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A Country Doctor and Selected Stories and Sketches by Sarah Orne Jewett

S >> Sarah Orne Jewett >> A Country Doctor and Selected Stories and Sketches





Jake and Martin were particularly enjoying the evening. Some accident
had befallen the cooking-stove, which the brothers had never more than
half approved, it being one of the early patterns, and a poor exchange
for the ancient methods of cookery in the wide fireplace. "The women"
had had a natural desire to be equal with their neighbors, and knew
better than their husbands did the difference this useful invention
had made in their every-day work. However, this one night the
conservative brothers could take a mild revenge; and when their wives
were well on their way to Mrs. Thacher's they had assured each other
that, if the plaguey thing were to be carried to the Corners in the
morning to be exchanged or repaired, it would be as well to have it in
readiness, and had quickly taken down its pipes and lifted it as if it
were a feather to the neighboring woodshed. Then they hastily pried
away a fireboard which closed the great fireplace, and looked
smilingly upon the crane and its pothooks and the familiar iron dogs
which had been imprisoned there in darkness for many months. They
brought in the materials for an old-fashioned fire, backlog,
forestick, and crowsticks, and presently seated themselves before a
crackling blaze. Martin brought a tall, brown pitcher of cider from
the cellar and set two mugs beside it on the small table, and for some
little time they enjoyed themselves in silence, after which Jake
remarked that he didn't know but they'd got full enough of a fire for
such a mild night, but he wished his own stove and the new one too
could be dropped into the river for good and all.

They put the jug of cider between the andirons, and then, moved by a
common impulse, drew their chairs a little farther from the mounting
flames, before they quenched their thirst from the mugs.

"I call that pretty cider," said Martin; "'tis young yet, but it has
got some weight a'ready, and 'tis smooth. There's a sight o'
difference between good upland fruit and the sposhy apples that grows
in wet ground. An' I take it that the bar'l has an influence: some
bar'ls kind of wilt cider and some smarten it up, and keep it hearty.
Lord! what stuff some folks are willin' to set before ye! 'tain't wuth
the name o' cider, nor no better than the rensin's of a vinegar cask."

"And then there's weather too," agreed Mr. Jacob Dyer, "had ought to
be took into consideration. Git your apples just in the right
time--not too early to taste o' the tree, nor too late to taste o' the
ground, and just in the snap o' time as to ripeness', on a good sharp
day with the sun a-shining; have 'em into the press and what comes out
is _cider_. I think if we've had any fault in years past, 't was
puttin' off makin' a little too late. But I don't see as this could be
beat. I don't know's you feel like a pipe, but I believe I'll light
up," and thereupon a good portion of black-looking tobacco was cut and
made fine in each of the hard left hands, and presently the clay pipes
were touched off with a live coal, and great clouds of smoke might
have been seen to disappear under the edge of the fire-place, drawn
quickly up the chimney by the draft of the blazing fire.

Jacob pushed back his chair another foot or two, and Martin soon
followed, mentioning that it was getting hot, but it was well to keep
out the damp.

"What set the women out to go traipsin' up to Thacher's folks?"
inquired Jacob, holding his cider mug with one hand and drumming it
with the finger ends of the other.

"I had an idee that they wanted to find out if anything had been heard
about Ad'line's getting home for Thanksgiving," answered Martin,
turning to look shrewdly at his brother. "Women folks does suffer if
there's anything goin' on they can't find out about. 'Liza said she
was going to invite Mis' Thacher and John to eat a piece o' our big
turkey, but she didn't s'pose they'd want to leave. Curi's about
Ad'line, ain't it? I expected when her husband died she'd be right
back here with what she'd got; at any rate, till she'd raised the
child to some size. There'd be no expense here to what she'd have
elsewhere, and here's her ma'am beginnin' to age. She can't do what
she used to, John was tellin' of me; and I don't doubt 't 'as worn
upon her more'n folks thinks."

"I don't lay no great belief that John'll get home from court," said
Jacob Dyer. "They say that court's goin' to set till Christmas maybe;
there's an awful string o' cases on the docket. Oh, 't was you told
me, wa'n't it? Most like they'll let up for a couple o' days for
Thanksgivin', but John mightn't think't was wuth his while to travel
here and back again 'less he had something to do before winter shets
down. Perhaps they'll prevail upon the old lady, I wish they would,
I'm sure; but an only daughter forsakin' her so, 'twas most too bad of
Ad'line. She al'ays had dreadful high notions when she wa'n't no
more'n a baby; and, good conscience, how she liked to rig up when she
first used to come back from Lowell! Better ha' put her money out to
interest."

