He turned from me, and went into his closet, and shut the door. He need not have done so; for I would not have gone nearer to him!

Surely I did not say so much, to incur all this displeasure.

I think I was loath to leave the house. Can you believe it?—What could be the matter with me, I wonder?—I felt something so strange, and my heart was so lumpish!—I wonder what ailed me!—But this was so unexpected!—I believe that was all!—Yet I am very strange still. Surely, surely, I cannot be like the old murmuring Israelites, to long after the onions and garlick of Egypt, when they had suffered there such heavy bondage?—I'll take thee, O lumpish, contradictory, ungovernable heart! to severe task, for this thy strange impulse, when I get to my dear father's and mother's; and if I find any thing in thee that should not be, depend upon it thou shalt be humbled, if strict abstinence, prayer, and mortification, will do it!

But yet, after all, this last goodness of his has touched me too sensibly. I wish I had not heard it, almost; and yet, methinks, I am glad I did; for I should rejoice to think the best of him, for his own sake.

Well, and so I went out to the chariot, the same that brought me down. So, Mr. Robert, said I, here I am again! a poor sporting-piece for the great! a mere tennis-ball of fortune! You have your orders, I hope. Yes, madam, said he. Pray, now, said I, don't madam me, nor stand with your hat off to such a one as I. Had not my master, said he, ordered me not to be wanting in respect to you, I would have shewn you all I could. Well, said I, with my heart full, that's very kind, Mr. Robert.

Mr. Colbrand, mounted on horseback, with pistols before him, came up to me, as soon as I got in, with his hat off too. What, monsieur! said I, are you to go with me?—Part of the way, he said, to see you safe. I hope that's kind too, in you, Mr. Colbrand, said I.

I had nobody to wave my handkerchief to now, nor to take leave of; and so I resigned myself to my contemplations, with this strange wayward heart of mine, that I never found so ungovernable and awkward before.

So away drove the chariot!—And when I had got out of the elm-walk, and into the great road, I could hardly think but I was in a dream all the time. A few hours before, in my master's arms almost, with twenty kind things said to me, and a generous concern for the misfortunes he had brought upon me; and only by one rash half-word exasperated against me, and turned out of doors, at an hour's warning; and all his kindness changed to hate! And I now, from three o'clock to five, several miles off! But if I am going to you, all will be well again, I hope.

Lack-a-day, what strange creatures are men! gentlemen, I should say, rather! For, my dear deserving good mother, though poverty be both your lots, has had better hap, and you are, and have always been, blest in one another!—Yet this pleases me too; he was so good, he would not let Mrs. Jewkes speak ill of me, and scorned to take her odious unwomanly advice. O, what a black heart has this poor wretch! So I need not rail against men so much; for my master, bad as I have thought him, is not half so bad as this woman.—To be sure she must be an atheist!—Do you think she is not?

We could not reach further than this little poor place and sad alehouse, rather than inn; for it began to be dark, and Robin did not make so much haste as he might have done; and he was forced to make hard shift for his horses.

Mr. Colbrand, and Robert too, are very civil. I see he has got my portmanteau lashed behind the coach. I did not desire it; but I shall not come quite empty.

A thorough riddance of me, I see!—Bag and baggage! as Mrs. Jewkes says. Well, my story surely would furnish out a surprising kind of novel, if it was to be well told.

Mr. Robert came up to me, just now, and begged me to eat something: I thanked him; but said, I could not eat. I bid him ask Mr. Colbrand to walk up; and he came; but neither of them would sit; nor put their hats on. What mockado is this, to such a poor soul as I! I asked them, if they were at liberty to tell me the truth of what they were to do with me? If not, I would not desire it.—They both said, Robin was ordered to carry me to my father's; and Mr. Colbrand was to leave me within ten miles, and then strike off for the other house, and wait till my master arrived there. They both spoke so solemnly, that I could not but believe them.

But when Robin went down, the other said, he had a letter to give me next day at noon, when we baited, as we were to do, at Mrs. Jewkes's relation's.—May I not, said I, beg the favour to see it to-night? He seemed so loath to deny me, that I have hopes I shall prevail on him by and by.

Well, my dear father and mother, I have got the letter, on great promises of secrecy, and making no use of it. I will try if I can open it without breaking the seal, and will take a copy of it by and by; for Robin is in and out: there being hardly any room in this little house for one to be long alone. Well, this is the letter:

'When these lines are delivered to you, you will be far on your way to your father and mother, where you have so long desired to be: and, I hope, I shall forbear thinking of you with the least shadow of that fondness my foolish heart had entertained for you: I bear you, however, no ill will; but the end of my detaining you being over, I would not that you should tarry with me an hour more than needed, after the ungenerous preference you gave, at a time that I was inclined to pass over all other considerations, for an honourable address to you; for well I found the tables entirely turned upon me, and that I was in far more danger from you, than you were from me; for I was just upon resolving to defy all the censures of the world, and to make you my wife.

'I will acknowledge another truth: That, had I not parted with you as I did, but permitted you to stay till I had read your journal, reflecting, as I doubt not I shall find it, and till I had heard your bewitching pleas in your own behalf, I feared I could not trust myself with my own resolution. And this is the reason, I frankly own, that I have determined not to see you, nor hear you speak; for well I know my weakness in your favour.

'But I will get the better of this fond folly: Nay, I hope I have already done it, since it was likely to cost me so dear. And I write this to tell you, that I wish you well with all my heart, though you have spread such mischief through my family.—And yet I cannot but say that I could wish you would not think of marrying in haste; and, particularly, that you would not have this cursed Williams.—But what is all this to me now?—Only, my weakness makes me say, That as I had already looked upon you as mine, and you have so soon got rid of your first husband; so you will not refuse, to my memory, the decency that every common person observes, to pay a twelvemonth's compliment, though but a mere compliment, to my ashes.

'Your papers shall be faithfully returned you; and I have paid so dear for my curiosity in the affection they have rivetted upon me for you, that you would look upon yourself amply revenged if you knew what they have cost me.

'I thought of writing only a few lines; but I have run into length. I will now try to recollect my scattered thoughts, and resume my reason; and shall find trouble enough to replace my affairs, and my own family, and to supply the chasms you have made in it: For, let me tell you, though I can forgive you, I never can my sister, nor my domestics; for my vengeance must be wreaked somewhere.

'I doubt not your prudence in forbearing to expose me any more than is necessary for your own justification; and for that I will suffer myself to be accused by you, and will also accuse myself, if it be needful. For I am, and will ever be, 'Your affectionate well-wisher.'

This letter, when I expected some new plot, has affected me more than any thing of that sort could have done. For here is plainly his great value for me confessed, and his rigorous behaviour accounted for in such a manner, as tortures me much. And all this wicked gipsy story is, as it seems, a forgery upon us both, and has quite ruined me: For, O my dear parents, forgive me! but I found, to my grief, before, that my heart was too partial in his favour; but now with so much openness, so much affection; nay, so much honour too, (which was all I had before doubted, and kept me on the reserve,) I am quite overcome. This was a happiness, however, I had no reason to expect. But, to be sure, I must own to you, that I shall never be able to think of any body in the world but him.—Presumption! you will say; and so it is: But love is not a voluntary thing: Love, did I say?—But come, I hope not:—At least it is not, I hope, gone so far as to make me very uneasy: For I know not how it came, nor when it began; but crept, crept it has, like a thief, upon me; and before I knew what was the matter, it looked like love.

I wish, since it is too late, and my lot determined, that I had not had this letter, nor heard him take my part to that vile woman; for then I should have blessed myself in having escaped so happily his designing arts upon my virtue: but now my poor mind is all topsy-turvied, and I have made an escape to be more a prisoner.

But I hope, since thus it is, that all will be for the best; and I shall, with your prudent advice, and pious prayers, be able to overcome this weakness.—But, to be sure, my dear sir, I will keep a longer time than a twelvemonth, as a true widow, for a compliment, and more than a compliment, to your ashes! O the dear word!—How kind, how moving, how affectionate is the word! O why was I not a duchess, to shew my gratitude for it! But must labour under the weight of an obligation, even had this happiness befallen me, that would have pressed me to death, and which I never could return by a whole life of faithful love, and cheerful obedience.

O forgive your poor daughter!—I am sorry to find this trial so sore upon me; and that all the weakness of my weak sex, and tender years, who never before knew what it was to be so touched, is come upon me, and too mighty to be withstood by me.—But time, prayer, and resignation to God's will, and the benefits of your good lessons, and examples, I hope, will enable me to get over this so heavy a trial.

O my treacherous, treacherous heart! to serve me thus! and give no notice to me of the mischiefs thou wast about to bring upon me!—But thus foolishly to give thyself up to the proud invader, without ever consulting thy poor mistress in the least! But thy punishment will be the first and the greatest; and well deservest thou to smart, O perfidious traitor! for giving up so weakly thy whole self, before a summons came; and to one, too, who had used me so hardly; and when, likewise, thou hadst so well maintained thy post against the most violent and avowed, and, therefore, as I thought, more dangerous attacks!

After all, I must either not shew you this my weakness, or tear it out of my writing. Memorandum: to consider of this, when I get home.

Monday morning, eleven o'clock.

