My Summer with Dr. Singletary: A Fragment Chapter III.
by John Greenleaf Whittier
The Doctor's Match-Making.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Barnet," cried the Doctor, as we drew near a neat
farm-house during one of our morning drives.
A tall, healthful young woman, in the bloom of matronly beauty, was
feeding chickens at the door. She uttered an exclamation of delight and
hurried towards us. Perceiving a stranger in the wagon she paused, with
a look of embarrassment.
"My friend, who is spending a few weeks with me," explained the Doctor.
She greeted me civilly and pressed the Doctor's hand warmly.
"Oh, it is so long since you have called on us that we have been talking
of going up to the village to see you, as soon as Robert can get away
from his cornfield. You don't know how little Lucy has grown. You must
stop and see her."
"She's coming to see me herself," replied the Doctor, beckoning to a
sweet blue-eyed child in the door-way.
The delighted mother caught up her darling and held her before the
Doctor.
"Does n't she look like Robert?" she inquired. "His very eyes and
forehead! Bless me! here he is now."
A stout, hale young farmer, in a coarse checked frock and broad straw
hat, came up from the adjoining field.
"Well, Robert," said the Doctor, "how do matters now stand with you?
Well, I hope."
"All right, Doctor. We've paid off the last cent of the mortgage, and
the farm is all free and clear. Julia and I have worked hard; but we're
none the worse for it."
"You look well and happy, I am sure," said the Doctor. "I don't think
you are sorry you took the advice of the old Doctor, after all."
The young wife's head drooped until her lips touched those of her child.
"Sorry!" exclaimed her husband. "Not we! If there's anybody happier
than we are within ten miles of us. I don't know them. Doctor, I'll
tell you what I said to Julia the night I brought home that mortgage.
'Well,' said I, 'that debt's paid; but there's one debt we can never pay
as long as we live.' 'I know it,' says she; 'but Dr. Singletary wants
no better reward for his kindness than to see us live happily together,
and do for others what he has done for us.'"
"Pshaw!" said the Doctor, catching up his reins and whip. "You owe me
nothing. But I must not forget my errand. Poor old Widow Osborne needs
a watcher to-night; and she insists upon having Julia Barnet, and nobody
else. What shall I tell her?"
"I'll go, certainly. I can leave Lucy now as well as not."
"Good-by, neighbors."
"Good-by, Doctor."
As we drove off I saw the Doctor draw his hand hastily across his eyes,
and be said nothing for some minutes.
"Public opinion," said he at length, as if pursuing his meditations
aloud,--"public opinion is, in nine cases out of ten, public folly and
impertinence. We are slaves to one another. We dare not take counsel
of our consciences and affections, but must needs suffer popular
prejudice and custom to decide for us, and at their bidding are
sacrificed love and friendship and all the best hopes of our lives. We
do not ask, What is right and best for us? but, What will folks say of
it? We have no individuality, no self-poised strength, no sense of
freedom. We are conscious always of the gaze of the many-eyed tyrant.
We propitiate him with precious offerings; we burn incense perpetually
to Moloch, and pass through his fire the sacred first-born of our
hearts. How few dare to seek their own happiness by the lights which
God has given them, or have strength to defy the false pride and the
prejudice of the world and stand fast in the liberty of Christians! Can
anything be more pitiable than the sight of so many, who should be the
choosers and creators under God of their own spheres of utility and
happiness, self-degraded into mere slaves of propriety and custom, their
true natures undeveloped, their hearts cramped and shut up, each afraid
of his neighbor and his neighbor of him, living a life of unreality,
deceiving and being deceived, and forever walking in a vain show? Here,
now, we have just left a married couple who are happy because they have
taken counsel of their honest affections rather than of the opinions of
the multitude, and have dared to be true to themselves in defiance of
impertinent gossip."
"You speak of the young farmer Barnet and his wife, I suppose?" said I.
