his own, with a row of tall hemlocks beside it, and a front fence
higher and more imposing than his, with great posts at the gateway,
which held slender urns aloft with funereal solemnity. The doctor's
eyesight was not far from perfect, and he looked earnestly at the
windows of one of the lower rooms and saw a familiar sight enough; his
neighbor Mrs. Graham's face in its accustomed quarter of the sash. Dr.
Leslie half smiled as the thought struck him that she always sat so
exactly in the same place that her white cap was to be seen through
the same lower window-pane. "Most people would have moved their chairs
about until they wore holes in the floor," he told himself, and then
remembered how many times he had gone to look over at his placid
friend, in her favorite afternoon post of observation. He was strongly
attached to her, and he reminded himself that she was growing old and
that he must try to see her oftener. He valued her companionship, more
because he knew it was always ready for him, than because he always
availed himself of it, but the sense of mutual dependence made them
very familiar to each other when they did meet and had time for a bit
of quiet talk.
Dr. Leslie suddenly turned; he had watched long enough to make sure
that Mrs. Graham was alone; her head had not moved for many minutes;
and at first he was going out of the front door, from some instinct he
would hardly have been willing to acknowledge, but he resolutely
turned and went out to the dining-room, to tell Marilla, after his
usual professional custom of giving notice of his whereabouts, that he
was going to Mrs. Graham's. A prompt inquiry came from the kitchen to
know if anything ailed her, to which the doctor returned a scornful
negative and escaped through the side-door which gave entrance both to
the study and the dining-room. There was the usual service at
Marilla's meeting-house, but she had not ventured out to attend it,
giving the weather and a grumbling toothache for her reasons, though
she concealed the fact that the faithless town milliner had
disappointed her about finishing her winter bonnet. Marilla had begun
life with certain opinions which she had never changed, though time
and occasion had lessened the value of some of them. She liked to
count herself among those who are persecuted for conscience's sake,
and was immensely fond of an argument and of having it known that she
was a dissenter from the First Parish Church.
Mrs. Graham looked up with surprise from her book to see the doctor
coming in from the street, and, being helplessly lame, sat still, and
put out her hand to greet him, with a very pleased look on her face.
"Is there anything the matter with me?" she asked. "I have begun to
think you don't care to associate with well people; you don't usually
go to church in the afternoon either, so you haven't taken refuge here
because Mr. Talcot is ill. I must say that I missed hearing the bell;
I shall lose myself altogether by the middle of the week. One must
have some landmarks."
"Marilla complained yesterday that she was all at sea because her
apple pies gave out a day too soon. She put the bread to rise the
wrong night, and everything went wrong about the sweeping. It has been
a week of great domestic calamity with us, but Nan confided to me
this morning that there was some trouble with our bonnet into the
bargain. I had forgotten it was time for that," said the doctor,
laughing. "We always have a season of great anxiety and disaster until
the bonnet question is settled. I keep out of the way as much as I
can. Once I tried to be amusing, and said it was a pity the women did
not follow their grandmothers' fashion and make a good Leghorn
structure last ten years and have no more trouble about it; but I was
assured that there wasn't a milliner now living who could set such an
arrangement going."
"Marilla's taste is not what one might call commonplace," said Mrs.
Graham, with a smile. "I think her summer head-covering was a little
the most remarkable we have had yet. She dresses so decently
otherwise, good soul!"
"It was astonishing," said the doctor gravely, as he stood before the
fire thinking how pleasant the room looked; almost as familiar as his
own study, with its heavy mahogany furniture and two old portraits and
few quaint ornaments. Mrs. Graham's geraniums were all flourishing and
green and even in bloom, unlike most treasures of their kind. There
was a modern element in the room also,--some pretty cushions and other
bits of embroidery; for Mrs. Graham had some grandchildren who were
city born and bred, and who made little offerings to her from time to
time. On the table near her and between the front windows were many
new books and magazines, and though the two neighbors kept up a
regular system of exchange, the doctor went nearer to see what might
be found. There were a few minutes of silence, and he became conscious
that Mrs. Graham was making up her mind to say something, but when she
spoke it was only to ask if there were anything serious the matter
with the minister.
"Oh, no," said the doctor, "he's a dyspeptic, nervous soul, too
conscientious! and when the time arrives for the sacrifice of pigs,
and his whole admiring parish vie with each other to offer spare-ribs
on that shrine, it goes hard with the poor man."
This was worth hearing, but Mrs. Graham was a little sorry that she
had let such a good chance go by for saying something that was near
her heart, so presently she added, "I am sorry that poor Marilla
hasn't a better gift at personal decoration. It seems a pity to let
her disfigure that pretty child with such structures in the way of
head-gear. I was so glad when that abominable great summer hat was
laid by for the season."
