Monday.
Well, where this will end, I cannot say. But here I am, at a little poor village, almost such a one as yours! I shall learn the name of it by and by: and Robin assures me, he has orders to carry me to you, my dear father and mother. O that he may say truth, and not deceive me again! But having nothing else to do, and I am sure I shall not sleep a wink to-night, if I was to go to bed, I will write my time away, and take up my story where I left off, on Sunday afternoon.
Mrs. Jewkes came up to me, with this answer about my papers: My master says, he will not read them yet, lest he should be moved by any thing in them to alter his resolution. But if he should think it worth while to read them, he will send them to you, afterwards, to your father’s. But, said she, here are your guineas that I borrowed: for all is over now with you, I find.
She saw me cry, and said, Do you repent?—Of what? said I.—Nay, I can’t tell, replied she; but, to be sure, he has had a taste of your satirical flings, or he would not be so angry. O! continued she, and held up her hand, thou hast a spirit!—But I hope it will now be brought down.—I hope so too, said I.
Well, added I, I am ready. She lifted up the window, and said, I’ll call Robin to take your portmanteau: Bag and baggage! proceeded she, I’m glad you’re going. I have no words, said I, to throw away upon you, Mrs. Jewkes; but, making her a very low courtesy, I most heartily thank you for all your virtuous civilities to me. And so adieu; for I’ll have no portmanteau, I’ll assure you, nor any thing but these few things that I brought with me in my handkerchief, besides what I have on. For I had all this time worn my own bought clothes, though my master would have had it otherwise often: but I had put up paper, ink, and pens, however.
So down I went, and as I passed by the parlour, she stepped in, and said, Sir, you have nothing to say to the girl before she goes? I heard him reply, though I did not see him, Who bid you say, the girl, Mrs. Jewkes, in that manner? She has offended only me.
I beg your honour’s pardon, said the wretch; but if I was your honour, she should not, for all the trouble she has cost you, go away scot-free. No more of this, as I told you before, said he: What! when I have such proof, that her virtue is all her pride, shall I rob her of that?—No, added he, let her go, perverse and foolish as she is; but she deserves to go honest, and she shall go so!
I was so transported with this unexpected goodness, that I opened the door before I knew what I did; and said, falling on my knees at the door, with my hands folded, and lifted up, O thank you, thank your honour, a million of times!—May God bless you for this instance of your goodness to me! I will pray for you as long as I live, and so shall my dear father and mother. And, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, I will pray for you too, poor wicked wretch that you are!
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.