We are just come in here, to the inn kept by Mrs. Jewkes's relation. The first compliment I had, was in a very impudent manner, How I liked the 'squire?—I could not help saying, Bold, forward woman! Is it for you, who keep an inn, to treat passengers at this rate? She was but in jest, she said, and asked pardon: And she came, and begged excuse again, very submissively, after Robin and Mr. Colbrand had talked to her a little.

The latter here, in great form, gave me, before Robin, the letter which I had given him back for that purpose. And I retired, as if to read it; and so I did; for I think I can't read it too often; though, for my peace of mind's sake, I might better try to forget it. I am sorry, methinks, I cannot bring you back a sound heart; but, indeed, it is an honest one, as to any body but me; for it has deceived nobody else: Wicked thing that it is!

More and more surprising things still——

Just as I had sat down, to try to eat a bit of victuals, to get ready to pursue my journey, came in Mr. Colbrand in a mighty hurry. O madam! madam! said he, here be de groom from de 'Squire B——, all over in a lather, man and horse! O how my heart went pit-a-pat! What now, thought I, is to come next! He went out, and presently returned with a letter for me, and another, enclosed, for Mr. Colbrand. This seemed odd, and put me all in a trembling. So I shut the door; and never, sure, was the like known! found the following agreeable contents:—

'In vain, my Pamela, do I find it to struggle against my affection for you. I must needs, after you were gone, venture to entertain myself with your Journal, when I found Mrs. Jewkes's bad usage of you, after your dreadful temptations and hurts; and particularly your generous concern for me, on hearing how narrowly I escaped drowning; (though my death would have been your freedom, and I had made it your interest to wish it); and your most agreeable confession in another place, that, notwithstanding all my hard usage of you, you could not hate me; and that expressed in so sweet, so soft, and so innocent a manner, that I flatter myself you may be brought to love me: (together with the other parts of your admirable Journal:) I began to repent my parting with you; but, God is my witness! for no unlawful end, as you would call it; but the very contrary: and the rather, as all this was improved in your favour, by your behaviour at leaving my house: For, oh! that melodious voice praying for me at your departure, and thanking me for my rebuke to Mrs. Jewkes, still hangs upon my ears, and delights my memory. And though I went to bed, I could not rest; but about two got up, and made Thomas get one of the best horses ready, in order to set out to overtake you, while I sat down to write this to you.

'Now, my dear Pamela, let me beg of you, on the receipt of this, to order Robin to drive you back again to my house. I would have set out myself, for the pleasure of bearing you company back in the chariot; but am really indisposed; I believe, with vexation that I should part thus with my soul's delight, as I now find you are, and must be, in spite of the pride of my own heart.

'You cannot imagine the obligation your return will lay me under to your goodness; and yet, if you will not so far favour me, you shall be under no restraint, as you will see by my letter enclosed to Colbrand; which I have not sealed, that you may read it. But spare me, my dearest girl! the confusion of following you to your father's; which I must do, if you persist to go on; for I find I cannot live a day without you.

'If you are the generous Pamela I imagine you to be, (for hitherto you have been all goodness, where it has not been merited,) let me see, by this new instance, the further excellence of your disposition; let me see you can forgive the man who loves you more than himself; let me see, by it, that you are not prepossessed in any other person's favour: And one instance more I would beg, and then I am all gratitude; and that is, that you would despatch Monsieur Colbrand with a letter to your father, assuring him that all will end happily; and to desire, that he will send to you, at my house, the letters you found means, by Williams's conveyance, to send him. And when I have all my proud, and, perhaps, punctilious doubts answered, I shall have nothing to do, but to make you happy, and be so myself. For I must be 'Yours, and only yours.'

'Monday morn, near three o'clock.'

O my exulting heart! how it throbs in my bosom, as if it would reproach me for so lately upbraiding it for giving way to the love of so dear a gentleman!—But take care thou art not too credulous neither, O fond believer! Things that we wish, are apt to gain a too ready credence with us. This sham-marriage is not yet cleared up: Mrs. Jewkes, the vile Mrs. Jewkes! may yet instigate the mind of this master: His pride of heart, and pride of condition, may again take place: And a man that could in so little a space, first love me, then hate, then banish me his house, and send me away disgracefully; and now send for me again, in such affectionate terms, may still waver, may still deceive thee. Therefore will I not acquit thee yet, O credulous, fluttering, throbbing mischief! that art so ready to believe what thou wishest! And I charge thee to keep better guard than thou hast lately done, and lead me not to follow too implicitly thy flattering and desirable impulses. Thus foolishly dialogued I with my heart; and yet, all the time, this heart is Pamela.

I opened the letter to Monsieur Colbrand; which was in these words:—

'MONSIEUR,

'I am sure you'll excuse the trouble I give you. I have, for good reasons, changed my mind; and I have besought it, as a favour, that Mrs. Andrews will return to me the moment Tom reaches you. I hope, for the reasons I have given her, she will have the goodness to oblige me. But, if not, you are to order Robin to pursue his directions, and set her down at her father's door. If she will oblige me in her return, perhaps she'll give you a letter to her father, for some papers to be delivered to you for her; which you'll be so good, in that case, to bring to her here: But if she will not give you such a letter, you'll return with her to me, if she please to favour me so far; and that with all expedition, that her health and safety will permit; for I am pretty much indisposed; but hope it will be but slight, and soon go off. I am 'Yours, etc.'

'On second thoughts, let Tom go forward with Mrs. Andrews's letter, if she pleases to give one; and you return with her, for her safety.'

Now this is a dear generous manner of treating me. O how I love to be generously used!—Now, my dear parents, I wish I could consult you for your opinions, how I should act. Should I go back, or should I not?—I doubt he has got too great hold in my heart, for me to be easy presently, if I should refuse: And yet this gipsy information makes me fearful.

Well, I will, I think, trust in his generosity! Yet is it not too great a trust?—especially considering how I have been used!—But then that was while he avowed his bad designs; and now he gives great hope of his good ones. And I may be the means of making many happy, as well as myself, by placing a generous confidence in him.

And then, I think, he might have sent to Colbrand, or to Robin, to carry me back, whether I would or not. And how different is his behaviour to that! And would it not look as if I was prepossessed, as he calls it, if I don't oblige him; and as if it was a silly female piece of pride, to make him follow me to my father's; and as if I would use him hardly in my turn, for his having used me ill in his? Upon the whole, I resolved to obey him; and if he uses me ill afterwards, double will be his ungenerous guilt!—Though hard will be my lot, to have my credulity so justly blamable, as it will then seem. For, to be sure, the world, the wise world, that never is wrong itself, judges always by events. And if he should use me ill, then I shall be blamed for trusting him: If well, O then I did right, to be sure!—But how would my censurers act in my case, before the event justifies or condemns the action, is the question?

Then I have no notion of obliging by halves; but of doing things with a grace, as one may say, where they are to be done; and so I wrote the desired letter to you, assuring you, that I had before me happier prospects than ever I had; and hoped all would end well: And that I begged you would send me, by the bearer, Mr. Thomas, my master's groom, those papers, which I had sent you by Mr. Williams's conveyance: For that they imported me much, for clearing up a point in my conduct, that my master was desirous to know, before he resolved to favour me, as he had intended.—But you will have that letter, before you can have this; for I would not send you this without the preceding; which now is in my master's hands.

And so, having given the letter to Mr. Thomas for him to carry to you, when he had baited and rested after his great fatigue, I sent for Monsieur Colbrand, and Robin, and gave to the former his letter; and when he had read it, I said, You see how things stand. I am resolved to return to our master; and as he is not so well as were to be wished, the more haste you make the better: and don't mind my fatigue, but consider only yourselves, and the horses. Robin, who guessed the matter, by his conversation with Thomas, (as I suppose,) said, God bless you, madam, and reward you, as your obligingness to my good master deserves; and may we all live to see you triumph over Mrs. Jewkes!

I wondered to hear him say so; for I was always careful of exposing my master, or even that naughty woman, before the common servants. But yet I question whether Robin would have said this, if he had not guessed, by Thomas's message, and my resolving to return, that I might stand well with his master. So selfish are the hearts of poor mortals, that they are ready to change as favour goes!

So they were not long getting ready; and I am just setting out, back again: and I hope I shall have no reason to repent it.

Robin put on very vehemently; and when we came to the little town, where we lay on Sunday night, he gave his horses a bait, and said, he would push for his master's that night, as it would be moon-light, if I should not be too much fatigued because there was no place between that and the town adjacent to his master's, fit to put up at, for the night. But Monsieur Colbrand's horse beginning to give way, made a doubt between them: wherefore I said, (hating to be on the road,) if it could be done, I should bear it well enough, I hoped; and that Monsieur Colbrand might leave his horse, when it failed, at some house, and come into the chariot. This pleased them both; and, about twelve miles short, he left the horse, and took off his spurs and holsters, etc. and, with abundance of ceremonial excuses, came into the chariot; and I sat the easier for it; for my bones ached sadly with the jolting, and so many miles travelling in so few hours, as I have done, from Sunday night, five o'clock. But, for all this, it was eleven o'clock at night, when we came to the village adjacent to my master's; and the horses began to be very much tired, and Robin too: but I said, It would be pity to put up only three miles short of the house.

