shew a Weakness that I did not believe was in me.

Well, said he, you may say what you have overheard; for, in not answering me directly, you put my Soul upon the Rack; and half the Trouble I have had with you, would have brought to my Arms the finest Lady in England.

O Sir, said I, my Virtue is as dear to me, as if I was of the highest Quality; and my Doubts (for which you know I have had too much Reason) have made me troublesome. But now, Sir, I will tell you what I heard, which has given me great Uneasiness.

You talked to Mrs. Jemkes of having begun wrong with me, in trying to subdue me with Terror, and of Frost, and such-like;—you remember it well:—and that you would, for the future, change your Conduct, and try to melt me, that was your Word, by Kindness.

I fear not, Sir, the Grace of God supporting me, that any Acts of Kindness would make me forget what I owe to my Virtue; but, Sir, I may, I find, be made more miserable by such Acts, than by Terror; because my Nature is too frank and open to make me wish to be ingrateful; and if I should be taught a Lesson I never yet learnt, with what Regret should I descend to the Grave, to think, that I could not hate my Undoer? And, that, at the last great Day, I must stand up as an Accuser of the poor unhappy Soul, that I could wish it in my Power to save!

Exalted Girl, said he, what a Thought is that!—Why now, Pamela, you excel your self! You have given me a Hint that will hold me long. But, sweet Creature, said he, tell me what is this Lesson, which you never yet learnt, and which you are so afraid of learning?

If, Sir, said I, you will again generously spare my Confusion, I need not say it: But this I will say, in Answer to the Question you seem most solicitous about, That I know not the Man breathing that I would wish to be marry’d to, or that ever I thought of with such a Hope. I had brought my Mind so to love Poverty, that I hop’d for nothing but to return to the best, tho’ the poorest, of Parents; and to employ myself in serving God, and comforting them; and you know not, Sir, how you disappointed my Hopes, and my proposed honest Pleasures, when you sent me hither.

Well then, said he, I may promise myself, that neither the Parson, nor any other Man, is any the least secret Motive to your stedfast Refusal of my Offers? Indeed, Sir, said I, you may; and, as you was pleased to ask, I answer, that I have not the least Shadow of a Wish, or Thought, for any Man living.

But, said he; for I am foolishly jealous, and yet it shews my Fondness for you; have you not encourag’d Williams to think you will have him? Indeed, Sir, said I, I have not; but the very contrary. And would you not have had him, said he, if you had got away by his Means? I had resolv’d, Sir, said I, in my Mind otherwise; and he knew it, and the poor Man—I charge you, said he, say not a Word in his Favour! You will excite a Whirlwind in my Soul, if you name him with Kindness, and then you’ll be borne away with the Tempest.

Sir, said I, I have done!—Nay, said he, but do not have done; let me know the whole. If you have any Regard for him, speak out; for, it would end fearfully for you, for me, and for him, if I found, that you disguis’d any Secret of your Soul from me, in this nice Particular.

Sir, said I, if I have ever given you Cause to think me sincere—Say then, said he, interrupting me, with great Vehemence; and taking both my Hands between his, Say, That you now, in the Presence of God, declare, that you have not any the most hidden Regard for Williams, or any other Man.

Sir, said I, I do. As God shall bless me, and preserve my Innocence, I have not. Well, said he, I will believe you, Pamela; and in time, perhaps, I may better bear that Man’s Name. And, if I am convinc’d that you are not prepossess’d, my Vanity makes me assur’d, that I need not to fear a Place in your Esteem, equal, if not preferable to any Man in England. But yet it stings my Pride to the quick, that you was so easily brought, and at such a short Acquaintance, to run away with that College Novice!

O good Sir, said I, may I be heard one Thing, and tho’ I bring upon me your highest Indignation, I will tell you, perhaps the unnecessary and imprudent, but yet, the whole Truth.

My Honesty (I am poor and lowly, and am not intitled to call it Honour) was in Danger. I saw no Means of securing myself from your avow’d Attempts. You had shew’d you would not stick at little Matters; and what, Sir, could any body have thought of my Sincerity, in preferring that to all other Considerations, if I had not escap’d from these Dangers, if I could have found any way for it?—I am not going to say any thing for him; but indeed, indeed, Sir, I was the Cause of putting him upon assisting me in my Escape. I got him to acquaint me, what Gentry there were in the Neighbourhood, that I might fly to; and prevail’d upon him;—Don’t frown at me, good Sir, for I must tell you the whole Truth!—to apply to one Lady Jones; to Lady Darnford; and he was so good to apply to Mr. Peters the Minister: but they all refus’d me; and then it was he let me know, that there was no honourable Way but Marriage. That I declin’d; and he agreed to assist me for God’s sake.