"I believe in young folks makin' all they can o' theirselves,"
announced Martin, puffing hard at his pipe and drawing a little
farther still from the fireplace, because the scorching red coals had
begun to drop beneath the forestick. "I've give my child'n the best
push forrard I could, an' you've done the same. Ad'line had a dreadful
cravin' to be somethin' more'n common; but it don't look as if she was
goin' to make out any great. 'Twas unfortunate her losin' of her
husband, but I s'pose you've heard hints that they wa'n't none too
equal-minded. She'd a done better to have worked on a while to Lowell
and got forehanded, and then married some likely young fellow and
settled down here, or to the Corners if she didn't want to farm it.
There was Jim Hall used to be hanging round, and she'd been full as
well off to-day if she'd took him, too. 'T ain't no use for folks to
marry one that's of another kind and belongs different. It's like two
fiddles that plays different tunes,--you can't make nothin' on't, no
matter if both on em's trying their best, 'less one on 'em beats the
other down entirely and has all the say, and ginerally 't is the worst
one does it. Ad'line's husband wa'n't nothin' to boast of from all we
can gather, but they didn't think alike about nothin'. She could 'a'
done well with him if there'd been more of _her_. I don't marvel his
folks felt bad: Ad'line didn't act right by 'em."

"Nor they by her," said the twin brother. "I tell ye Ad'line would
have done 'em credit if she'd been let. I seem to think how't was with
her; when she was there to work in the shop she thought 't would be
smart to marry him and then she'd be a lady for good and all. And all
there was of it, she found his folks felt put out and hurt, and
instead of pleasing 'em up and doing the best she could, she didn't
know no better than to aggravate 'em. She was wrong there, but I hold
to it that if they'd pleased her up a little and done well by her,
she'd ha' bloomed out, and fell right in with their ways. She's got
outward ambitions enough, but I view it she was all a part of his
foolishness to them; I dare say they give her the blame o' the whole
on't. Ad'line ought to had the sense to see they had some right on
their side. Folks say he was the smartest fellow in his class to
college."

"Good King Agrippy! how hot it does git," said Jake rising
indignantly, as if the fire alone were to blame. "I must shove back
the cider again or 't will bile over, spite of everything. But 't is
called unwholesome to get a house full o' damp in the fall o' the
year; 't will freeze an' thaw in the walls all winter. I must git me a
new pipe if we go to the Corners to-morrow. I s'pose I've told ye of a
pipe a man had aboard the schooner that time I went to sea?"

Martin gave a little grumble of assent.

"'Twas made o' some sort o' whitish stuff like clay, but 'twa'n't
shaped like none else I ever see and it had a silver trimmin' round
it; 'twas very light to handle and it drawed most excellent. I al'ays
kind o' expected he may have stole it; he was a hard lookin' customer,
a Dutchman or from some o' them parts o' the earth. I wish while I was
about it I'd gone one trip more."

"Was it you was tellin' me that Ad'line was to work again in Lowell? I
shouldn't think her husband's folks would want the child to be fetched
up there in them boardin' houses"--

"Belike they don't," responded Jacob, "but when they get Ad'line to
come round to their ways o' thinkin' now, after what's been and gone,
they'll have cause to thank themselves. She's just like her gre't
grandsir Thacher; you can see she's made out o' the same stuff. You
might ha' burnt him to the stake, and he'd stick to it he liked it
better'n hanging and al'ays meant to die that way. There's an awful
bad streak in them Thachers, an' you know it as well as I do. I expect
there'll be bad and good Thachers to the end o' time. I'm glad for the
old lady's sake that John ain't one o' the drinkin' ones. Ad'line'll
give no favors to her husband's folks, nor take none. There's plenty
o' wrongs to both sides, but as I view it, the longer he'd lived the
worse 't would been for him. She was a well made, pretty lookin' girl,
but I tell ye 't was like setting a laylock bush to grow beside an
ellum tree, and expecting of 'em to keep together. They wa'n't mates.
He'd had a different fetchin' up, and he _was_ different, and I wa'n't
surprised when I come to see how things had turned out,--I believe I
shall have to set the door open a half a minute, 't is gettin'
dreadful"--but there was a sudden flurry outside, and the sound of
heavy footsteps, the bark of the startled cur, who was growing very
old and a little deaf, and Mrs. Martin burst into the room and sank
into the nearest chair, to gather a little breath before she could
tell her errand. "For God's sake what's happened?" cried the men.