So about one we reached the gate; but every body was a-bed. But one of the helpers got the keys from Mrs. Jewkes, and opened the gates; and the horses could hardly crawl into the stable. And I, when I went to get out of the chariot, fell down, and thought I had lost the use of my limbs.

Mrs. Jewkes came down with her clothes huddled on, and lifted up her hands and eyes, at my return; but shewed more care of the horses than of me. By that time the two maids came; and I made shift to creep in, as well as I could.

It seems my poor master was very ill indeed, and had been upon the bed most part of the day; and Abraham (who succeeded John) sat up with him. And he was got into a fine sleep, and heard not the coach come in, nor the noise we made; for his chamber lies towards the garden,—on the other side of the house. Mrs. Jewkes said, He had a feverish complaint, and had been blooded; and, very prudently, ordered Abraham, when he awaked, not to tell him I was come, for fear of surprising him, and augmenting his fever; nor, indeed, to say any thing of me, till she herself broke it to him in the morning, as she should see how he was.

So I went to bed with Mrs. Jewkes, after she had caused me to drink almost half a pint of burnt wine, made very rich and cordial, with spices; which I found very refreshing, and set me into a sleep I little hoped for.

Tuesday morning.

Getting up pretty early, I have written thus far, while Mrs. Jewkes lies snoring in bed, fetching up her last night's disturbance. I long for her rising, to know how my poor master does. 'Tis well for her she can sleep so purely. No love, but for herself, will ever break her rest, I am sure. I am deadly sore all over, as if I had been soundly beaten. I did not think I could have lived under such fatigue.

Mrs. Jewkes, as soon as she got up, went to know how my master did, and he had had a good night; and, having drank plentifully of sack whey, had sweated much; so that his fever had abated considerably. She said to him, that he must not be surprised, and she would tell him news. He asked, What? And she said, I was come. He raised himself up in his bed; Can it be? said he—What, already!—She told him I came last night. Monsieur Colbrand coming to inquire of his health, he ordered him to draw near him, and was highly pleased with the account he gave him of the journey, my readiness to come back, and my willingness to reach home that night. And he said, Why, these tender fair ones, I think, bear fatigue better than us men. But she is very good, to give me such an instance of her readiness to oblige me. Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, said he, take great care of her health! and let her be a-bed all day. She told him I had been up these two hours. Ask her, said he, if she will be so good as to make me a visit: If she won't, I'll rise, and go to her. Indeed, sir, said she, you must be still; and I'll go to her. But don't urge her too much, said he, if she be unwilling.

She came to me, and told me all the above; and I said, I would most willingly wait upon him; for, indeed, I longed to see him, and was much grieved he was so ill.—So I went down with her. Will she come? said he, as I entered the room. Yes, sir, said we; and she said, at the first word, Most willingly.—Sweet excellence! said he.

As soon as he saw me, he said, O my beloved Pamela! you have made me quite well. I'm concerned to return my acknowledgments to you in so unfit a place and manner; but will you give me your hand? I did, and he kissed it with great eagerness. Sir, said I, you do me too much honour!—I am sorry you are so ill.—I can't be ill, said he, while you are with me. I am very well already.

Well, said he, and kissed my hand again, you shall not repent this goodness. My heart is too full of it to express myself as I ought. But I am sorry you have had such a fatiguing time of it.—Life is no life without you! If you had refused me, and yet I had hardly hopes you would oblige me, I should have had a severe fit of it, I believe; for I was taken very oddly, and knew not what to make of myself: but now I shall be well instantly. You need not, Mrs. Jewkes, added he, send for the doctor from Stamford, as we talked yesterday; for this lovely creature is my doctor, as her absence was my disease.

He begged me to sit down by his bed-side, and asked me, if I had obliged him with sending for my former packet? I said I had, and hoped it would be brought. He said it was doubly kind.

I would not stay long because of disturbing him. And he got up in the afternoon, and desired my company; and seemed quite pleased, easy, and much better. He said, Mrs. Jewkes, after this instance of my good Pamela's obligingness in her return, I am sure we ought to leave her entirely at her own liberty; and pray, if she pleases to take a turn in our chariot, or in the garden, or to the town, or wherever she will, let her be left at liberty, and asked no questions; and do you do all in your power to oblige her. She said she would, to be sure.

He took my hand, and said, One thing I will tell you, Pamela, because I know you will be glad to hear it, and yet not care to ask me: I had, before you went, taken Williams's bond for the money; for how the poor man had behaved I can't tell, but he could get no bail; and if I have no fresh reason given me, perhaps I shall not exact the payment; and he has been some time at liberty, and now follows his school; but, methinks, I could wish you would not see him at present.

Sir, said I, I will not do any thing to disoblige you wilfully; and I am glad he is at liberty, because I was the occasion of his misfortunes. I durst say no more, though I wanted to plead for the poor gentleman; which, in gratitude, I thought I ought, when I could do him service. I said, I am sorry, sir, Lady Davers, who loves you so well, should have incurred your displeasure, and that there should be any variance between your honour and her; I hope it was not on my account. He took out of his waistcoat pocket, as he sat in his gown, his letter-case, and said, Here, Pamela, read that when you go up stairs, and let me have your thoughts upon it; and that will let you into the affair.

He said he was very heavy of a sudden, and would lie down, and indulge for that day; and if he was better in the morning, would take an airing in the chariot. And so I took my leave for the present, and went up to my closet, and read the letter he was pleased to put into my hands; which is as follows:—

'BROTHER,

'I am very uneasy at what I hear of you; and must write, whether it please you or not, my full mind. I have had some people with me, desiring me to interpose with you; and they have a greater regard for your honour, than, I am sorry to say it, you have yourself. Could I think, that a brother of mine would so meanly run away with my late dear mother's waiting-maid, and keep her a prisoner from all her friends, and to the disgrace of your own? But I thought, when you would not let the wench come to me on my mother's death, that you meant no good.—I blush for you, I'll assure you. The girl was an innocent, good girl; but I suppose that's over with her now, or soon will. What can you mean by this, let me ask you? Either you will have her for a kept mistress, or for a wife. If the former, there are enough to be had without ruining a poor wench that my mother loved, and who really was a very good girl: and of this you may be ashamed. As to the other, I dare say you don't think of it; but if you should, you would be utterly inexcusable. Consider, brother, that ours is no upstart family; but is as ancient as the best in the kingdom! and, for several hundreds of years, it has never been known, that the heirs of it have disgraced themselves by unequal matches: And you know you have been sought to by some of the best families in the nation, for your alliance. It might be well enough, if you were descended of a family of yesterday, or but a remove or two from the dirt you seem so fond of. But, let me tell you, that I, and all mine, will renounce you for ever, if you can descend so meanly; and I shall be ashamed to be called your sister. A handsome man, as you are, in your person; so happy in the gifts of your mind, that every body courts your company; and possessed of such a noble and clear estate; and very rich in money besides, left you by the best of fathers and mothers, with such ancient blood in your veins, untainted! for you to throw away yourself thus, is intolerable; and it would be very wicked in you to ruin the wench too. So that I beg you will restore her to her parents, and give her 100L. or so, to make her happy in some honest fellow of her own degree; and that will be doing something, and will also oblige and pacify

'Your much grieved sister.'

'If I have written too sharply, consider it is my love to you, and the shame you are bringing upon yourself; and I wish this may have the effect upon you, intended by your very loving sister.'

This is a sad letter, my dear father and mother; and one may see how poor people are despised by the proud and the rich! and yet we were all on a foot originally: And many of these gentry, that brag of their ancient blood, would be glad to have it as wholesome, and as really untainted, as ours!—Surely these proud people never think what a short stage life is; and that, with all their vanity; a time is coming, when they shall be obliged to submit to be on a level with us: And true said the philosopher, when he looked upon the skull of a king, and that of a poor man, that he saw no difference between them. Besides, do they not know, that the richest of princes, and the poorest of beggars, are to have one great and tremendous judge, at the last day; who will not distinguish between them, according to their circumstances in life?—But, on the contrary, may make their condemnations the greater, as their neglected opportunities were the greater? Poor souls! how do I pity their pride!—O keep me, Heaven! from their high condition, if my mind shall ever be tainted with their vice! or polluted with so cruel and inconsiderate a contempt of the humble estate which they behold with so much scorn!

But, besides, how do these gentry know, that, supposing they could trace back their ancestry for one, two, three, or even five hundred years, that then the original stems of these poor families, though they have not kept such elaborate records of their good-for nothingness, as it often proves, were not still deeper rooted?—And how can they be assured, that one hundred years hence, or two, some of those now despised upstart families may not revel in their estates, while their descendants may be reduced to the others' dunghills!—And, perhaps, such is the vanity, as well as changeableness, of human estates, in their turns set up for pride of family, and despise the others!

These reflections occurred to my thoughts, made serious by my master's indisposition, and this proud letter of the lowly Lady Davers, against the high-minded Pamela. Lowly, I say, because she could stoop to such vain pride; and high-minded I, because I hope I am too proud ever to do the like!—But, after all, poor wretches that we be! we scarce know what we are, much less what we shall be!—But, once more pray I to be kept from the sinful pride of a high estate.

