The next four years Sir Michael rarely spent his time in Dunder-Mifflin. Soon after Mr. Halpert’s departure, he had received a disturbing note about his business in West-Indies. The deal had demanded his immediate intervention, so he had left as soon as it could have been possible. His journey had taken about half of the year; the obstacles had been eliminated, and his income had even increased. Sir Michael had found a new steward, Mr. Martinez, a reasonable and dependable man, and had not had other reasons to stay there longer. But a man with genuine friendliness and naivete, and especially a vast fortune such as Sir Michael, had always been a welcomed guest in any society. The splendor of the high society had dazzled him; the enticements of Kingston, Ramsgate, London, and Bath had secured him away from the moorlands of Yorkshire.
Almost all his inhabitants had left the Dunder Hall. Some of them had accompanied Sir Michael, and others had returned to the village. Only a few servants remained in the mansion to keep it in proper condition before the master had been absent, and Pamela was one of them. For the first time in her life, she lived almost on her own and looking at the circumstances, she was grateful for the solitude.
Not a single tear had she shed since that night in May; her demeanor remained discreet, she was still a pleasant companion to Sir Michael, a diligent servant, a grateful daughter, and a good sister. No one had spotted changes in her; only Penelope had said once that her older sister had been quiet lately. In truth, Pamela had felt numbness in her feelings and her mind, eventuating as protection from her heartache; all the doings and the talk had been similar to her, and she had barely recognised the change of matter here or there. Pamela had still not recovered from the shock caused by Mr. Halpert’s intention and his early leaving; she had not entirely prepared to continue living without him nearby. She had accustomed thinking about him as an agreeable acquaintance, even as a dear friend - but his absence had made Pamela sense keenly that he had been more than that. Insensibly, he became a part of her own existence, and she had only realised that when he had already been gone and she would never see him again. Pamela had desired to fall asleep and never wake up if that might have helped her to ease the pain.
And yet, she had had to remain awake for the sake of her family and Sir Michael. Her master had prepared to go on a long trip - who if not Pamela had had to prepare all that was needed for him? So she had gathered his belongings and had made her farewells, being left in charge in the half-deserted mansion. Her family had needed her - so she had run her errands drudgingly. Her savings had completed her dowry; Mr. Beesly had had a talk with the old Mr. Anderson, and they had set a date for the wedding of their children. Pamela had listened to congratulations and chatters absentmindedly as if that deal had not regarded to her.
She had been snapped out of her condition one Sunday in June when Mr. Schrute had called the banns for the first time. Hearing her name along with Mr. Anderson’s, Pamela had been horrified with the realisation that after three weeks, she would have been a wife of a man she had barely known, she had not entirely understood, and toward whom she had not nourished any feelings. ‘This is the first time of asking. If any of you know the cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it,’ proclaimed Mr. Schrute, and it had given Pamela a little strength. When the Beeslys had returned home after the sermon, she had asked her father to have a word with her and had told him she had not wanted to marry Mr. Anderson.
The commoners of Dunder-Mifflin had not even finished the discussion about the sudden departure of Sir Michael and his supposed devastation when they had been gained with an even more interesting topic. Miss Beesly had broken her engagement! Miss Beesly, who had been known as a sweet, reasonable, and responsible girl all of a sudden, had displayed unexpected stubbornness and flippancy. Neither gentle words of persuasion from her father, nor a harsh accusation of ungratefulness from her cousin, nor even a long talk with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson had not changed her mind. The reasons she had given had been futile - something about she could not have made him happy and would not have been happy herself; all these reasons she had given three weeks before the wedding when all preparations had been made and all the neighbours had been notified. The local society had anticipated what decision would have been made and how that unpleasant situation would have ended. Most of the commoners had pitied both the Andersons and the Beeslys, though some of them had enjoyed gloatingly the embarrassment and confusion of both families.
The solution had been found by Mrs. Beesly. It had been proclaimed that Mr. Anderson would have married Miss Beesly, and there had been no impediment against it except the sudden whim of the bride-to-be. But there had been not one, but two Misses Beeslys, and the youngest had not been inferior to the eldest, and some of her merits such as obedience and a lack of cockiness had even exceeded her sister’s. Miss Penelope, after long talks about the responsibility and her benefits from the marriage, had agreed to it. With it, she had inherited her sister’s dowry of three hundred pounds, had been heightened in the eyes of her family and the local society, and had become Mrs. Anderson, being only a year older than Pamela had been when she had gotten engaged.
The big scandal had been prevented, but the rumors had been living for quite a long time, and all of them had been about the misbehavior of the eldest Miss Beesly. What had urged her to do such a thing? Some of the inhabitants of Dunder-Mifflin had slandered that Miss Beesly had been in charge of the manor while Sir Michael had been absent - and her new status had intoxicated her. They had accused her of being too arrogant, too fancy to become the wife of an ordinary farmer. Some of them had ever remembered her relationship with Lady Scott and had pointed out that this behavior had had deep roots. Only Mrs. Vance had thought that Pamela’s deed might have connected with a particular gentleman, but she had been wise enough not to speculate about it.
