Life and Death

"Life and Death" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a poignant short story that explores themes of mortality, love, and the human experience. Set in a rural New England community, the narrative captures the intimate moments between characters as they confront the realities of life and the inevitability of death. Jewett's lyrical prose and keen observations highlight the connections between people and the profound impact of loss, intertwining personal reflections with the wider tapestry of life. This work exemplifies her ability to evoke deep emotions and insights within the simplicity of everyday experiences.

• Short story

								
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 hæmorrhage, 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

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