On this occasion I recall the following lines, which I have read; where the poet argues in a much better manner:—

"——————Wise Providence Does various parts for various minds dispense: The meanest slaves, or those who hedge and ditch, Are useful, by their sweat, to feed the rich. The rich, in due return, impart their store; Which comfortably feeds the lab'ring poor. Nor let the rich the lowest slave disdain: He's equally a link of Nature's chain: Labours to the same end, joins in one view; And both alike the will divine pursue; And, at the last, are levell'd, king and slave, Without distinction, in the silent grave."

Wednesday morning.

My master sent me a message just now, that he was so much better, that he would take a turn, after breakfast, in the chariot, and would have me give him my company. I hope I shall know how to be humble, and comport myself as I should do, under all these favours.

Mrs. Jewkes is one of the most obliging creatures in the world; and I have such respects shewn me by every one, as if I was as great as Lady Davers—But now, if this should all end in the sham-marriage!—It cannot be, I hope. Yet the pride of greatness and ancestry, and such-like, is so strongly set out in Lady Davers's letter, that I cannot flatter myself to be so happy as all these desirable appearances make for me. Should I be now deceived, I should be worse off than ever. But I shall see what light this new honour will procure me!—So I'll get ready. But I won't, I think, change my garb. Should I do it, it would look as if I would be nearer on a level with him: and yet, should I not, it might be thought a disgrace to him: but I will, I think, open the portmanteau, and, for the first time since I came hither, put on my best silk nightgown. But then that will be making myself a sort of right to the clothes I had renounced; and I am not yet quite sure I shall have no other crosses to encounter. So I will go as I am; for, though ordinary, I am as clean as a penny, though I say it. So I'll e'en go as I am, except he orders otherwise. Yet Mrs. Jewkes says, I ought to dress as fine as I can.—But I say, I think not. As my master is up, and at breakfast, I will venture down to ask him how he will have me be.

Well, he is kinder and kinder, and, thank God, purely recovered!—How charmingly he looks, to what he did yesterday! Blessed be God for it!

He arose, and came to me, and took me by the hand, and would set me down by him; and he said, My charming girl seemed going to speak. What would you say?—Sir, said I, (a little ashamed,) I think it is too great an honour to go into the chariot with you. No, my dear Pamela, said he; the pleasure of your company will be greater than the honour of mine; and so say no more on that head.

But, sir, said I, I shall disgrace you to go thus. You would grace a prince, my fair-one, said the good, kind, kind gentleman! in that dress, or any you shall choose: And you look so pretty, that, if you shall not catch cold in that round-eared cap, you shall go just as you are. But, sir, said I, then you'll be pleased to go a bye-way, that it mayn't be seen you do so much honor to your servant. O my good girl! said he, I doubt you are afraid of yourself being talked of, more than me: for I hope by degrees to take off the world's wonder, and teach them to expect what is to follow, as a due to my Pamela.

O the dear good man! There's for you, my dear father and mother!—Did I not do well now to come back?—O could I get rid of my fears of this sham-marriage, (for all this is not yet inconsistent with that frightful scheme,) I should be too happy!

So I came up, with great pleasure, for my gloves: and now wait his kind commands. Dear, dear sir! said I to myself, as if I was speaking to him, for God's sake let me have no more trials and reverses; for I could not bear it now, I verily think!

At last the welcome message came, that my master was ready; and so I went down as fast as I could; and he, before all the servants, handed me in, as if I was a lady; and then came in himself. Mrs. Jewkes begged he would take care he did not catch cold, as he had been ill. And I had the pride to hear his new coachman say, to one of his fellow-servants, They are a charming pair, I am sure! 'tis pity they should be parted!—O my dear father and mother! I fear your girl will grow as proud as any thing! And, especially, you will think I have reason to guard against it, when you read the kind particulars I am going to relate.

He ordered dinner to be ready by two; and Abraham, who succeeds John, went behind the coach. He bid Robin drive gently, and told me, he wanted to talk to me about his sister Davers, and other matters. Indeed, at first setting out he kissed me a little too often, that he did; and I was afraid of Robin's looking back, through the fore-glass, and people seeing us, as they passed; but he was exceedingly kind to me, in his words, as well. At last, he said,

You have, I doubt not, read, over and over, my sister's saucy letter; and find, as I told you, that you are no more obliged to her than I am. You see she intimates, that some people had been with her; and who should they be, but the officious Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. Longman, and Jonathan! and so that has made me take the measures I did in dismissing them my service.—I see, said he, you are going to speak on their behalfs; but your time is not come to do that, if ever I shall permit it.

My sister, says he, I have been beforehand with; for I have renounced her. I am sure I have been a kind brother to her; and gave her to the value of 3000L. more than her share came to by my father's will, when I entered upon my estate. And the woman, surely, was beside herself with passion and insolence, when she wrote me such a letter; for well she knew I would not bear it. But you must know, Pamela, that she is much incensed, that I will give no ear to a proposal of hers, of a daughter of my Lord ——, who, said he, neither in person, or mind, or acquirements, even with all her opportunities, is to be named in a day with my Pamela. But yet you see the plea, my girl, which I made to you before, of the pride of condition, and the world's censure, which, I own, sticks a little too close with me still: for a woman shines not forth to the public as man; and the world sees not your excellencies and perfections: If it did, I should entirely stand acquitted by the severest censures. But it will be taken in the lump; that here is Mr. B——, with such and such an estate, has married his mother's waiting-maid: not considering there is not a lady in the kingdom that can out-do her, or better support the condition to which she will be raised, if I should marry her. And, said he, putting his arm round me, and again kissing me, I pity my dear girl too, for her part in this censure; for, here will she have to combat the pride and slights of the neighbouring gentry all around us. Sister Davers, you see, will never be reconciled to you. The other ladies will not visit you; and you will, with a merit superior to them all, be treated as if unworthy their notice. Should I now marry my Pamela, how will my girl relish all this? Won't these be cutting things to my fair-one? For, as to me, I shall have nothing to do, but, with a good estate in possession, to brazen out the matter of my former pleasantry on this subject, with my companions of the chase, the green, and the assemblee; stand their rude jests for once or twice, and my fortune will create me always respect enough, I warrant you. But, I say, what will my poor girl do, as to her part, with her own sex? For some company you must keep. My station will not admit it to be with my servants; and the ladies will fly your acquaintance; and still, though my wife, will treat you as my mother's waiting-maid.—What says my girl to this?

You may well guess, my dear father and mother, how transporting these kind, these generous and condescending sentiments were to me!—I thought I had the harmony of the spheres all around me; and every word that dropped from his lips was as sweet as the honey of Hybla to me.—Oh! sir, said I, how inexpressibly kind and good is all this! Your poor servant has a much greater struggle than this to go through, a more knotty difficulty to overcome.

What is that? said he, a little impatiently: I will not forgive your doubts now.—No, sir, said I, I cannot doubt; but it is, how I shall support, how I shall deserve your goodness to me.—Dear girl! said he, and hugged me to his breast, I was afraid you would have made me angry again; but that I would not be, because I see you have a grateful heart; and this your kind and cheerful return, after such cruel usage as you had experienced in my house, enough to make you detest the place, has made me resolve to bear any thing in you, but doubts of my honour, at a time when I am pouring out my soul, with a true and affectionate ardour, before you.

But, good sir, said I, my greatest concern will be for the rude jests you will have yourself to encounter with, for thus stooping beneath yourself. For, as to me, considering my lowly estate, and little merit, even the slights and reflections of the ladies will be an honour to me: and I shall have the pride to place more than half their ill will to their envy at my happiness. And if I can, by the most cheerful duty, and resigned obedience, have the pleasure to be agreeable to you, I shall think myself but too happy, let the world say what it will.

He said, You are very good, my dearest girl! But how will you bestow your time, when you will have no visits to receive or pay? No parties of pleasure to join in? No card-tables to employ your winter evenings; and even, as the taste is, half the day, summer and winter? And you have often played with my mother, too, and so know how to perform a part there, as well as in the other diversions: and I'll assure you, my girl, I shall not desire you to live without such amusements, as my wife might expect, were I to marry a lady of the first quality.

O, sir, said I, you are all goodness! How shall I bear it?—But do you think, sir, in such a family as yours, a person whom you shall honour with the name of mistress of it, will not find useful employments for her time, without looking abroad for any others?

In the first place, sir, if you will give me leave, I will myself look into such parts of the family economy, as may not be beneath the rank to which I shall have the honour of being exalted, if any such there can be; and this, I hope, without incurring the ill will of any honest servant.

Then, sir, I will ease you of as much of your family accounts, as I possibly can, when I have convinced you that I am to be trusted with them; and you know, sir, my late good lady made me her treasurer, her almoner, and every thing.

Then, sir, if I must needs be visiting or visited, and the ladies won't honour me so much, or even if they would now and then, I will visit, if your goodness will allow me so to do, the sick poor in the neighbourhood around you; and administer to their wants and necessities, in such matters as may not be hurtful to your estate, but comfortable to them; and entail upon you their blessings, and their prayers for your dear health and welfare.

Then I will assist your housekeeper, as I used to do, in the making jellies, comfits, sweetmeats, marmalades, cordials; and to pot, and candy, and preserve for the uses of the family; and to make, myself, all the fine linen of it for yourself and me.

