Pamela by Samuel Richardson (classic romance novels .TXT) 📕

Just now, my master being come up, she went to him upon the stairs, and gave him my papers. There, sir, said she; you always said Mrs. Pamela was a great writer; but I never could get at any thing of hers before. He took them; and, without coming to me, went down to the parlour again. And what with the gipsy affair, and what with this, I could not think of going down to dinner; and she told him that too; and so I suppose I shall have him up stairs, as soon as his company is gone.

Saturday, six o’clock.

My master came up, and, in a pleasanter manner than I expected, said, So, Pamela, we have seized, it seems, your treasonable papers? Treasonable! said I, very sullenly. Ay, said he, I suppose so; for you are a great plotter: but I have not read them yet.

Then, sir, said I, very gravely, it will be truly honourable in you not to read them; but to give them to me again. To whom, says he, are they written?—To my father, sir; but I suppose you see to whom.—Indeed, returned he, I have not read three lines yet. Then, pray, sir, don’t read them; but give them to me again. That I will not, said he, till I have read them. Sir, said I, you served me not well in the letters I used to write formerly: I think it was not worthy your character to contrive to get them in your hands, by that false John Arnold! for should such a gentleman as you mind what your poor servant writes?—Yes, said he, by all means, mind what such a servant as my Pamela writes.

Your Pamela! thought I. Then the sham marriage came into my head; and indeed it has not been out of it, since the gipsy affair.—But, said he, have you any thing in these papers you would not have me see? To be sure, sir, said I, there is; for what one writes to one’s father and mother, is not for every body to see. Nor, said he, am I every body.

Those letters, added he, that I did see by John’s means, were not to your disadvantage, I’ll assure you; for they gave me a very high opinion of your wit and innocence: And if I had not loved you, do you think I would have troubled myself about your letters?

Alas! sir, said I, great pride to me that! For they gave you such an opinion of my innocence, that you was resolved to ruin me. And what advantage have they brought me!—Who have been made a prisoner, and used as I have been between you and your housekeeper.

Why, Pamela, said he, a little seriously, why this behaviour, for my goodness to you in the garden?—This is not of a piece with your conduct and softness there, that quite charmed me in your favour: And you must not give me cause to think that you will be the more insolent, as you find me kinder. Ah! sir, said I, you know best your own heart and designs! But I fear I was too open-hearted then; and that you still keep your resolution to undo me, and have only changed the form of your proceedings.

When I tell you once again, said he, a little sternly, that you cannot oblige me more, than by placing some confidence in me, I will let you know, that these foolish and perverse doubts are the worst things you can be guilty of. But, said he, I shall possibly account for the cause of them, in these papers of yours; for I doubt not you have been sincere to your father and mother, though you begin to make me suspect you: For I tell you, perverse girl, that it is impossible you should be thus cold and insensible, after what has passed in the garden, if you were not prepossessed in some other person’s favour: And let me add, that if I find it so, it shall be attended with such effects, as will make every vein in your heart bleed.

He was going away in wrath; and I said, One word, good sir, one word before you read them, since you will read them: Pray make allowances—for all the harsh reflections that you will find in them, on your own conduct to me: And remember only, that they were not written for your sight; and were penned by a poor creature hardly used, and who was in constant apprehension of receiving from you the worst treatment that you could inflict upon her.

If that be all, said he, and there be nothing of another nature, that I cannot forgive, you have no cause for uneasiness; for I had as many instances of your saucy reflections upon me in your former letters, as there were lines; and yet, you see, I have never upbraided you on that score; though, perhaps, I wished you had been more sparing of your epithets, and your freedoms of that sort.

Well, sir, said I, since you will, you must read them; and I think I have no reason to be afraid of being found insincere, or having, in any respect, told you a falsehood; because, though I don’t remember all I wrote, yet I know I wrote my heart; and that is not deceitful. And remember, sir, another thing, that I always declared I thought myself right to endeavour to make my escape from this forced and illegal restraint; and so you must not be angry that I would have done so, if I could.

I’ll judge you, never fear, said he, as favourably as you deserve; for you have too powerful a pleader within me. And so went down stairs.

