 | CHAPTER XVI.
SETH WOODSUM'S WIFE. 'Way down East, or, Portraitures of Yankee life |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
SETH WOODSUM'S WIFE.
As Mr. Seth Woodsum was mowing one morning
in his lower haying field, and his eldest son, Obediah,
a smart boy of thirteen, was opening the mown grass
to the sun, Mr. Woodsum looked up towards his
house, and beheld his little daughter Harriet, ten
years of age, running towards him with her utmost
speed. As she camp up, he perceived she was greatly
agitated; tears were running down her cheeks, and
she had scarcely breath enough to speak.
“O, father,” she faintly articulated, “mother is
dreadful sick; she's on the bed, and says she shall die
before you get there.”
Mr. Woodsum was a man of a sober, sound mind,
and calm nerves; but he had, what sometimes happens
in this cold and loveless world of ours, a tender
attachment for his wife, which made the message of
the little girl fall upon his heart like a dagger. He
dropped his scythe, and ran with great haste to the
field, seeing this unusual movement of his father,
dropped his fork, and ran with all his might, and the
two entered the house almost at the same time.
Mr. Woodsum hastened to the bedside, and took
his wife's hand. “My dear Sally,” said he, “what is
the matter?”
“What is the matter?” echoed Mrs. Woodsum,
with a plaintive groan. “I should n't think you
would need to ask what is the matter, Mr. Woodsum.
Don't you see I am dying?”
“Why, no, Sally, you don't look as if you was
dying. What is the matter? how do you feel?”
“Oh, I shan't live till night,” said Mrs. Woodsum
with a heavy sigh; “I am going fast.”
Mr. Woodsum, without waiting to make further
inquiries, told Obediah to run and jump on to the
horse, and ride over after Doctor Fairfield, and get
him to come over as quick as he can come. “Tell
him I am afraid your mother is dying. If the doctor's
horse is away off in the pasture, ask him to take our
horse and come right away over, while you go and
catch his.”
Obediah, with tears in his eyes, and his heart in his
mouth, flew as though he had wings added to his feet,
Grey, and galloping with full speed towards Doctor
Fairfield's.
“My dear,” said Mr. Woodsum, leaning his head
upon the pillow, “how do you feel? What makes you
think you are dying?” And he tenderly kissed her
forehead as he spoke, and pressed her hand to his
bosom.
“Oh, Samuel,” for she generally called him by his
Christian name, when under the influence of tender
emotions; “Oh, Samuel, I feel dreadfully. I have
pains darting through my head, and most all over
me; and I feel dizzy, and can't hardly see; and my
heart beats as though it would come through my side.
And besides, I feel as though I was dying. I'm sure
I can't live till night; and what will become of my
poor children?” And she sobbed heavily and burst
into a flood of tears.
Mr. Woodsum was affected. He could not bring
himself to believe that his wife was in such immediate
danger of dissolution as she seemed to apprehend.
He thought she had no appearance of a dying person;
but still her earnest and positive declarations, that
she should not live through the day, sent a thrill
through his veins, and a sinking to his heart that no
as ignorant of medicine as a child; he therefore did
not attempt to do anything to relieve his wife, except
to try to soothe her feelings by kind and encouraging
words, till the doctor arrived. The half hour which
elapsed, from the time Obediah left till the doctor
came, seemed to Mr. Woodsum almost an age. He
repeatedly went from the bedside to the door, to look
and see if the doctor was anywhere near, and as
often returned to hear his wife groan, and say she was
sinking fast, and could not stand it many minutes
longer.
At length Doctor Fairfield rode up to the door, on
Mr. Woodsum's Old Grey, and with saddle-bags in
hand, hastened into the house. A brief examination
of the patient convinced him that it was a decided
case of hypochondria, and he soon spoke encouraging
words to her, and told her although she was considerably
unwell, he did not doubt she would be better in
a little while.
“Oh, Doctor, how can you say so?” said Mrs.
Woodsum; “don't you see I am dying? I can't
possibly live till night; I am sinking very fast, Doctor,
and I shall never see the sun rise again. My heart
sometimes almost stops its beating now, and my feet
dear children once more; do let 'em come in and bid
me farewell.” Here she was so overwhelmed with
sobs and tears as to prevent her saying more.
The doctor, perceiving it was in vain to talk or try
to reason with her, assured her that as long as there
was life there was hope, and told her he would give
her some medicine that he did not doubt would help
her. He accordingly administered the drugs usually
approved by the faculty in such cases, and telling her
that he would call and see her again in a day or two,
he left the room. As he went out, Mr. Woodsum
followed him, and desired to know, in private, his real
opinion of the case. The doctor assured him he did
not consider it at all alarming. It was only an
ordinary case of hypochondria, and with proper treatment
the patient would undoubtedly get better.
“It is a case,” continued the doctor, “in which the
mind needs to be administered to as much as the
body. Divert her attention as much as possible by
cheerful objects; let her be surrounded by agreeable
company; give her a light, but generous and
nutritive diet; and as soon as may be, get her to take
gentle exercise in the open air, by riding on horseback,
or running about the fields and gathering fruits
companions. Follow these directions, and continue
to administer the medicines I have ordered, and I
think Mrs. Woodsum will soon enjoy good health
again.”