Then, sir, if you will sometimes indulge me with your company, I will take an airing in your chariot now and then: and when you shall return home from your diversions on the green, or from the chase, or where you shall please to go, I shall have the pleasure of receiving you with duty, and a cheerful delight; and, in your absence, count the moments till you return; and you will, may be, fill up some part of my time, the sweetest by far! with your agreeable conversation, for an hour or two now and then; and be indulgent to the impertinent overflowings of my grateful heart, for all your goodness to me.

The breakfasting-time, the preparations for dinner, and sometimes to entertain your chosen friends, and the company you shall bring home with you, gentlemen, if not ladies, and the supperings, will fill up a great part of the day in a very necessary manner.

And, may be, sir, now and then a good-humoured lady will drop in; and, I hope, if they do, I shall so behave myself, as not to add to the disgrace you will have brought upon yourself: for, indeed, I will be very circumspect, and try to be as discreet as I can; and as humble too, as shall be consistent with your honour.

Cards, 'tis true, I can play at, in all the usual games that our sex delight in; but this I am not fond of, nor shall ever desire to play, unless to induce such ladies, as you may wish to see, not to abandon your house for want of an amusement they are accustomed to.

Music, which our good lady taught me, will fill up some intervals, if I should have any.

And then, sir, you know, I love reading and scribbling; and though all the latter will be employed in the family accounts, between the servants and me, and me and your good self: yet reading, at proper times, will be a pleasure to me, which I shall be unwilling to give up, for the best company in the world, except yours. And, O sir! that will help to polish my mind, and make me worthier of your company and conversation; and, with the explanations you will give me, of what I shall not understand, will be a sweet employment, and improvement too.

But one thing, sir, I ought not to forget, because it is the chief: My duty to God will, I hope, always employ some good portion of my time, with thanks for his superlative goodness to me; and to pray for you and myself: for you, sir, for a blessing on you, for your great goodness to such an unworthy creature: for myself, that I may be enabled to discharge my duty to you, and be found grateful for all the blessings I shall receive at the hands of Providence, by means of your generosity and condescension.

With all this, sir, said I, can you think I shall be at a loss to pass my time? But, as I know, that every slight to me, if I come to be so happy, will be, in some measure, a slight to you, I will beg of you, sir, not to let me go very fine in dress; but appear only so, as that you may not be ashamed of it after the honour I shall have of being called by your worthy name: for well I know, sir, that nothing so much excites the envy of my own sex, as seeing a person above them in appearance, and in dress. And that would bring down upon me an hundred saucy things, and low-born brats, and I can't tell what!

There I stopped; for I had prattled a great deal too much so early: and he said, clasping me to him, Why stops my dear Pamela?—Why does she not proceed? I could dwell upon your words all the day long; and you shall be the directress of your own pleasures, and your own time, so sweetly do you choose to employ it: and thus shall I find some of my own bad actions atoned for by your exemplary goodness, and God will bless me for your sake.

O, said he, what pleasure you give me in this sweet foretaste of my happiness! I will now defy the saucy, busy censurers of the world; and bid them know your excellence, and my happiness, before they, with unhallowed lips, presume to judge of my actions, and your merit!—And let me tell you, my Pamela, that I can add my hopes of a still more pleasing amusement, and what your bashful modesty would not permit you to hint; and which I will no otherwise touch upon, lest it should seem, to your nicety, to detract from the present purity of my good intentions, than to say, I hope to have superadded to all these, such an employment, as will give me a view of perpetuating my happy prospects, and my family at the same time; of which I am almost the only male.

I blushed, I believe; yet could not be displeased at the decent and charming manner with which he insinuated this distant hope: And oh! judge for me, how my heart was affected with all these things!

He was pleased to add another charming reflection, which shewed me the noble sincerity of his kind professions. I do own to you, my Pamela, said he, that I love you with a purer flame than ever I knew in my whole life; a flame to which I was a stranger; and which commenced for you in the garden; though you, unkindly, by your unseasonable doubts, nipped the opening bud, while it was too tender to bear the cold blasts of slight or negligence. And I know more sincere joy and satisfaction in this sweet hour's conversation with you, than all the guilty tumults of my former passion ever did, or (had even my attempts succeeded) ever could have afforded me.

O, sir, said I, expect not words from your poor servant, equal to these most generous professions. Both the means, and the will, I now see, are given to you, to lay me under an everlasting obligation. How happy shall I be, if, though I cannot be worthy of all this goodness and condescension, I can prove myself not entirely unworthy of it! But I can only answer for a grateful heart; and if ever I give you cause, wilfully, (and you will generously allow for involuntary imperfections,) to be disgusted with me, may I be an outcast from your house and favour, and as much repudiated, as if the law had divorced me from you!

But sir, continued I, though I was so unseasonable as I was in the garden, you would, I flatter myself, had you then heard me, have pardoned my imprudence, and owned I had some cause to fear, and to wish to be with my poor father and mother: and this I the rather say, that you should not think me capable of returning insolence for your goodness; or appearing foolishly ungrateful to you, when you was so kind to me.

Indeed, Pamela, said he, you gave me great uneasiness; for I love you too well not to be jealous of the least appearance of your indifference to me, or preference to any other person, not excepting your parents themselves. This made me resolve not to hear you; for I had not got over my reluctance to marriage; and a little weight, you know, turns the scale, when it hangs in an equal balance. But yet, you see, that though I could part with you, while my anger held, yet the regard I had then newly professed for your virtue, made me resolve not to offer to violate it; and you have seen likewise, that the painful struggle I underwent when I began to reflect, and to read your moving journal, between my desire to recall you, and my doubt whether you would return, (though yet I resolved not to force you to it,) had like to have cost me a severe illness: but your kind and cheerful return has dispelled all my fears, and given me hope, that I am not indifferent to you; and you see how your presence has chased away my illness.

I bless God for it, said I; but since you are so good as to encourage me, and will not despise my weakness, I will acknowledge, that I suffered more than I could have imagined, till I experienced it, in being banished your presence in so much anger; and the more still was I affected, when you answered the wicked Mrs. Jewkes so generously in my favour, at my leaving your house. For this, sir, awakened all my reverence for you; and you saw I could not forbear, not knowing what I did, to break boldly in upon you, and acknowledge your goodness on my knees. 'Tis true, my dear Pamela, said he, we have sufficiently tortured one another; and the only comfort that can result from it, will be, reflecting upon the matter coolly and with pleasure, when all these storms are overblown, (as I hope they now are,) and we sit together secured in each other's good opinion, recounting the uncommon gradations by which we have ascended to the summit of that felicity, which I hope we shall shortly arrive at.

Meantime, said the good gentleman, let me hear what my dear girl would have said in her justification, could I have trusted myself with her, as to her fears, and the reason of her wishing herself from me, at a time that I had begun to shew my fondness for her, in a manner that I thought would have been agreeable to her and virtue.

I pulled out of my pocket the gipsy letter; but I said, before I shewed it to him, I have this letter, sir, to shew you, as what, I believe, you will allow must have given me the greatest disturbance: but, first, as I know not who is the writer, and it seems to be in a disguised hand, I would beg it as a favour, that, if you guess who it is, which I cannot, it may not turn to their prejudice, because it was written, very probably, with no other view, than to serve me.

He took it, and read it. And it being signed Somebody, he said, Yes, this is indeed from Somebody; and, disguised as the hand is, I know the writer: Don't you see, by the setness of some of these letters, and a little secretary cut here and there, especially in that c, and that r, that it is the hand of a person bred in the law-way? Why, Pamela, said he, 'tis old Longman's hand: an officious rascal as he is!—But I have done with him. O sir, said I, it would be too insolent in me to offer (so much am I myself overwhelmed with your goodness,) to defend any body that you are angry with: Yet, sir, so far as they have incurred your displeasure for my sake, and for no other want of duty or respect, I could wish—But I dare not say more.

But, said he, as to the letter and the information it contains: Let me know, Pamela, when you received this? On the Friday, sir, said I, that you were gone to the wedding at Stamford.—How could it be conveyed to you, said he, unknown to Mrs. Jewkes, when I gave her such a strict charge to attend you, and you had promised me, that you would not throw yourself in the way of such intelligence? For, said he, when I went to Stamford, I knew, from a private intimation given me, that there would be an attempt made to see you, or give you a letter, by somebody, if not to get you away; but was not certain from what quarter, whether from my sister Davers, Mrs. Jervis, Mr. Longman, or John Arnold, or your father; and as I was then but struggling with myself, whether to give way to my honourable inclinations, or to free you, and let you go to your father, that I might avoid the danger I found myself in of the former; (for I had absolutely resolved never to wound again even your ears with any proposals of a contrary nature;) that was the reason I desired you to permit Mrs. Jewkes to be so much on her guard till I came back, when I thought I should have decided this disputed point within myself, between my pride and my inclinations.

