“I repeat, then, Sir, that I knew all this, when the two noble sisters came to visit your poor girl, and to see your Billy.  Yet, grave as the Countess called me, (dear Sir! might I not well be grave, knowing what I knew?) did I betray any impatience of speech or action, or any discomposure?

“No, Sir,” putting my hand on my breast, “here all my discomposure lay, vehemently struggling, now and then, and wanting that vent of my eyes, which it seems (overcome by my joy, to hear myself favourably spoken of by you and the lady,) it too soon made itself.  But I could not help it—­You might have seen.  Sir, I could not!

“But I want neither to recriminate nor expostulate; nor yet, Sir, to form excuses for my general conduct; for that you accuse not in the main—­but be pleased, Sir, to read this letter.  It was brought by the penny-post, as you’ll see by the mark.  Who the writer is, I know not.  And did you, Sir, that knowledge, and your resentment upon it, will not alter the fact, or give it a more favourable appearance.”

I stepped to him, and giving him the letter, came back to my bar, and sat down on one of the chairs while he read it, drying my eyes; for they would overflow as I talked, do what I could.

He was much moved at the contents of this letter; called it malice, and hoped he might find out the author of it, saying, he would advertise 500 guineas reward for the discoverer.

He put the letter in his pocket, “Well, Pamela, you believe all you have said, no doubt:  and this matter has a black appearance, indeed, if you do.  But who was your first informant?—­Was that by letter or personally?  That Turner, I doubt not, is at the bottom of all this.  The vain coxcomb has had the insolence to imagine the Countess would favour an address of his; and is enraged to meet with a repulse; and has taken liberties upon it, that have given birth to all the scandals scattered about on this occasion.  Nor do I doubt but he has been the Serpent at the ear of my Eve.”

I stood up at the bar, and said, “Don’t be too hasty, Sir, in your judgment—­You may be mistaken.”

“But am I mistaken, Pamela?—­You never told me an untruth in cases the most important to you to conceal. Am I mistaken?”

“Dear Sir, if I should tell you it is not Mr. Turner, you’ll guess at somebody else:  and what avails all this to the matter in hand?  You are your own master, and must stand or fall by your own conscience.  God grant that that may acquit you!—­But my intention is not either to accuse or upbraid you.”

“But, my dear, to the fact then:—­This is a malicious and a villainous piece of intelligence, given you, perhaps, for the sake of designs and views, that may not yet be proper to be avowed.”

“By God’s grace, Sir, I defy all designs and views of any one, upon my honour!”

“But, my dear, the charge is basely false:  we have not agreed upon any such way of life.”