Mr. Woodsum felt much relieved after hearing the
doctor's opinion and prescriptions, and bade the kind
physician good morning with a tolerably cheerful
countenance. Most assiduously did he follow the
doctor's directions, and in a few days he had the happiness
to see his beloved wife again enjoying tolerable
health, and pursuing her domestic duties with cheerfulness.
But alas! his sunshine of hope was destined soon
to be obscured again by the clouds of sorrow and
disappointment. It was not long before some change
in the weather, and changes in her habits of living,
and neglect of proper exercise in the open air, brought
on a return of Mrs. Woodsum's gloom and despondency,
in all their terrific power. Again she was
sighing and weeping on the bed, and again Mr.
Woodsum was hastily summoned from the field, and
leaving his plough in mid-furrow, ran with breathless
anxiety to the house, where the same scenes were
again witnessed which we have already described.
week and month after month, these exhibitions were
given, and followed by similar results. Each relapse
seemed to be more severe than the previous one, and
on each occasion Mrs. Woodsum was more positive
than ever that she was on her death-bed, and that
there was no longer any help for her.
On one of these occasions, so strong was her
impression that her dissolution was near, and so
anxious did she appear to make every preparation for
death, and with such solemn earnestness did she attend
to certain details, preparatory to leaving her family for
ever, that Mr. Woodsum almost lost the hope that
usually attended him through these scenes, and felt,
more than ever before, that what he had so often
feared, was indeed about to become a painful and
awful reality. Most tenderly did Mrs. Woodsum
touch upon the subject of her separation from her
husband and children.
“Our poor children—what will become of them
when I am gone? And you, dear Samuel, how can
I bear the thought of leaving you? I could feel
reconciled to dying, if it was not for the thoughts of
leaving you and the children. They will have
nobody to take care of them, as a mother would, poor
my heart to think of it.”
Here, her feelings overpowered her, and she was
unable to proceed any further. Mr. Woodsum was
for some time too much affected to make any reply.
At last, summoning all his fortitude, and as much
calmness as he could, he told her if it was the will
of Providence that she should be separated from
them, he hoped her last hours would not be pained
with anxious solicitude about the future welfare of
the family. It was true, the world would be a dreary
place to him when she was gone; but he should keep
the children with him, and with the blessing of
heaven, he thought he should be able to make them
comfortable and happy.
“Well, there's one thing, dear Samuel,” said Mrs.
Woodsum, “that I feel it my duty to speak to you
about.” And she pressed his hand in hers, and
looked most solemnly and earnestly in his face.
“You know, my dear,” she continued, “how sad and
desolate a family of children always is, when deprived
of a mother. They may have a kind father, and kind
friends, but nobody can supply the place of a mother.
I feel as if it would be your duty—and I could not
die in peace, if I did n't speak of it—I feel, dear
am gone as would appear decent, to marry some good
and kind woman, and bring her into the family to be
the mother of our poor children, and to make your
home happy. Promise me that you will do this, and
I think it will relieve me of some of the distress I
feel at the thought of dying.”
This remark was, to Mr. Woodsum, most unexpected
and most painful. It threw an anguish into
his heart, such as he had never experienced till that
moment. It forced upon his contemplation a thought
that had never before occurred to him. The idea of
being bereaved of the wife of his bosom, whom he
had loved and cherished for fifteen years with the
ardent attachment of a fond husband, had overwhelmed
him with all the bitterness of woe; but the
thought of transferring that attachment to another
object, brought with it a double desolation. His associations
before had all clothed his love for his wife
with a feeling of immortality. She might be removed
from him to another world, but he had not felt as
though that would dissolve the holy bond that united
them. His love would soon follow her to those eternal
realms of bliss, and rest upon her like a mantle for
ever. But this new and startling idea, of love for
of annihilation of the soul—an idea, compared with
which no degree of misery imaginable is half so
terrible. A cloud of intense darkness seemed for a
moment to overshadow him, his heart sank within
him, and his whole frame trembled with agitation. It
was some minutes before he could find power to speak.
And when he did, it was only to beseech his wife, in
a solemn tone, not to allude to so distressing a subject
again, a subject which he could not think of nor speak
of, without suffering more than a thousand deaths.
The strong mental anguish of Mr. Woodsum
seemed to have the effect to divert his wife's attention
from her own sufferings, and by turning her
emotions into a new channel, gave her system an
opportunity to rally. She gradually grew better, as
she had done in like cases before, and even before
night was able to sit up, and became quite cheerful.
But her malady was only suspended, not cured;
and again and again it returned upon her, and again
and again her friends were summoned to witness her
last sickness, and take their last farewell. And on
these occasions, she had so often slightly and delicately
hinted to Mr. Woodsum the propriety of his
marrying a second wife, that even he could at last
which he had once thought he could never feel.
At last, the sober saddening days of autumn came
on. Mr. Woodsum was in the midst of his “fall
work,” which had been several times interrupted by
these periodical turns of despondency in his wife.