They presented a picture of mingled comfort and misery at which Mrs.
Martin would have first laughed and then scolded at any other time.
The two honest red faces were well back toward the farther side of the
room from the fire, which still held its own; it was growing toward
low tide in the cider jug and its attendant mugs, and the pipes were
lying idle. The mistress of the old farm-house did not fail to notice
that high treason had been committed during her short absence, but she
made no comment upon the fireplace nor on anything else, and gasped as
soon as she could that one of the men must go right up to the Corners
for the doctor and hurry back with him, for't was a case of life and
death.

"Mis' Thacher?" "Was it a shock?" asked the brothers in sorrowful
haste, while Mrs. Martin told the sad little story of Adeline's having
come from nobody knew where, wet and forlorn, carrying her child in
her arms. She looked as if she were in the last stages of a decline.
She had fallen just at the doorstep and they had brought her in,
believing that she was dead. "But while there's life, there's hope,"
said Mrs. Martin, "and I'll go back with you if you'll harness up.
Jacob must stop to look after this gre't fire or 'twill burn the
house down," and this was the punishment which befell Jacob, since
nothing else would have kept him from also journeying toward the
Thacher house.


A little later the bewildered horse had been fully wakened and
harnessed; Jacob's daughter and her lover had come eagerly out to hear
what had happened; Mrs. Martin had somehow found a chance amidst all
the confusion to ascend to her garret in quest of some useful remedies
in the shape of herbs, and then she and her husband set forth on their
benevolent errands. Martin was very apt to look on the dark side of
things, and it was a curious fact that while the two sisters were like
the brothers, one being inclined to despondency and one to enthusiasm,
the balance was well kept by each of the men having chosen his
opposite in temperament. Accordingly, while Martin heaved a great sigh
from time to time and groaned softly, "Pore gal--pore gal!" his
partner was brimful of zealous eagerness to return to the scene of
distress and sorrow which she had lately left. Next to the doctor
himself, she was the authority on all medical subjects for that
neighborhood, and it was some time since her skill had been needed.

"Does the young one seem likely?" asked Martin with solemn curiosity.

"Fur's I could see," answered his wife promptly, "but nobody took no
great notice of it. Pore Ad'line catched hold of it with such a grip
as she was comin' to that we couldn't git it away from her and had to
fetch'em in both to once. Come urge the beast along, Martin, I'll give
ye the partic'lars to-morrow, I do' know's Ad'line's livin' now. We
got her right to bed's I told you, and I set right off considerin'
that I could git over the ground fastest of any. Mis' Thacher of
course wouldn't leave and Jane's heavier than I be." Martin's smile
was happily concealed by the darkness; his wife and her sister had
both grown stout steadily as they grew older, but each insisted upon
the other's greater magnitude and consequent incapacity for quick
movement. A casual observer would not have been persuaded that there
was a pound's weight of difference between them.

Martin Dyer meekly suggested that perhaps he'd better go in a minute
to see if there was anything Mis' Thacher needed, but Eliza, his wife,
promptly said that she didn't want anything but the doctor as quick as
she could get him, and disappeared up the short lane while the wagon
rattled away up the road. The white mist from the river clung close to
the earth, and it was impossible to see even the fences near at hand,
though overhead there were a few dim stars. The air had grown somewhat
softer, yet there was a sharp chill in it, and the ground was wet and
sticky under foot. There were lights in the bedroom and in the kitchen
of the Thacher house, but suddenly the bedroom candle flickered away
and the window was darkened. Mrs. Martin's heart gave a quick throb,
perhaps Adeline had already died. It might have been a short-sighted
piece of business that she had gone home for her husband.




IV

LIFE AND DEATH


The sick woman had refused to stay in the bedroom after she had come
to her senses. She had insisted that she could not breathe, and that
she was cold and must go back to the kitchen. Her mother and Mrs. Jake
had wrapped her in blankets and drawn the high-backed wooden rocking
chair close to the stove, and here she was just established when Mrs.
Martin opened the outer door. Any one of less reliable nerves would
have betrayed the shock which the sight of such desperate illness must
have given. The pallor, the suffering, the desperate agony of the
eyes, were far worse than the calmness of death, but Mrs. Martin spoke
cheerfully, and even when her sister whispered that their patient had
been attacked by a haemorrhage, she manifested no concern.