About nine o’clock he sent for me down into the parlour. I went a little fearfully; and he held the paper in his hand, and said, Now, Pamela, you come upon your trial. Said I, I hope I have a just judge to hear my cause. Ay, said he, and you may hope for a merciful one too, or else I know not what will become of you.

I expect, continued he, that you will answer me directly, and plainly, to every question I shall ask you.—In the first place, here are several love-letters between you and Williams. Love-letters! sir, said I.—Well, call them what you will, said he, I don’t entirely like them, I’ll assure you, with all the allowances you desired me to make for you. Do you find, sir, said I, that I encouraged his proposal, or do you not? Why, said he, you discourage his address in appearance; but no otherwise than all your cunning sex do to ours, to make us more eager in pursuing you.

Well, sir, said I, that is your comment; but it does not appear so in the text. Smartly said! says he: Where a d–l gottest thou, at these years, all this knowledge? And then thou hast a memory, as I see by your papers, that nothing escapes. Alas! sir, said I, what poor abilities I have, serve only to make me more miserable!—I have no pleasure in my memory, which impresses things upon me, that I could be glad never were, or everlastingly to forget.

Well, said he, so much for that—But where are the accounts (since you have kept so exact a journal of all that has befallen you) previous to these here in my hand? My father has them, sir, said I.—By whose means? said he—By Mr. Williams’s, said I. Well answered, said he. But cannot you contrive to get me a sight of them? That would be pretty! said I. I wish I could have contrived to have kept those you have from your sight. Said he, I must see them, Pamela, or I shall never be easy; for I must know how this correspondence between you and Williams began: and if I can see them, it shall be better for you, if they answer what these give me hope they will.

I can tell you, sir, very faithfully, said I, what the beginning was; for I was bold enough to be the beginner. That won’t do, said he; for though this may appear a punctilio to you, to me it is of high importance. Sir, said I, if you please to let me go to my father, I will send them to you by any messenger you shall send for them. Will you so? But I dare say, if you will write for them, they will send them to you, without the trouble of such a journey to yourself: and I beg you will.

I think, sir, said I, as you have seen all my former letters through John’s baseness, and now these, through your faithful housekeeper’s officious watchfulness, you might see all the rest: But I hope you will not desire it, till I can see how much my pleasing you in this particular will be of use to myself.

You must trust to my honour for that. But tell me, Pamela, said the sly gentleman, since I have seen these, would you have voluntarily shewn me those, had they been in your possession?

I was not aware of this inference, and said, Yes, truly, sir, I think I should, if you commanded it. Well then, Pamela, said he, as I am sure you have found means to continue your journal, I desire, till the former part can come, that you will shew me the succeeding.—O sir, sir, said I, have you caught me so?—But indeed you must excuse me there.

Why, said he, tell me truly, have you not continued your account till now? Don’t ask me, sir, said I. But I insist upon your answer, replied he. Why then, sir, I will not tell an untruth; I have.—That’s my good girl! said he, I love sincerity at my heart.—In another, sir, said I, I presume you mean!—Well, said he, I’ll allow you to be a little witty upon me; because it is in you, and you cannot help it: but you will greatly oblige me, to shew me voluntarily what you have written. I long to see the particulars of your plot, and your disappointment, where your papers leave off: for you have so beautiful a manner, that it is partly that, and partly my love for you, that has made me desirous of reading all you write; though a great deal of it is against myself; for which you must expect to suffer a little: and as I have furnished you with the subject, I have a title to see the fruits of your pen.—Besides, said he, there is such a pretty air of romance, as you relate them, in your plots, and my plots, that I shall be better directed in what manner to wind up the catastrophe of the pretty novel.

If I was your equal, sir, said I, I should say this is a very provoking way of jeering at the misfortunes you have brought upon me.

O, said he, the liberties you have taken with my character in your letters, sets us upon a par, at least in that respect. Sir, I could not have taken those liberties, if you had not given me the cause: and the cause, sir, you know, is before the effect.

True, Pamela, said he; you chop logic very prettily. What the deuse do we men go to school for? If our wits were equal to women’s, we might spare much time and pains in our education: for nature teaches your sex, what, in a long course of labour and