This, good sir, said I, accounts well to me for your conduct in that case, and for what you said to me and Mrs. Jewkes on that occasion: And I see more and more how much I may depend upon your honour and goodness to me.—But I will tell you all the truth. And then I recounted to him the whole affair of the gipsy, and how the letter was put among the loose grass, etc. And he said, The man who thinks a thousand dragons sufficient to watch a woman, when her inclination takes a contrary bent, will find all too little; and she will engage the stones in the street, or the grass in the field, to act for her, and help on her correspondence. If the mind, said he, be not engaged, I see there is hardly any confinement sufficient for the body; and you have told me a very pretty story; and, as you never gave me any reason to question your veracity, even in your severest trials, I make no doubt of the truth of what you have now mentioned: and I will, in my turn, give you such a proof of mine, that you shall find it carry a conviction with it.

You must know, then, my Pamela, that I had actually formed such a project, so well informed was this old rascally Somebody! and the time was fixed for the very person described in this letter to be here; and I had thought he should have read some part of the ceremony (as little as was possible, to deceive you) in my chamber; and so I hoped to have you mine upon terms that then would have been much more agreeable to me than real matrimony. And I did not in haste intend you the mortification of being undeceived; so that we might have lived for years, perhaps, very lovingly together; and I had, at the same time, been at liberty to confirm or abrogate it as I pleased.

O sir, said I, I am out of breath with the thoughts of my danger! But what good angel prevented the execution of this deep-laid design?

Why, your good angel, Pamela, said he; for when I began to consider, that it would have made you miserable, and me not happy; that if you should have a dear little one, it would be out of my own power to legitimate it, if I should wish it to inherit my estate; and that, as I am almost the last of my family, and most of what I possess must descend to a strange line, and disagreeable and unworthy persons; notwithstanding that I might, in this case, have issue of my own body; when I further considered your untainted virtue, what dangers and trials you had undergone by my means, and what a world of troubles I had involved you in, only because you were beautiful and virtuous, which had excited all my passion for you; and reflected also upon your tried prudence and truth! I, though I doubted not effecting this my last plot, resolved to overcome myself; and, however I might suffer in struggling with my affection for you, to part with you, rather than to betray you under so black a veil. Besides, said he, I remember how much I had exclaimed against and censured an action of this kind, that had been attributed to one of the first men of the law, and of the kingdom, as he afterwards became; and that it was but treading in a path that another had marked out for me; and, as I was assured, with no great satisfaction to himself, when he came to reflect; my foolish pride was a little piqued with this, because I loved to be, if I went out of the way, my own original, as I may call it. On all these considerations it was, that I rejected this project, and sent word to the person, that I had better considered of the matter, and would not have him come, till he heard further from me: And, in this suspense I suppose, some of your confederates, Pamela, (for we have been a couple of plotters, though your virtue and merit have procured you faithful friends and partisans, which my money and promises could hardly do,) one way or other got knowledge of it, and gave you this notice; but, perhaps, it would have come too late, had not your white angel got the better of my black one, and inspired me with resolutions to abandon the project, just as it was to have been put into execution. But yet I own, that, from these appearances, you were but too well justified in your fears, on this odd way of coming at this intelligence; and I have only one thing to blame you for, that though I was resolved not to hear you in your own defence, yet, as you have so ready a talent at your pen, you might have cleared your part of this matter up to me by a line or two; and when I had known what seeming good grounds you had for pouring cold water on a young flame, that was just then rising to an honourable expansion, should not have imputed it, as I was apt to do, to unseasonable insult for my tenderness to you, on one hand; to perverse nicety, on the other; or to (what I was most alarmed by, and concerned for) prepossession for some other person: And this would have saved us both much fatigue, I of mind, you of body.

And, indeed, sir, said I, of mind too; and I could not better manifest this, than by the cheerfulness with which I obeyed your recalling me to your presence.

Ay, that, my dear Pamela, said he, and clasped me in his arms, was the kind, the inexpressibly kind action, that has rivetted my affections to you, and obliges me, in this free and unreserved manner, to pour my whole soul into your bosom.

I said, I had the less merit in this my return, because I was driven, by an irresistible impulse to it; and could not help it, if I would.

This, said he, (and honoured me by kissing my hand,) is engaging, indeed; if I may hope, that my Pamela's gentle inclination for her persecutor was the strongest motive to her return; and I so much value a voluntary love in the person I would wish for my wife, that I would have even prudence and interest hardly named in comparison with it: And can you return me sincerely the honest compliment I now make you?—In the choice I have made, it is impossible I should have any view to my interest. Love, true love, is the only motive by which I am induced. And were I not what I am, could you give me the preference to any other you know in the world, notwithstanding what has passed between us? Why, said I, should your so much obliged Pamela refuse to answer this kind question? Cruel as I have thought you, and dangerous as your views to my honesty have been; you, sir, are the only person living that ever was more than indifferent to me: and before I knew this to be what I blush now to call it, I could not hate you, or wish you ill, though, from my soul, the attempts you made were shocking, and most distasteful to me.

I am satisfied, my Pamela, said he; nor shall I want to see those papers that you have kindly written for to your father; though I still wish to see them too, for the sake of the sweet manner in which you relate what has passed, and to have before me the whole series of your sufferings, that I may learn what degree of kindness may be sufficient to recompense you for them.

In this manner, my dear father and mother, did your happy daughter find herself blessed by her generous master! An ample recompense for all her sufferings did I think this sweet conversation only. A hundred tender things he expressed besides, that though they never can escape my memory, yet would be too tedious to write down. Oh, how I blessed God, and, I hope, ever shall, for all his gracious favours to his unworthy handmaid! What a happy change is this! And who knows but my kind, my generous master, may put it in my power, when he shall see me not quite unworthy of it, to be a means, without injuring him, to dispense around me, to many persons, the happy influences of the condition to which I shall be, by his kind favour, exalted? Doubly blest shall I be, in particular, if I can return the hundredth part of the obligations I owe to such honest good parents, to whose pious instructions and examples, under God, I owe all my present happiness, and future prospects.—O the joy that fills my mind on these proud hopes! on these delightful prospects!—It is too mighty for me, and I must sit down to ponder all these things, and to admire and bless the goodness of that Providence, which has, through so many intricate mazes, made me tread the paths of innocence, and so amply rewarded me for what it has itself enabled me to do! All glory to God alone be ever given for it, by your poor enraptured daughter!——

I will now continue my most pleasing relation.

As the chariot was returning home from this sweet airing, he said, From all that has passed between us in this pleasing turn, my Pamela will see, and will believe, that the trials of her virtue are all over from me: But, perhaps, there will be some few yet to come of her patience and humility. For I have, at the earnest importunity of Lady Darnford, and her daughters, promised them a sight of my beloved girl: And so I intend to have their whole family, and Lady Jones, and Mrs. Peters's family, to dine with me once in a few days. And, since I believe you would hardly choose, at present, to grace the table on the occasion, till you can do it in your own right, I should be glad you would not refuse coming down to us if I should desire it; for I would preface our nuptials, said the dear gentleman! O what a sweet word was that!—with their good opinion of your merits: and to see you, and your sweet manner, will be enough for that purpose; and so, by degrees, prepare my neighbours for what is to follow: And they already have your character from me, and are disposed to admire you.

Sir, said I, after all that has passed, I should be unworthy, if I could not say, that I can have no will but yours: And however awkwardly I shall behave in such company, weighed down with a sense of your obligations on one side, and my own unworthiness, with their observations on the other, I will not scruple to obey you.

I am obliged to you, Pamela, said he, and pray be only dressed as you are; for since they know your condition, and I have told them the story of your present dress, and how you came by it, one of the young ladies begs it as a favour, that they may see you just as you are: and I am the rather pleased it should be so, because they will perceive you owe nothing to dress, but make a much better figure with your own native stock of loveliness, than the greatest ladies arrayed in the most splendid attire, and adorned with the most glittering jewels.

O sir, said I, your goodness beholds your poor servant in a light greatly beyond her merit! But it must not be expected, that others, ladies especially, will look upon me with your favourable eyes: but, nevertheless, I should be best pleased to wear always this humble garb, till you, for your own sake, shall order it otherwise: for, oh, sir, said I, I hope it will be always my pride to glory most in your goodness! and it will be a pleasure to me to shew every one, that, with respect to my happiness in this life, I am entirely the work of your bounty; and to let the world see from what a lowly original you have raised me to honours, that the greatest ladies would rejoice in.

Admirable Pamela! said he; excellent girl!—Surely thy sentiments are superior to those of all thy sex!—I might have addressed a hundred fine ladies; but never, surely, could have had reason to admire one as I do you.

As, my dear father and mother, I repeat these generous sayings, only because they are the effect of my master's goodness, being far from presuming to think I deserve one of them; so I hope you will not attribute it to my vanity; for I do assure you, I think I ought rather to be more humble, as I am more obliged: for it must be always a sign of a poor condition, to receive obligations one cannot repay; as it is of a rich mind, when it can confer them without expecting or needing a return. It is, on one side, the state of the human creature, compared, on the other, to the Creator; and so, with due deference, may his beneficence be said to be Godlike, and that is the highest that can be said.

