XIII. Pray for her wish'd content and peace; XIV. On God all future good depends: HERE it is necessary the reader should know, that the fair Pamela's trials were not yet over; but the worst were to come, at a time when she thought them at an end, and that she was returning to her father: for when her master found her virtue was not to be subdued, and he had in vain tried to conquer his passion for her, being a gentleman of pleasure and intrigue, he had ordered his Lincolnshire coachman to bring his travelling chariot from thence, not caring to trust his Bedfordshire coachman, who, with the rest of the servants, so greatly loved and honoured the fair damsel; and having given him instructions accordingly, and prohibited the other servants, on pretence of resenting Pamela's behaviour, from accompanying her any part of the road, he drove her five. miles on the way to her father's; and then turning off, crossed the country, and carried her onwards towards his Lincolnshire estate. It is also to be observed, that the messenger of her letters to her father, who so often pretended business that way, was an implement in his master's hands, and employed by him for that purpose; and always gave her letters first to him, and his master used to open and read them, and then send them on; by which means, as he hints to her (as she observes in one of her letters, p. 84), he was no stranger to what she wrote. Thus every way was the poor virgin beset: And the whole will show the base arts of designing men to gain their wicked ends; and how much it behoves the fair sex to stand upon their guard against artful contrivances, especially when riches and power conspire against innocence and a low estate. A few words more will be necessary to make the sequel better understood. The intriguing gentleman thought fit, however, to keep back from her father her three last letters; in which she mentions his concealing himself to hear her partitioning out her clothes, his last effort to induce her to stay a fortnight, his pretended proposal of the chaplain, and her hopes of speedily seeing them, as also her verses; and to send himself a letter to her father, which is as follows: 'GOODMAN ANDREWS,-You will wonder to receive a let'ter from me. But I think I am obliged to let you know, 'that I have discovered the strange correspondence carried on 'between you and your daughter, so injurious to my honour ' and reputation, and which, I think, you should not have en'couraged, till you knew there were sufficient grounds for those aspersions, which she so plentifully casts upon me. 'Something possibly there might be in what she has written 'from time to time; but, believe me, with all her pretended simplicity and innocence, I never knew so much romantic 'invention as she is mistress of. In short, the girl's head's ' turned by romances, and such idle stuff, to which she has given herself up, ever since her kind lady's death. And she assumes airs, as if she was a mirror of perfection, and every'body had a design upon her. 'Don't mistake me, however; I believe her very honest and ' very virtuous; but I have found out also, that she is carrying 'on a sort of correspondence, or love affair, with a young 'clergyman, that I hope in time to provide for; but who, at present, is destitute of any subsistence but my favour: And 'what would be the consequence, can you think, of two young 'folks, who have nothing in the world to trust to of their own, 'to come together with a family multiplying upon them be'fore they have bread to eat? For my part, I have too much kindness to them both, not 'to endeavour to prevent it, if I can; and for this reason I 'have sent her out of his way for a little while, till I can 'bring them both to better consideration; and I would not, 'therefore, have you be surprised you don't see your daughter so soon as you might possibly expect. Yet I do assure you, upon my honour, that she shall be 'safe and inviolate; and I hope you don't doubt me, notwithstanding any airs she may have given herself, upon my 'jocular pleasantry to her, and perhaps a little innocent 'romping with her, so usual with young folks of the two sexes, when they have been long acquainted, and grown up 'together; for pride is not my talent. As she is a mighty letter-writer, I hope she has had the 'duty to apprise you of her intrigue with the young clergy'man; and I know not whether it meets with your counten< ance: But now she is absent for a little while (for I know 'he would have followed her to your village, if she had gone home; and there, perhaps, they would have ruined one an'other, by marrying), I doubt not I shall bring him to see ‘his interest, and that he engages not before he know how to 'provide for a wife: And when that can be done, let them come together in God's name, for me. 'I expect not to be answered on this head, but by your "good opinion, and the confidence you may repose in my 'honour: being "Your hearty friend to serve you. ‘P. S.