Letter II [In answer to the preceding.]
DEAR PAMELA,
Your letter was indeed a great trouble, and some comfort, to me and your
poor mother. We are troubled, to be sure, for your good lady's death,
who took such care of you, and gave you learning, and, for three or
four years past, has always been giving you clothes and linen, and every
thing that a gentlewoman need not be ashamed to appear in. But our chief
trouble is, and indeed a very great one, for fear you should be brought
to anything dishonest or wicked, by being set so above yourself. Every
body talks how you have come on, and what a genteel girl you are; and
some say you are very pretty; and, indeed, six months since, when I saw
you last, I should have thought so myself, if you was not our child. But
what avails all this, if you are to be ruined and undone!--Indeed, my
dear Pamela, we begin to be in great fear for you; for what signify all
the riches in the world, with a bad conscience, and to be dishonest! We
are, 'tis true, very poor, and find it hard enough to live; though once,
as you know, it was better with us. But we would sooner live upon the
water, and, if possible, the clay of the ditches I contentedly dig, than
live better at the price of our child's ruin.
I hope the good 'squire has no design: but when he has given you so much
money, and speaks so kindly to you, and praises your coming on; and, oh,
that fatal word! that he would be kind to you, if you would do as you
should do, almost kills us with fears.
I have spoken to good old widow Mumford about it, who, you know, has
formerly lived in good families; and she puts us in some comfort; for
she says it is not unusual, when a lady dies, to give what she has about
her person to her waiting-maid, and to such as sit up with her in her
illness. But, then, why should he smile so kindly upon you? Why should
he take such a poor girl as you by the hand, as your letter says he hasaf
done twice? Why should he stoop to read your letter to us; and commend
your writing and spelling? And why should he give you leave to read his
mother's books?--Indeed, indeed, my dearest child, our hearts ache for
you; and then you seem so full of joy at his goodness, so taken with
his kind expressions, (which, truly, are very great favours, if he
means well) that we fear--yes, my dear child, we fear--you should be too
grateful,--and reward him with that jewel, your virtue, which no riches,
nor favour, nor any thing in this life, can make up to you.