The chariot brought us home at near the hour of two; and, blessed be God, my master is pure well, and cheerful; and that makes me hope he does not repent him of his late generous treatment of me. He handed me out of the chariot, and to the parlour, with the same goodness, that he shewed when he put me into it, before several of the servants. Mrs. Jewkes came to inquire how he did. Quite well, Mrs. Jewkes, said he; quite well: I thank God, and this good girl, for it!—I am glad of it, said she; but I hope you are not the worse for my care, and my doctoring of you!—No, but the better, Mrs. Jewkes, said he; you have much obliged me by both.

Then he said, Mrs. Jewkes, you and I have used this good girl very hardly.—I was afraid, sir, said she, I should be the subject of her complaints.—I assure you, said he, she has not opened her lips about you. We have had a quite different subject to talk of; and I hope she will forgive us both: You especially she must; because you have done nothing but by my orders. But I only mean, that the necessary consequence of those orders has been very grievous to my Pamela: And now comes our part to make her amends, if we can.

Sir, said she, I always said to madam (as she called me), that you was very good, and very forgiving. No, said he, I have been stark naught; and it is she, I hope, will be very forgiving. But all this preamble is to tell you, Mrs. Jewkes, that now I desire you'll study to oblige her, as much as (to obey me) you was forced to disoblige her before. And you'll remember, that in every thing she is to be her own mistress.

Yes, said she, and mine too, I suppose, sir? Ay, said the generous gentleman, I believe it will be so in a little time.—Then, said she, I know how it will go with me! And so put her handkerchief to her eyes.—Pamela, said my master, comfort poor Mrs. Jewkes.

This was very generous, already to seem to put her in my power: and I took her by the hand, and said, I shall never take upon me, Mrs. Jewkes, to make a bad use of any opportunities that may be put into my hands by my generous master; nor shall I ever wish to do you any disservice, if I might: for I shall consider, that what you have done, was in obedience to a will which it will become me also to submit to and so, if the effects of our obedience may be different, yet as they proceed from one cause, that must be always reverenced by me.

See there, Mrs. Jewkes, said my master, we are both in generous hands; and indeed, if Pamela did not pardon you, I should think she but half forgave me, because you acted by my instructions.—Well, said she, God bless you both together, since it must be so; and I will double my diligence to oblige my lady, as I find she will soon be.

O my dear father and mother! now pray for me on another score; for fear I should grow too proud, and be giddy and foolish with all these promising things, so soothing to the vanity of my years and sex. But even to this hour can I pray, that God would remove from me all these delightful prospects, if they were likely so to corrupt my mind, as to make me proud and vain, and not acknowledge, with thankful humility, the blessed Providence which has so visibly conducted me through the dangerous paths I have trod, to this happy moment.

My master was pleased to say, that he thought I might as well dine with him, since he was alone: But I begged he would excuse me, for fear, as I said, such excess of goodness and condescension, all at once, should turn my head;—and that he would, by slower degrees, bring on my happiness, lest I should not know how to bear it.

Persons that doubt themselves, said he, seldom do amiss: And if there was any fear of what you say, you could not have it in your thoughts: for none but the presumptuous, the conceited, and the thoughtless, err capitally. But, nevertheless, said he, I have such an opinion of your prudence, that I shall generally think what you do right, because it is you that do it.

Sir, said I, your kind expressions shall not be thrown away upon me, if I can help it; for they will task me with the care of endeavouring to deserve your good opinion, and your approbation, as the best rule of my conduct.

Being then about to go up stairs, Permit me, sir, said I, (looking about me with some confusion, to see that nobody was there,) thus on my knees to thank you, as I often wanted to do in the chariot, for all your goodness to me, which shall never, I hope, be cast away upon me. And so I had the boldness to kiss his hand.

I wonder, since, how I came to be so forward. But what could I do?—My poor grateful heart was like a too full river, which overflows its banks: and it carried away my fear and my shamefacedness, as that does all before it on the surface of its waters!

He clasped me in his arms with transport, and condescendingly kneeled by me, and kissing me, said, O my dear obliging good girl, on my knees, as you on yours, I vow to you everlasting truth and fidelity! and may God but bless us both with half the pleasures that seem to be before us, and we shall have no reason to envy the felicity of the greatest princes!—O sir, said I, how shall I support so much goodness! I am poor, indeed, in every thing, compared to you! and how far, very far, do you, in every generous way, leave me behind you!

He raised me, and, as I bent towards the door, led me to the stairs foot, and, saluting me there again, left me to go up to my closet, where I threw myself on my knees in raptures of joy, and blessed that gracious God, who had thus changed my distress to happiness, and so abundantly rewarded me for all the sufferings I had passed through.—And oh, how light, how very light, do all those sufferings now appear, which then my repining mind made so grievous to me!—Hence, in every state of life, and in all the changes and chances of it, for the future, will I trust in Providence, who knows what is best for us, and frequently turns the very evils we most dread, to be the causes of our happiness, and of our deliverance from greater.—My experiences, young as I am, as to this great point of reliance on God, are strong, though my judgment in general may be weak and uninformed: but you'll excuse these reflections, because they are your beloved daughter's; and, so far as they are not amiss, derive themselves from the benefit of yours and my late good lady's examples and instructions.

I have written a vast deal in a little time; and shall only say, to conclude this delightful Wednesday, That in the afternoon my good master was so well, that he rode out on horseback, and came home about nine at night; and then stepped up to me, and, seeing me with pen and ink before me in my closet, said, I come only to tell you I am very well, my Pamela: and since I have a letter or two to write, I will leave you to proceed in yours, as I suppose that was your employment, (for I had put by my papers at his coming up,) and so he saluted me, bid me good night, and went down; and I finished up to this place before I went to bed. Mrs. Jewkes told me, if it was more agreeable to me, she would be in another room; but I said, No thank you, Mrs. Jewkes; pray let me have your company. And she made me a fine courtesy, and thanked me.—How times are altered!

Thursday.

This morning my master came up to me, and talked with me on various subjects, for a good while together, in the most kind manner. Among other things, he asked me, if I chose to order any new clothes against my marriage. (O how my heart flutters when he mentions this subject so freely!) I said, I left every thing to his good pleasure, only repeated my request, for the reasons aforegiven, that I might not be too fine.

He said, I think, my dear, it shall be very private: I hope you are not afraid of a sham-marriage; and pray get the service by heart, that you may see nothing is omitted. I glowed between shame and delight. O how I felt my cheeks burn!

I said, I feared nothing, I apprehended nothing, but my own unworthiness. Said he, I think it shall be done within these fourteen days, from this day, at this house. O how I trembled! but not with grief, you may believe—What says my girl? Have you to object against any day of the next fourteen: because my affairs require me to go to my other house, and I think not to stir from this till I am happy with you?

I have no will but yours, said I (all glowing like the fire, as I could feel:) But, sir, did you say in the house? Ay, said he; for I care not how privately it be done; and it must be very public if we go to church. It is a holy rite, sir, said I; and would be better, methinks, in a holy place.

I see (said he, most kindly) my lovely maid's confusion; and your trembling tenderness shews I ought to oblige you all I may. Therefore I will order my own little chapel, which has not been used for two generations, for any thing but a lumber-room, because our family seldom resided here long together, to be cleared and cleaned, and got ready for the ceremony, if you dislike your own chamber or mine.

Sir, said I, that will be better than the chamber, and I hope it will never be lumbered again, but kept to the use for which, as I presume, it has been consecrated. O yes, said he, it has been consecrated, and that several ages ago, in my great great grandfather's time, who built that and the good old house together.

But now, my good girl, if I do not too much add to your sweet confusion, shall it be in the first seven days, or the second of this fortnight? I looked down, quite out of countenance. Tell me, said he.

In the second, if you please, sir, said I.—As you please, said he most kindly; but I should thank you, Pamela, if you would choose the first. I'd rather, sir, if you please, said I, have the second. Well, said he, be it so; but don't defer it till the last day of the fourteen.

Pray sir, said I, since you embolden me to talk on this important subject, may I not send my dear father and mother word of my happiness?—You may, said he; but charge them to keep it secret, till you or I direct the contrary. And I told you, I would see no more of your papers; but I meant, I would not without your consent: but if you will shew them to me (and now I have no other motive for my curiosity, but the pleasure I take in reading what you write,) I shall acknowledge it as a favour.

If, sir, said I, you will be pleased to let me write over again one sheet, I will; though I had relied upon your word, and not written them for your perusal. What is that? said he: though I cannot consent to it beforehand: for I more desire to see them, because they are your true sentiments at the time, and because they were not written for my perusal. Sir, said I, what I am loath you should see, are very severe reflections on the letter I received by the gipsy, when I apprehended your design of the sham-marriage; though there are other things I would not have you see; but that is the worst. It can't be worse, said he, my dear sauce-box, than I have seen already; and I will allow your treating me in ever so black a manner, on that occasion, because it must have a very black appearance to you.—Well, sir, said I, I think I will obey you before night. But don't alter a word, said he. I won't, sir, replied I, since you order it.

While we were talking, Mrs. Jewkes came up, and said Thomas was returned. O, said my master, let him bring up the papers: for he hoped, and so did I, that you had sent them by him. But it was a great balk, when he came up and said, Sir, Mr. Andrews did not care to deliver them; and would have it, that his daughter was forced to write that letter to him: and, indeed, sir, said he, the old gentleman took on sadly, and would have it that his daughter was undone, or else, he said, she would not have turned back, when on her way, (as I told him she did, said Thomas,) instead of coming to them. I began to be afraid now that all would be bad for me again.