Pamela was grateful for her solace in the manor. The guilt and sorrows became a part of her existence, and she was glad she could have avoided the pitiful and scornful gazes of people. The worst of it was the loss of heartiness from her family. She still had the Sunday dinners with her relatives, still left part of her wage to their needs. But the conversation became brief and shallow, the pauses between the words were long and full of accusation. Only Penelope did not hold grudges against her sister. The newlywed Mrs. Anderson had found herself quite satisfied with her own house and her new position in the society, and, after a few years of her marriage, she learned to appreciate and love her husband. But Mrs. Anderson was not the same Penny Pamela used to share her thoughts and feelings. She could have counted on her support in her family, but that easiness they had shared before had gone.
A month went after a month; Pamela’s comportment remained the same amiability and helpfulness, and little by little, she was excused in the eyes of society. Only Miss Martin kept reminding her cousin about her disgrace, and Pamela often caught the gaze of Mr. Schrute addressed to the rows where she and her family sat, especially when he was talking about the matrimony. In those moments, she closed her eyes and vividly imagined the reaction of Mr. Halpert. Would he have teased her about such a dedication? Would he have elaborated some scheme to mock Mr. Schrute’s pompous behavior? She did not know, but it did not stop her thoughts.
Her seclusion kept her away from curious glares, but it did not secure her from speculating about what had happened, what would have been, and what might have been. During the long, endless nights in the mansion, when the whole world reduced to one room, lightening only with a single candle, Pamela involuntarily returned to that night in May. What might have been if she had said ‘yes’ and had left with Mr. Halpert? She might have been dishonored in the eyes of her family, the neighbours, and in her own, and yet she would have left Dunder-Mifflin and would have been cherished and loved. What might have been if he had given her a little bit more time to explain herself? What might have been if she had kept her lips shut and her eyes down and she had avoided Mr. Halpert and had talked to him only about weather and only when Sir Michael had made her? If they had not had a connection, it would have been simple for her to live her ordinary life, to be the wife of Mr. Anderson. Pamela might even have been happy, as much as it was possible. And yet, though she was yearning and lonely and sorrowful, she had no regrets.
For these four years, Sir Michael visited Dunder Hall just twice, soon after his return from West-Indies and the following year after the first visit. He had paid a little attention to the village’s news and had remarked once that he had been glad that Pamela had not gotten married; otherwise, he would have had to look for another housekeeper. No, all his attention had been dedicated to himself, his pleasures and misfortunes, to people he had met and people he would have liked to meet. Pamela had always been a patient listener, his favorite one. So, when the season in the City had called Sir Michael away, he had written to her, even if that had violated each rule of etiquette. Sir Michael had declared that he had known Pamela for so long, that he had considered her as a part of the family, like a spinster aunt or third niece - and what had been wrong with correspondence with a relative from provinces? He had decided that and had not taken any excuses from Pamela. With that, from time to time, he had sent letters to her. She might have even been pleased with that display of his goodwill if almost each of those letters had not caused her pain.
‘I have seen Mr. Flenderson at the soiree of Lady Levinson. Hideous man! I cannot believe that Lady Scott had such an awful brother. He said he was going to sail to Costa-Rica - I hope he will come down with yellow fever and die alone - as he deserves it.’
Pamela had vaguely recalled Mr. Flenderson as a calm and reflective man; the last time they had seen him had been at Lady Scott’s funeral. She had known no rational reason why Sir Michael had abhorred him so much. It had stung a little, the thought that two good gentlemen with a connection and a common loss had had such an enmity.
‘Lady Levinson is the most beautiful creature I have ever met. She is so elegant and smart. I have proposed to her, but she has not given an answer yet. You will be glad to have a mistress, won’t you?’
Pamela had thought before that Sir Michael might get married for the second time; perhaps, it even would have been expected from him due to his position on the society and his fortune. And yet, there had been something touching in his fidelity to his late spouse. He had changed his heart, and even Pamela could not have blamed him; he would have been happy once more, and the mansion had needed the mistress indeed. But that had meant changes; Pamela had not dared to confess even to herself that she had disliked them. Besides, changes had indicated that the rules, established by Lady Scott, would have gone; her memory would had faded even more.
‘Yesterday I attended the wedding of my cousin, Mr. Howard. He caught a lovely girl with ten thousand pounds. I said they were welcomed to spend their honeymoon in Dunder Hall, but they decided to travel to Europe, to pay attention to her relatives or something. I saw Mr. Halpert at the reception - do you remember him? An excellent young man. He inherited a small sum of one or two thousand from his uncle - enough to live like a gentleman, but not enough to settle. I told him he should find a wife himself - a fine lady from a good family with a proper dowry. I expect that he will follow my advice.’
That letter had hurt the most. Pamela had not expected anything from Mr. Halpert; no self-respecting man would have repeated an offer after such refusal. And yet, a tiny part of her had wished for a miracle, that he had discovered about the change of her state and had returned to her, for her. She had relied on Sir Michael, but she must have learned a long time ago that it had not been sensible. After that letter, Pamela had taken the unfinished portrait of Mr. Halpert from her chest, where it had been hidden with her best gown and the old ball shoes, and had looked at it, tracing lines of his face and hair with her finger. She had had no right to keep it, but she could not have made herself to ruin it. This portrait remained well hidden as well as her hopes and wishes.
One day in February, Pamela received one more letter from Sir Michael. She prepared herself for the inevitable pain that this note must bring. But it was short and matter-of-fact; Sir Michael asked her to prepare the manor for his return and had specified to put special effort.
He would bring guests with him.