"How long has this be'n a-goin' on, Ad'line? Why didn't you come home
before and get doctored up? You're all run down." Mrs. Thacher looked
frightened when this questioning began, but turned her face toward her
daughter, eager to hear the answer.

"I've been sick off and on all summer," said the young woman, as if it
were almost impossible to make the effort of speaking. "See if the
baby's covered up warm, will you, Aunt 'Liza?"

"Yes, dear," said the kind-hearted woman, the tears starting to her
eyes at the sound of the familiar affectionate fashion of speech which
Adeline had used in her childhood. "Don't you worry one mite; we're
going to take care of you and the little gal too;" and then nobody
spoke, while the only sound was the difficult breathing of the poor
creature by the fire. She seemed like one dying, there was so little
life left in her after her piteous homeward journey. The mother
watched her eagerly with a mingled feeling of despair and comfort; it
was terrible to have a child return in such sad plight, but it was a
blessing to have her safe at home, and to be able to minister to her
wants while life lasted.

They all listened eagerly for the sound of wheels, but it seemed a
long time before Martin Dyer returned with the doctor. He had been
met just as he was coming in from the other direction, and the two men
had only paused while the tired horse was made comfortable, and a
sleepy boy dispatched with the medicine for which he had long been
waiting. The doctor's housekeeper had besought him to wait long enough
to eat the supper which she had kept waiting, but he laughed at her
and shook his head gravely, as if he already understood that there
should be no delay. When he was fairly inside the Thacher kitchen, the
benefaction of his presence was felt by every one. It was most
touching to see the patient's face lose its worried look, and grow
quiet and comfortable as if here were some one on whom she could
entirely depend. The doctor's greeting was an every-day cheerful
response to the women's welcome, and he stood for a minute warming his
hands at the fire as if he had come upon a commonplace errand. There
was something singularly self-reliant and composed about him; one felt
that he was the wielder of great powers over the enemies, disease and
pain, and that his brave hazel eyes showed a rare thoughtfulness and
foresight. The rough driving coat which he had thrown off revealed a
slender figure with the bowed shoulders of an untiring scholar. His
head was finely set and scholarly, and there was that about him which
gave certainty, not only of his sagacity and skill, but of his true
manhood, his mastery of himself. Not only in this farm-house kitchen,
but wherever one might place him, he instinctively took command, while
from his great knowledge of human nature he could understand and help
many of his patients whose ailments were not wholly physical. He
seemed to read at a glance the shame and sorrow of the young woman who
had fled to the home of her childhood, dying and worse than defeated,
from the battle-field of life. And in this first moment he recognized
with dismay the effects of that passion for strong drink which had
been the curse of more than one of her ancestors. Even the pallor and
the purifying influence of her mortal illness could not disguise these
unmistakable signs.

"You can't do me any good, doctor," she whispered. "I shouldn't have
let you come if it had been only that. I don't care how soon I am out
of this world. But I want you should look after my little girl," and
the poor soul watched the physician's face with keen anxiety as if
she feared to see a shadow of unwillingness, but none came.

"I will do the best I can," and he still held her wrist, apparently
thinking more of the fluttering pulse than of what poor Adeline was
saying.

"That was what made me willing to come back," she continued, "you
don't know how close I came to not doing it either. John will be good
to her, but she will need somebody that knows the world better by and
by. I wonder if you couldn't show me how to make out a paper giving
you the right over her till she is of age? She must stay here with
mother, long as she wants her. 'Tis what I wish I had kept sense
enough to do; life hasn't been all play to me;" and the tears began to
roll quickly down the poor creature's thin cheeks. "The only thing I
care about is leaving the baby well placed, and I want her to have a
good chance to grow up a useful woman. And most of all to keep her out
of _their_ hands, I mean her father's folks. I hate 'em, and he cared
more for 'em than he did for me, long at the last of it.... I could
tell you stories!"--

"But not to-night, Addy," said the doctor gravely, as if he were
speaking to a child. "We must put you to bed and to sleep, and you can
talk about all these troublesome things in the morning. You shall see
about the papers too, if you think best. Be a good girl now, and let
your mother help you to bed." For the resolute spirit had summoned the
few poor fragments of vitality that were left, and the sick woman was
growing more and more excited. "You may have all the pillows you wish
for, and sit up in bed if you like, but you mustn't stay here any
longer," and he gathered her in his arms and quickly carried her to
the next room. She made no resistance, and took the medicine which
Mrs. Martin brought, without a word. There was a blazing fire now in
the bedroom fire-place, and, as she lay still, her face took on a
satisfied, rested look. Her mother sat beside her, tearful, and yet
contented and glad to have her near, and the others whispered together
in the kitchen. It might have been the last night of a long illness
instead of the sudden, startling entrance of sorrow in human shape.
"No," said the doctor, "she cannot last much longer with such a cough
as that, Mrs. Dyer. She has almost reached the end of it. I only hope
that she will go quickly."