One morning he went to his field early, for he had a
heavy day's work to do, and had engaged one of
his neighbors to come with two yoke of oxen and a
plough to help him “break up” an old mowing
field. His neighbor could only help him that day,
and he was very anxious to plough the whole field.
He accordingly had left the children and nurse in the
house, with strict charges to take good care of their
mother. Mr. Woodsum was driving the team and
his neighbor was holding the plough, and things went
on to their mind till about ten o'clock in the forenoon,
when little Harriet came running to the field, and
told her father that her mother was “dreadful sick”
and wanted him to come in as quick as he could, for
she was certainly dying now. Mr. Woodsum, without
saying a word, drove his team to the end of the
furrow; but he looked thoughtful and perplexed.
Although he felt persuaded that her danger was
imaginary, as it had always proved to be before, still,
be unto death, pressed upon him with such power,
that he laid down his goad-stick, and telling his
neighbor to let the cattle breathe awhile, walked
deliberately towards the house. Before he had
accomplished the whole distance, however, his own
imagination had added such wings to his speed, that
he found himself moving at a quick run. He entered
the house, and found his wife as he had so often found
her before, in her own estimation, almost ready to
breathe her last. Her voice was faint and low, and
her pillow was wet with tears. She had already taken
her leave of her dear children, and waited only to
exchange a few parting words with her beloved husband.
Mr. Woodsum approached the bedside, and
took her hand tenderly, as he had ever been wont to
do, but he could not perceive any symptoms of
approaching dissolution, different from what he had
witnessed on a dozen former occasions.
“Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Woodsum, faintly,
“the time has come at last. I feel that I am on my
death-bed, and have but a short time longer to stay
with you. But I hope we shall feel resigned to the
will of Heaven. I would go cheerfully, dear, if it
was not for my anxiety about you and the children.
increasing tenderness, “don't you think it would be
best for you to be married again to some kind good
woman, that would be a mother to our dear little
ones, and make your home pleasant for all of you?”
She paused, and looked earnestly in his face.
“Well, I've sometimes thought, of late, it might be
best,” said Mr. Woodsum, with a very solemn air.
“Then you have been thinking about it,” said Mrs.
Woodsum, with a slight contraction of the muscles
of the face.
“Why, yes,” said Mr. Woodsum, “I have sometimes
thought about it, since you've had spells of
being so very sick. It makes me feel dreadfully to
think of it, but I don't know but it might be my duty.”
“Well, I do think it would,” said Mrs. Woodsum,
“if you can only get the right sort of a person.
Everything depends upon that, my dear, and I hope
you will be very particular about who you get, very.”
“I certainly shall,” said Mr. Woodsum; “don't
give yourself any uneasiness about that, my dear,
for I assure you I shall be very particular. The person
I shall probably have is one of the kindest and
best tempered women in the world.”
“But have you been thinking of any one in particular,
look of uneasiness.
“Why, yes,” said Mr. Woodsum, “there is one,
that I have thought for some time past, I should
probably marry, if it should be the will of Providence
to take you from us.”
“And pray, Mr. Woodsum, who can it be?” said
the wife, with an expression, more of earth than
heaven, returning to her eye. “Who is it, Mr. Woodsum?
You have n't named it to her, have you?”
“Oh, by no means,” said Mr. Woodsum; “but
my dear, we had better drop the subject; it agitates
you too much.”
“But, Mr. Woodsum, you must tell me who it is;
I never could die in peace till you do.”
“It is a subject too painful to think about,” said
Mr. Woodsum, “and it don't appear to me it would
be best to call names.”
“But I insist upon it,” said Mrs. Woodsum, who
had by this time raised herself up with great earnestness
and was leaning on her elbow, while her searching
glance was reading every muscle in her husband's
face. “Mr. Woodsum, I insist upon it!”
“Well, then,” said Mr. Woodsum, with a sigh, “if
you insist upon it, my dear—I have thought if it
to be here no more, I have thought I should marry
for my second wife, Hannah Lovejoy.”
An earthly fire once more flashed from Mrs.
Woodsum's eyes—she leaped from the bed like a cat;
walked across the room, and seated herself in a chair.
“What!” she exclaimed, in a trembling voice
almost choked with agitation—“what! marry that
idle, sleepy slut of a Hannah Lovejoy! Mr. Woodsum,
that is too much for flesh and blood to bear—I
can't endure that, nor I won't. Hannah Lovejoy to
be the mother of my children! No, that's what she
never shall. So you may go to your ploughing, Mr.
Woodsum, and set your heart at rest. Susan,” she
continued, “make up more fire under that dinner pot.”
Mr. Woodsum went to the field, and pursued his
work, and when he returned at noon, he found dinner
well prepared, and his wife ready to do the honors of
the table. Mrs. Woodsum's health from that day continued
to improve, and she was never afterward visited
by the terrible affliction of hypochondria.
| CHAPTER XVI.
SETH WOODSUM'S WIFE. 'Way down East, or, Portraitures of Yankee life | |