Now, said he, you are going—I boldly put my Hand before his Mouth, hardly knowing the Liberty I took; Pray, Sir, said I, don’t be angry; I have just done—I would only say, That rather than have staid to be ruin’d, I would have thrown myself upon the poorest Beggar that ever the World saw, if I thought him honest.—And I hope, when you duly weigh all Matters, you will forgive me, and not think me so bold and so forward as you have been pleas’d to call me.

Well, said he, even in this your last Speech, which, let me tell you, shews more your Honesty of Heart, than your Prudence, you have not overmuch pleas’d me. But I must love you; and that vexes me not a little. But tell me, Pamela; for now the former Question recurs; Since you so much prize your Honour and your Virtue; since all Attempts against that are so odious to you; and, since I have avowedly made several of these Attempts, do you think it is possible for you to love me preferably to any other of my Sex?

Ah! Sir, said I, and here my Doubt recurs, that you may thus graciously use me, to take Advantage of my Credulity.

Still perverse and doubting, said he! Cannot you take me as I am at present; and that, I have told you, is sincere and undesigning, whatever I may be hereafter?—

Ah! Sir, reply’d I, what can I say?—I have already said too much, if this dreadful Hereafter should take place. Don’t bid me say how well I can—And then, my Face, glowing as the Fire, I, all abash’d, lean’d upon his Shoulder, to hide my Confusion.

He clasp’d me to him with great Ardour, and said, Hide your dear Face in my Bosom, my beloved Pamela; your innocent Freedoms charm me!—But then say, How well—what?

If you will be good, said I, to your poor Servant, and spare her, I cannot say too much! But if not, I am doubly undone!—Undone indeed!

Said he, I hope my present Temper will hold; for I tell you frankly, that I have known in this agreeable Hour more sincere Pleasure, than I have experienc’d in all the guilty Tumults that my desiring Soul put me into, in the Hopes of possessing you on my own Terms. And, Pamela, you must pray for the Continuance of this Temper; and I hope your Prayers will get the better of my Temptations.

This sweet Goodness overpower’d all my Reserves. I threw myself at his Feet, and embrac’d his Knees: What Pleasure, Sir, you give me, at these gracious Words, is not lent your poor Servant to express!—I shall be too much rewarded for all my Sufferings, if this Goodness hold! God grant it may, for your own Soul’s sake, as well as mine. And Oh! how happy should I be, if—

He stopt me, and said, But, my dear Girl, what must we do about the World, and the World’s Censure?—Indeed, I cannot marry!

Now was I again struck all of a Heap. However, soon recollecting myself, Sir, said I, I have not the Presumption to hope such an Honour. If I may be permitted to return in Peace and Safety to my poor Parents, to pray for you there; it is all I at present request! This, Sir, after all my Apprehensions and Dangers, will be a great Pleasure to me. And, if I know my own poor Heart, I shall wish you happy in a Lady of suitable Degree: And rejoice most sincerely in every Circumstance that shall make for the Happiness of my late good Lady’s most beloved Son!

Well, said he, this Conversation, Pamela, is gone farther than I intended it. You need not be afraid, at this rate, of trusting yourself with me: But it is I, that ought to be doubtful of myself, when I am with you!—But, before I say any thing further on this Subject, I will take my proud Heart to Task; and, till then, let every thing be, as if this Conversation had never pass’d. Only, let me tell you, that the more Confidence you place in me, the more you’ll oblige me: But your Doubts will only beget Cause of Doubts. And with this ambiguous Saying, he saluted me in a more formal manner, if I may so say, than before, and lent me his Hand, and so we walk’d towards the House, Side-by-side, he seeming very thoughtful and pensive, as if he had already repented him of his Goodness.

What shall I do, what Steps take, if all this be designing!—O the Perplexities of these cruel Doubtings!—To be sure, if he be false, as I may call it, I have gone too far, much too far!—I am ready, on the Apprehension of this, to bite my forward Tongue, (or rather to beat my more forward Heart, that dictated to that poor Machine) for what I have said. But sure, at least, he must be sincere for the Time!—He could not be such a practised Dissembler!—If he could, O how desperately wicked is the Heart of Man!—And where could he learn all these barbarous Arts?—If so, it must be native surely to the Sex!—But, silent be my rash Censurings; be hush’d, ye stormy Tumults of my disturbed Mind; for have I not a Father who is a Man!—A Man who knows no Guile! who would do no Wrong!—who would not deceive or oppress to gain a Kingdom!—How then can I think it is native to the Sex? And I must also hope my good Lady’s Son cannot be the worst of Men!—If he is, hard the Lot of the excellent Woman that bore him!—But much harder the Hap of your poor Pamela, who has fallen into such Hands!—But yet I will trust in God, and hope the best; and so lay down my tired Pen for this Time.