"Yes. I will give their case as an illustration. Julia Atkins was the
daughter of Ensign Atkins, who lived on the mill-road, just above Deacon
Warner's. When she was ten years old her mother died; and in a few
months afterwards her father married 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 sorrow seemed to fall off. She
was the most cheerful and sunny-faced nurse I ever knew; and I always
felt sure that my own efforts would be well seconded when I found her by
the bedside of a patient. Beautiful it was to see this poor young girl,
whom the world still looked upon with scorn and unkindness, cheering the
desponding, and imparting, as it were, her own strong, healthful life to
the weak and faint; supporting upon her bosom, through weary nights, the
heads of those who, in health, would have deemed her touch pollution; or
to hear her singing for the ear of the dying some sweet hymn of pious
hope or resignation, or calling to mind the consolations of the gospel
and the great love of Christ."
"I trust," said I, "that the feelings of the community were softened
towards her."
"You know what human nature is," returned the Doctor, "and with what
hearty satisfaction we abhor and censure sin and folly in others. It is
a luxury which we cannot easily forego, although our own experience
tells us that the consequences of vice and error are evil and bitter
enough without the aggravation of ridicule and reproach from without.
So you need not be surprised to learn that, in poor Julia's case, the
charity of sinners like herself did not keep pace with the mercy and
forgiveness of Him who is infinite in purity. Nevertheless, I will do
our people the justice to say that her blameless and self-sacrificing
life was not without its proper effect upon them."
"What became of Robert Barnet?" I inquired.
"He came back after an absence of several months, and called on me
before he had even seen his father and mother. He did not mention
Julia; but I saw that his errand with me concerned her. I spoke of her
excellent deportment and her useful life, dwelt upon the extenuating
circumstances of her error and of her sincere and hearty repentance.
"'Doctor,' said he, at length, with a hesitating and embarrassed manner,
'what should you think if I should tell you that, after all that has
passed, I have half made up my mind to ask her to become my wife?'
"'I should think better of it if you had wholly made up your mind,' said
I; 'and if you were my own son, I wouldn't ask for you a better wife
than Julia Atkins. Don't hesitate, Robert, on account of what some ill-
natured people may say. Consult your own heart first of all.'
"'I don't care for the talk of all the busybodies in town,' said he;
'but I wish father and mother could feel as you do about her.'
"'Leave that to me,' said I. 'They are kindhearted and reasonable, and
I dare say will be disposed to make the best of the matter when they
find you are decided in your purpose.'
"I did not see him again; but a few days after I learned from his
parents that he had gone on another voyage. It was now autumn, and the
most sickly season I had ever known in Peewawkin. Ensign Atkins and his
wife both fell sick; and Julia embraced with alacrity this providential
opportunity to return to her father's house and fulfil the duties of a
daughter. Under her careful nursing the Ensign soon got upon his feet;
but his wife, whose constitution was weaker, sunk under the fever. She
died better than she had lived,--penitent and loving, asking forgiveness
of Julia for her neglect and unkindness, and invoking blessings on her
head. Julia had now, for the first time since the death of her mother,
a comfortable home and a father's love and protection. Her sweetness of
temper, patient endurance, and forgetfulness of herself in her labors
for others, gradually overcame the scruples and hard feelings of her
neighbors. They began to question whether, after all, it was
meritorious in them to treat one like her as a sinner beyond
forgiveness. Elder Staples and Deacon Warner were her fast friends.
The Deacon's daughters--the tall, blue-eyed, brown-locked girls you
noticed in meeting the other day--set the example among the young people
of treating her as their equal and companion. The dear good girls!
They reminded me of the maidens of Naxos cheering and comforting the
unhappy Ariadne.
"One mid-winter evening I took Julia with me to a poor sick patient of
mine, who was suffering for lack of attendance. The house where she
lived was in a lonely and desolate place, some two or three miles below
us, on a sandy level, just elevated above the great salt marshes,
stretching far away to the sea. The night set in dark and stormy; a
fierce northeasterly wind swept over the level waste, driving thick
snow-clouds before it, shaking the doors and windows of the old house,
and roaring in its vast chimney. The woman was dying when we arrived,
and her drunken husband was sitting in stupid unconcern in the corner of
the fireplace. A little after midnight she breathed her last.
"In the mean time the storm had grown more violent; there was a blinding
snow-fall in the air; and we could feel the jar of the great waves as
they broke upon the beach.