And sure enough; whether the fatal illness had run its natural course,
or whether the excitement and the forced strength of the evening
before had exhausted the small portion of strength that was left, when
the late dawn lighted again those who watched, it found them sleeping,
and one was never to wake again in the world she had found so
disappointing to her ambitions, and so untrue to its fancied promises.


The doctor had promised to return early, but it was hardly daylight
before there was another visitor in advance of him. Old Mrs. Meeker, a
neighbor whom nobody liked, but whose favor everybody for some reason
or other was anxious to keep, came knocking at the door, and was let
in somewhat reluctantly by Mrs. Jake, who was just preparing to go
home in order to send one or both the brothers to the village and to
acquaint John Thacher with the sad news of his sister's death. He was
older than Adeline, and a silent man, already growing to be elderly in
his appearance. The women had told themselves and each other that he
would take this sorrow very hard, and Mrs. Thacher had said
sorrowfully that she must hide her daughter's poor worn clothes, since
it would break John's heart to know she had come home so beggarly. The
shock of so much trouble was stunning the mother; she did not
understand yet, she kept telling the kind friends who sorrowed with
her, as she busied herself with the preparations for the funeral. "It
don't seem as if 'twas Addy," she said over and over again, "but I
feel safe about her now, to what I did," and Mrs. Jake and Mrs.
Martin, good helpful souls and brimful of compassion, went to and fro
with their usual diligence almost as if this were nothing out of the
common course of events.

Mrs. Meeker had heard the wagon go by and had caught the sound of the
doctor's voice, her house being close by the road, and she had also
watched the unusual lights. It was annoying to the Dyers to have to
answer questions, and to be called upon to grieve outwardly just then,
and it seemed disloyal to the dead woman in the next room to enter
upon any discussion of her affairs. But presently the little child,
whom nobody had thought of except to see that she still slept, waked
and got down from the old settle where she had spent the night, and
walked with unsteady short footsteps toward her grandmother, who
caught her quickly and held her fast in her arms. The little thing
looked puzzled, and frowned, and seemed for a moment unhappy, and then
the sunshine of her good nature drove away the clouds and she clapped
her hands and laughed aloud, while Mrs. Meeker began to cry again at
the sight of this unconscious orphan.

"I'm sure I'm glad she can laugh," said Mrs. Martin. "She'll find
enough to cry about later on; I foresee she'll be a great deal o'
company to you, Mis' Thacher."

"Though 't ain't every one that has the strength to fetch up a child
after they reach your years," said Mrs. Meeker, mournfully. "It's
anxious work, but I don't doubt strength will be given you. I s'pose
likely her father's folks will do a good deal for her,"--and the three
women looked at each other, but neither took it upon herself to
answer.

All that day the neighbors and acquaintances came and went in the lane
that led to the farm-house. The brothers Jake and Martin made journeys
to and from the village. At night John Thacher came home from court
with as little to say as ever, but, as everybody observed, looking
years older. Young Mrs. Prince's return and sudden death were the only
subjects worth talking about in all the country side, and the doctor
had to run the usual gauntlet of questions from all his outlying
patients and their families. Old Mrs. Thacher looked pale and excited,
and insisted upon seeing every one who came to the house, with evident
intention to play her part in this strange drama with exactness and
courtesy. A funeral in the country is always an era in a family's
life; events date from it and centre in it. There are so few
circumstances that have in the least a public nature that these
conspicuous days receive all the more attention.

But while death seems far more astonishing and unnatural in a city,
where the great tide of life rises and falls with little apparent
regard to the sinking wrecks, in the country it is not so. The
neighbors themselves are those who dig the grave and carry the dead,
whom they or their friends have made ready, to the last resting-place.
With all nature looking on,--the leaves that must fall, and the grass
of the field that must wither and be gone when the wind passes
over,--living closer to life and in plainer sight of death, they have
a different sense of the mysteries of existence. They pay homage to
Death rather than to the dead; they gather from the lonely farms by
scores because there is a funeral, and not because their friend is
dead; and the day of Adeline Prince's burial, the marvelous
circumstances, with which the whole town was already familiar, brought
a great company together to follow her on her last journey.

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