Why, sir, little did I think I should have such occasion for them; but, when I went away from your house, I begged some of each of good Mr. Longman, who gave me plenty. Yes, yes, said he, it must be good Mr. Longman! All your confederates are good, every one of them: but such of my servants as have done their duty, and obeyed my orders, are painted out by you as black as devils! nay, so am I too, for that matter.
Sir, said I, I hope you won’t be angry, but, saving yourself, do you think they are painted worse than they deserve? or worse than the parts they acted require?
You say, saving myself, Pamela; but is not that saying a mere compliment to me, because I am present, and you are in my hands? Tell me truly.—Good sir, excuse me; but I fancy I might ask you, Why you should think so, if there was not a little bit of conscience that told you, there was but too much reason for it?
He kissed me, and said, I must either do thus, or be angry with you; for you are very saucy, Pamela.—But, with your bewitching chit-chat, and pretty impertinence, I will not lose my question. Where did you hide your paper, pens, and ink?
Some, sir, in one place, some in another; that I might have some left, if others should be found.—That’s a good girl! said he; I love you for your sweet veracity. Now tell me where it is you hide your written papers, your saucy journal?—I must beg your excuse for that, sir, said I. But indeed, answered he, you will not have it: for I will know, and I will see them.—This is very hard, sir, said I; but I must say, you shall not, if I can help it.
We were standing most of this time; but he then sat down, and took me by both my hands, and said, Well said, my pretty Pamela, if you can help it! But I will not let you help it. Tell me, are they in your pocket? No, sir, said I; my heart up at my mouth. Said he, I know you won’t tell a downright fib for the world: but for equivocation! no jesuit ever went beyond you. Answer me then, Are they in neither of your pockets? No, sir, said I. Are they not, said he, about your stays? No, sir, replied I: But pray no more questions: for ask me ever so much, I will not tell you.
O, said he, I have a way for that. I can do as they do abroad, when the criminals won’t confess; torture them till they do.—But pray, sir, said I, is this fair, just, or honest? I am no criminal; and I won’t confess.
O, my girl! said he, many an innocent person has been put to the torture. But let me know where they are, and you shall escape the question, as they call it abroad.
Sir, said I, the torture is not used in England, and I hope you won’t bring it up. Admirably said! said the naughty gentleman.—But I can tell you of as good a punishment. If a criminal won’t plead with us, here in England, we press him to death, or till he does plead. And so now, Pamela, that is a punishment shall certainly be yours, if you won’t tell without.
Tears stood in my eyes, and I said, This, sir, is very cruel and barbarous.—No matter, said he; it is but like your Lucifer, you know, in my shape! And, after I have done so many heinous things by you as you think, you have no great reason to judge so hardly of this; or, at least, it is but of a piece with the rest.