"'It is a terrible night for sailors on the coast,' I said, breaking our
long silence with the dead. 'God grant them sea-room!'
"Julia shuddered as I spoke, and by the dim-flashing firelight I saw she
was weeping. Her thoughts, I knew, were with her old friend and
playmate on the wild waters.
"'Julia,' said I, 'do you know that Robert Barnet loves you with all the
strength of an honest and true heart?'
"She trembled, and her voice faltered as she confessed that when Robert
was at home he had asked her to become his wife.
"'And, like a fool, you refused him, I suppose?--the brave, generous
fellow!'
"'O Doctor!' she exclaimed. 'How can you talk so? It is just because
Robert is so good, and noble, and generous, that I dared not take him at
his word. You yourself, Doctor, would have despised me if I had taken
advantage of his pity or his kind remembrance of the old days when we
were children together. I have already brought too much disgrace upon
those dear to me.'
"I was endeavoring to convince her, in reply, that she was doing
injustice to herself and wronging her best friend, whose happiness
depended in a great measure upon her, when, borne on the strong blast,
we both heard a faint cry as of a human being in distress. I threw up
the window which opened seaward, and we leaned out into the wild night,
listening breathlessly for a repetition of the sound.
"Once more, and once only, we heard it,--a low, smothered, despairing
cry.
"'Some one is lost, and perishing in the snow,' said Julia. 'The sound
conies in the direction of the beach plum-bushes on the side of the
marsh. Let us go at once.'
"She snatched up her hood and shawl, and was already at the door. I
found and lighted a lantern and soon overtook her. The snow was already
deep and badly drifted, and it was with extreme difficulty that we could
force our way against the storm. We stopped often to take breath and
listen; but the roaring of the wind and waves was alone audible. At
last we reached a slightly elevated spot, overgrown with dwarf plum-
trees, whose branches were dimly visible above the snow.
"'Here, bring the lantern here!' cried Julia, who had strayed a few
yards from me. I hastened to her, and found her lifting up the body of
a man who was apparently insensible. The rays of the lantern fell full
upon his face, and we both, at the same instant, recognized Robert
Barnet. Julia did not shriek nor faint; but, kneeling in the snow, and
still supporting the body, she turned towards me a look of earnest and
fearful inquiry.
"'Courage!' said I. 'He still lives. He is only overcome with fatigue
and cold.'
"With much difficulty-partly carrying and partly dragging him through
the snow--we succeeded in getting him to the house, where, in a short
time, he so far recovered as to be able to speak. Julia, who had been
my prompt and efficient assistant in his restoration, retired into the
shadow of the room as soon as he began to rouse himself and look about
him. He asked where he was and who was with me, saying that his head
was so confused that he thought he saw Julia Atkins by the bedside.
'You were not mistaken,' said I; 'Julia is here, and you owe your life
to her.' He started up and gazed round the room. I beckoned Julia to
the bedside; and I shall never forget the grateful earnestness with
which he grasped her hand and called upon God to bless her. Some folks
think me a tough-hearted old fellow, and so I am; but that scene was
more than I could bear without shedding tears.
"Robert told us that his vessel had been thrown upon the beach a mile or
two below, and that he feared all the crew had perished save himself.
Assured of his safety, I went out once more, in the faint hope of
hearing the voice of some survivor of the disaster; but I listened only
to the heavy thunder of the surf rolling along the horizon of the east.
The storm had in a great measure ceased; the gray light of dawn was just
visible; and I was gratified to see two of the nearest neighbors
approaching the house. On being informed of the wreck they immediately
started for the beach, where several dead bodies, half buried in snow,
confirmed the fears of the solitary survivor.
"The result of all this you can easily conjecture. Robert Barnet
abandoned the sea, and, with the aid of some of his friends, purchased
the farm where he now lives, and the anniversary of his shipwreck found
him the husband of Julia. I can assure you I have had every reason to
congratulate myself on my share in the match-making. Nobody ventured to
find fault with it except two or three sour old busybodies, who, as
Elder Staples well says, 'would have cursed her whom Christ had
forgiven, and spurned the weeping Magdalen from the feet of her Lord.'"
