My Summer with Doctor Singletary | Page 7

Polly Wiggin, the tailoress, a
shrewd, selfish, managing woman. Julia, poor girl! had a sorry time of
it; for the Ensign, although a kind and affectionate man naturally, was
too weak and yielding to interpose between her and his strong-minded,
sharp-tongued wife. She had one friend, however, who was always
ready to sympathize with her. Robert Barnet was the son of her
next-door neighbor, about two years older than herself; they had grown
up together as school companions and playmates; and often in my
drives I used to meet them coming home hand in hand from school, or
from the woods with berries and nuts, talking and laughing as if there
were no scolding step-mothers in the world.
"It so fell out that when Julia was in her sixteenth year there came a
famous writing-master to Peewawkin. He was a showy, dashing fellow,
with a fashionable dress, a wicked eye, and a tongue like the old
serpent's when he tempted our great-grandmother. Julia was one of his
scholars, and perhaps the prettiest of them all. The rascal singled her
out from the first; and, the better to accomplish his purpose, he left the
tavern and took lodgings at the Ensign's. He soon saw how matters
stood in the family, and governed himself accordingly, taking special
pains to conciliate the ruling authority. The Ensign's wife hated young
Barnet, and wished to get rid of her step-daughter. The writing-master,
therefore, had a fair field. He flattered the poor young girl by his
attentions and praised her beauty. Her moral training had not fitted her
to withstand this seductive influence; no mother's love, with its quick,
instinctive sense of danger threatening its object, interposed between
her and the tempter. Her old friend and playmate--he who could alone
have saved her--had been rudely repulsed from the house by her
step-mother; and, indignant and disgusted, he had retired from all

competition with his formidable rival. Thus abandoned to her own
undisciplined imagination, with the inexperience of a child and the
passions of a woman, she was deceived by false promises, bewildered,
fascinated, and beguiled into sin.
"It is the same old story of woman's confidence and man's duplicity.
The rascally writing-master, under pretence of visiting a neighboring
town, left his lodgings and never returned. The last I heard of him, he
was the tenant of a western penitentiary. Poor Julia, driven in disgrace
from her father's house, found a refuge in the humble dwelling of an
old woman of no very creditable character. There I was called to visit
her; and, although not unused to scenes of suffering and sorrow, I had
never before witnessed such an utter abandonment to grief, shame, and
remorse. Alas! what sorrow was like unto her sorrow? The birth hour of
her infant was also that of its death.
"The agony of her spirit seemed greater than she could bear. Her eyes
were opened, and she looked upon herself with loathing and horror. She
would admit of no hope, no consolation; she would listen to no
palliation or excuse of her guilt. I could only direct her to that Source
of pardon and peace to which the broken and contrite heart never
appeals in vain.
"In the mean time Robert Barnet shipped on board a Labrador vessel.
The night before he left he called on me, and put in my hand a sum of
money, small indeed, but all he could then command.
"'You will see her often,' he said. 'Do not let her suffer; for she is more
to be pitied than blamed.'
"I answered him that I would do all in my power for her; and added,
that I thought far better of her, contrite and penitent as she was, than of
some who were busy in holding her up to shame and censure.
"'God bless you for these words!' he said, grasping my hand. 'I shall
think of them often. They will be a comfort to me.'
"As for Julia, God was more merciful to her than man. She rose from
her sick-bed thoughtful and humbled, but with hopes that transcended
the world of her suffering and shame. She no longer murmured against
her sorrowful allotment, but accepted it with quiet and almost cheerful
resignation as the fitting penalty of God's broken laws and the needed
discipline of her spirit. She could say with the Psalmist, 'The judgments
of the Lord are true, justified in themselves. Thou art just, O Lord, and

thy judgment is right.' Through my exertions she obtained employment
in a respectable family, to whom she endeared herself by her
faithfulness, cheerful obedience, and unaffected piety.
"Her trials had made her heart tender with sympathy for all in affliction.
She seemed inevitably drawn towards the sick and suffering. In their
presence the burden of her own