Well, Tom, said he, don't mince the matter; tell me, before Mrs. Andrews, what they said. Why, sir, both he and Goody Andrews, after they had conferred together upon your letter, madam, came out, weeping bitterly, that grieved my very heart; and they said, Now all was over with their poor daughter; and either she had written that letter by compulsion, or had yielded to your honour; so they said; and was, or would be ruined!

My master seemed vexed, as I feared. And I said, Pray, sir, be so good as to excuse the fears of my honest parents. They cannot know your goodness to me.

And so (said he, without answering me,) they refused to deliver the papers? Yes, and please your honour, said Thomas, though I told them, that you, madam, of your own accord, on a letter I had brought you, very cheerfully wrote what I carried: But the old gentleman said, Why, wife, there are in these papers twenty things nobody should see but ourselves, and especially not the 'squire. O the poor girl has had so many stratagems to struggle with! and now, at last, she has met with one that has been too hard for her. And can it be possible for us to account for her setting out to come to us, and in such post haste, and, when she had got above half-way, to send us this letter, and to go back again of her own accord, as you say; when we know that all her delight would have been to come to us and to escape from the perils she had been so long contending with? And then, and please your honour, he said, he could not bear this; for his daughter was ruined, to be sure, before now. And so, said Thomas, the good old couple sat themselves down, and, hand-in-hand, leaning upon each other's shoulder, did nothing but lament.—I was piteously grieved, said he; but all I could say could not comfort them; nor would they give me the papers; though I told them I should deliver them only to Mrs. Andrews herself. And so, and please your honour, I was forced to come away without them.

My good master saw me all bathed in tears at this description of your distress and fears for me; and he said, I would not have you take on so. I am not angry with your father in the main; he is a good man; and I would have you write out of hand, and it shall be sent by the post to Mr. Atkins, who lives within two miles of your father, and I'll enclose it in a cover of mine, in which I'll desire Mr. Atkins, the moment it comes to his hand, to convey it safely to your father or mother; and say nothing of their sending their papers, that it may not make them uneasy; for I want not now to see them on any other score than that of mere curiosity; and that will do at any time. And so saying, he saluted me before Thomas, and with his own handkerchief wiped my eyes; and said to Thomas, The good old folks are not to be blamed in the main. They don't know my honourable intentions by their dear daughter; who, Tom, will, in a little time, be your mistress; though I shall keep the matter private some days, and would not have it spoken of by my servants out of my house.

Thomas said, God bless your honour! You know best. And I said, O, sir, you are all goodness!—How kind is this, to forgive the disappointment, instead of being angry, as I feared you would! Thomas then withdrew. And my master said, I need not remind you of writing out of hand, to make the good folks easy: and I will leave you to yourself for that purpose; only send me down such of your papers, as you are willing I should see, with which I shall entertain myself for an hour or two. But, one thing, added he, I forgot to tell you: The neighbouring gentry I mentioned will be here tomorrow to dine with me, and I have ordered Mrs. Jewkes to prepare for them. And must I, sir, said I, be shewn to them? O yes, said he; that's the chief reason of their coming. And you'll see nobody equal to yourself: don't be concerned.

I opened my papers, as soon as my master had left me; and laid out those beginning on the Thursday morning he set out for Stamford, 'with the morning visit he made me before I was up, and the injunctions of watchfulness, etc. to Mrs. Jewkes; the next day's gipsy affair, and my reflections, in which I called him truly diabolical, and was otherwise very severe, on the strong appearances the matter had then against him. His return on Saturday, with the dread he put me in, on the offering to search me for my papers which followed those he had got by Mrs. Jewkes's means. My being forced to give them up. His carriage to me after he had read them, and questions to me. His great kindness to me on seeing the dangers I had escaped and the troubles I had undergone. And how I unseasonably, in the midst of his goodness, expressed my desire of being sent to you, having the intelligence of a sham-marriage, from the gipsy, in my thoughts. How this enraged him, and made him turn me that very Sunday out of his house, and send me on my way to you. The particulars of my journey, and my grief at parting with him; and my free acknowledgment to you, that I found, unknown to myself, I had begun to love him, and could not help it. His sending after me, to beg my return; but yet generously leaving me at my liberty, when he might have forced me to return whether I was willing or not. My resolution to oblige him, and fatiguing journey back. My concern for his illness on my return. His kind reception of me, and shewing me his sister Davers's angry letter, against his behaviour to me, desiring him to set me free, and threatening to renounce him as a brother, if he should degrade himself by marrying me. My serious reflections on this letter, etc.' (all which, I hope, with the others, you will shortly see.) And this carried matters down to Tuesday night last.

All that followed was so kind on his side, being our chariot conference, as above, on Wednesday morning, and how good he has been ever since, that I thought I would go no further; for I was a little ashamed to be so very open on that tender and most grateful subject; though his great goodness to me deserves all the acknowledgments I can possibly make.

And when I had looked these out, I carried them down myself into the parlour to him; and said, putting them into his hands, Your allowances, good sir, as heretofore; and if I have been too open and free in my reflections or declarations, let my fears on one side, and my sincerity on the other, be my excuse. You are very obliging, my good girl, said he. You have nothing to apprehend from my thoughts, any more than from my actions.

So I went up, and wrote the letter to you, briefly acquainting you with my present happiness, and my master's goodness, and expressing the gratitude of heart, which I owe to the kindest gentleman in the world, and assuring you, that I should soon have the pleasure of sending back to you, not only those papers, but all that succeeded them to this time, as I know you delight to amuse yourself in your leisure hours with my scribble: And I said, carrying it down to my master, before I sealed it, Will you please, sir, to take the trouble of reading what I write to my dear parents? Thank you, Pamela, said he, and set me on his knee, while he read it; and seemed much pleased with it; and giving it me again, You are very happy, said he, my beloved girl, in your style and expressions: and the affectionate things you say of me are inexpressibly obliging; and again, with this kiss, said he, do I confirm for truth all that you have promised for my intentions in this letter.—O what halcyon days are these! God continue them!—A change would kill me quite.

He went out in his chariot in the afternoon; and in the evening returned, and sent me word, he would be glad of my company for a little walk in the garden; and down I went that very moment.

He came to meet me. So, says he, how does my dear girl do now?—Whom do you think I have seen since I have been out?—I don't know, sir, said I. Why, said he, there is a turning in the road, about five miles off, that goes round a meadow, that has a pleasant foot-way, by the side of a little brook, and a double row of limes on each side, where now and then the gentry in the neighbourhood walk, and angle, and divert themselves.—I'll shew it you next opportunity.—And I stept out of my chariot, to walk across this meadow, and bid Robin meet me with it on the further part of it: And whom should I 'spy there, walking, with a book in his hand, reading, but your humble servant Mr. Williams! Don't blush, Pamela, said he. As his back was towards me, I thought I would speak to the man: and, before he saw me, I said, How do you, old acquaintance? (for, said he, you know we were of one college for a twelvemonth.) I thought the man would have jumped into the brook, he gave such a start at hearing my voice, and seeing me.

Poor man! said I. Ay, said he, but not too much of your poor man, in that soft accent, neither, Pamela.—Said I, I am sorry my voice is so startling to you, Mr. Williams. What are you reading? Sir, said he, and stammered with the surprise, it is the French Telemachus; for I am about perfecting myself, if I can, in the French tongue.—Thought I, I had rather so, than perfecting my Pamela in it.—You do well, replied I.—Don't you think that yonder cloud may give us a small shower? and it did a little begin to wet.—He said, he believed not much.

If, said I, you are for the village, I'll give you a cast; for I shall call at Sir Simon's in my return from the little round I am taking. He asked me if it was not too great a favour?—No, said I, don't talk of that; let us walk to the further opening there, and we shall meet my chariot.

So, Pamela, continued my master, we fell into conversation as we walked. He said he was very sorry he had incurred my displeasure; and the more, as he had been told, by Lady Jones, who had it from Sir Simon's family, that I had a more honourable view than at first was apprehended. I said, We fellows of fortune, Mr. Williams, take sometimes a little more liberty with the world than we ought to do; wantoning, very probably, as you contemplative folks would say, in the sunbeams of a dangerous affluence; and cannot think of confining ourselves to the common paths, though the safest and most eligible, after all. And you may believe I could not very well like to be supplanted in a view that lay next my heart; and that by an old acquaintance, whose good, before this affair, I was studious to promote.

I would only say, sir, said he, that my first motive was entirely such as became my function: And, very politely, said my master, he added, And I am very sure, that however inexcusable I might seem in the progress of the matter, yourself, sir, would have been sorry to have it said, you had cast your thoughts on a person, that nobody could have wished for but yourself.

Well, Mr. Williams, said I, I see you are a man of gallantry, as well as religion: But what I took most amiss was, that, if you thought me doing a wrong thing, you did not expostulate with me upon it, as your function might have allowed you to do; but immediately determined to counterplot me, and attempt to secure to yourself a prize you would have robbed me of, and that from my own house. But the matter is at an end, and I retain not any malice upon it; though you did not know but I might, at last, do honourably by her, as I actually intend.