—I find my man John has been the manager of the 'correspondence, in which such liberties have been taken < with me. I shall soon, in a manner that becomes me, 'let the saucy fellow know how much I resent his part 'of the affair. It is a hard thing, that a man of my char'acter in the world should be used thus freely by his own servants.' It is easy to guess at the poor old man's concern, upon reading this letter from a gentleman of so much consideration. He knew not what course to take, and had no manner of doubt of his poor daughter's innocence, and that foul play was designed her. Yet he sometimes hoped the best, VOL. I—13. and was ready to believe the surmised correspondence between the clergyman and her, having not received the letters she wrote, which would have cleared up that affair. But, after all, he resolved, as well to quiet his own as her mother's uneasiness, to undertake a journey to the 'squire's; and leaving his poor wife to excuse him to the farmer who employed him, he set out that very evening, late as it was; and travelling all night, found himself, soon after daylight, at the gate of the gentleman, before the family was up: and there he sat down to rest himself till he should see somebody stirring. The grooms were the first he saw, coming out to water their horses; and he asked, in so distressful a manner, what was become of Pamela, that they thought him crazy; and said, Why, what have you to do with Pamela, old fellow? Get out of the horses' way.-Where is your master? said the poor man: Pray, gentlemen, don't be angry: my heart's almost broken. He never gives anything at the door, I assure you, says one of the grooms; so you lose your labour.-I am not a beggar yet, said the poor old man; I want nothing of him, but my Pamela :-Oh my child! my child! I'll be hanged, says one of them, if this is not Mrs. Pamela's father.-Indeed, indeed, said he, wringing his hands, I am; and weeping, Where is my child? Where is my Pamela ?—Why, father, said one of them, we beg your pardon; but she is gone home to you: How long have you been come from home?-Oh! but last night, said he; I have travelled all night: Is the 'squire at home, or is he not?— Yes, but he is not stirring though, said the groom, as yet. Thank God for that! said he; thank God for that! Then I hope I may be permitted to speak to him anon. They asked him to go in, and he stepped into the stable, and sat down on the stairs there, wiping his eyes, and sighing so sadly, that it grieved the servants to hear him. The family was soon raised with a report of Pamela's father coming to inquire after his daughter; and the maids would fain have had him go into the kitchen. But Mrs. Jervis, having been told of his coming, arose, and hastened down to her parlour, and took him in with her, and there heard all his sad story, and read the letter. She wept bitterly, but yet endeavoured, before him, to hide her concern; and said, Well, Goodman Andrews, I cannot help weeping at your grief; but I hope there is no occasion. Let nobody see this letter, whatever you do. I daresay your daughter is safe. Well, but, said he, I see you, madam, know nothing about her: If all was right, so good a gentlewoman as you are, would not have been a stranger to this. To be sure you thought she was with me! Said she, My master does not always inform his servants of his proceedings; but you need not doubt his honour. You have his hand for it: And you may see he can have no design upon her, because he is not from hence, and does not talk of going hence. Oh that is all I have to hope for! said he; that is all, indeed!-But, said he and was going on, when the report of his coming had reached the 'squire, who came down, in his morning gown and slippers, into the parlour, where he and Mrs. Jervis were talking. What's the matter, Goodman Andrews? said he; what's the matter? Oh my child! said the good old man; give me my child! I beseech you, sir.-Why, I thought, says the 'squire, that I had satisfied you about her: Sure you have not the letter I sent you, written with my own hand. Yes, yes, but I have, sir, said he; and that brought me hither; and I have walked all night. Poor man, returned he, with great seeming compassion, I am sorry for it truly! Why, your daughter has made a strange racket in my family; and if I thought it would have disturbed you so much, I would have e'en let her gone home; but what I did was to serve her, and you too. She is very safe, I do assure you, Goodman Andrews; and you may take my honour for it, I would not injure her for the world. Do you think I would, Mrs. Jervis? No, I hope not, sir, said she.-Hope not! said the poor man; so do I; but pray, sir, give me my child; that is all I desire; and I'll take care no clergyman shall come near her. Why, London is a great way off, said the 'squire, and I |