"It was pretty bad," the doctor agreed, in a provokingly indifferent
tone, whereupon Mrs. Graham's interest was rekindled, and saying to
herself that the poor man did not know the danger and foolishness of
such carelessness, she ventured another comment.
"So much depends upon giving a child's taste the right direction."
Dr. Leslie had taken up a magazine, and seemed to have found something
that pleased him, but he at once laid it down and glanced once or
twice at his hostess, as if he hoped for future instructions. "You see
I don't know anything about it, and Nan doesn't think of her clothes
at all, so far as I can tell, and so poor Marilla has to do the best
she can," he said mildly.
"Oh dear, yes," answered Mrs. Graham, not without impatience. "But the
child's appearance is of some importance, and since a dollar or two
doesn't make any difference to you, she should be made to look like
the little lady that she is. Dear old Mrs. Thacher would turn in her
grave, for she certainly had a simple good taste that was better than
this. Marilla became the easy prey of that foolish little woman who
makes bonnets on the East road. She has done more to deprave the ideas
of our townspeople than one would believe, and they tell you with such
pleasure that she used to work in New York, as if that settled the
question. It is a comfort to see old Sally Turner and Miss Betsy
Milman go by in their decent dark silk bonnets that good Susan Martin
made for them. If I could go out to-morrow I believe I would rather
hunt for a very large velvet specimen of her work, which is somewhere
upstairs in a big bandbox, than trust myself to these ignorant hands.
It is a great misfortune to a town if it has been disappointed in its
milliner. You are quite at her mercy, and, worse than all, liable to
entire social misapprehension when you venture far from home."
"So bonnets are not a question of free will and individual
responsibility?" asked the doctor soberly. "I must say that I have
wondered sometimes if the women do not draw lots for them. But what
shall I do about the little girl? I am afraid I do her great injustice
in trying to bring her up at all--it needs a woman's eye."
"Your eye is just as good as anybody's," responded Mrs. Graham
quickly, lest the doctor should drift into sad thought about his young
wife who had been so long dead and yet seemed always a nearer and
dearer living presence to him. He was apt to say a word or two about
her and not answer the next question which was put to him, and
presently go silently away,--but to-day Mrs. Graham had important
business in hand.
"My daughter will be here next week," she observed, presently, "and
I'm sure that she will do any shopping for you in Boston with great
pleasure. We might forestall Marilla's plans. You could easily say
when you go home that you have spoken to me about it. I think it would
be an excellent opportunity now, while the East Road establishment is
in disfavor," and when the doctor smiled and nodded, his friend and
hostess settled herself comfortably in her chair, and felt that she
had gained a point.
The sunshine itself could hardly have made that south parlor look
pleasanter. There was a log in the fire that was wet, and singing
gently to itself, as if the sound of the summer rustlings and
chirpings had somehow been stored away in its sap, and above it were
some pieces of drier white birch, which were sending up a yellow
conflagration to keep the marauding snow-flakes from coming down the
chimney. The geraniums looked brighter than by daylight, and seemed to
hold their leaves toward the fireplace as if they were hands; and were
even leaning out a little way themselves and lifting their blossoms
like torches, as if they were a reserve force, a little garrison of
weaker soldiers who were also enemies of the cold. The gray twilight
was gathering out of doors; the trees looked naked and defenceless, as
one saw them through the windows. Mrs. Graham tapped the arms of her
chair gently with the tips of her fingers, and in a few minutes the
doctor closed the book he was looking over and announced that the days
were growing very short. There was something singularly pleasant to
both the friends in their quiet Sunday afternoon companionship.
"You used to pay me a Sunday visit every week," said the old lady,
pleased to find that her guest still lingered. "I don't know why, but
I always have a hope that you will find time to run over for half an
hour. I said to myself yesterday that a figure of me in wax would do
just as well as anything nowadays. I get up and dress myself, and make
the journey downstairs, and sit here at the window and have my dinner
and go through the same round day after day. If it weren't for a
certain amount of expense it incurs, and occupation to other people, I
think it would be of very little use. However, there are some people
still left who need me. Who is it says--Béranger perhaps--that to love
benefits one's self, and to inspire love benefits others. I like to
think that the children and grandchildren have the old place to think
of and come back to. I can see that it is a great bond between them
all, and that is very good. I begin to feel like a very old woman; it
would be quite different, you know, if I were active and busy out of
doors, and the bustling sort of person for which nature intended me.
As it is, my mind is bustling enough for itself and its body both."
"Well," said the doctor, laughing a little, "what is it now?"
"The little girl," answered Mrs. Graham, gravely. "I think it is quite
time she knew something of society. Don't tell yourself that I am
notional and frivolous; I know you have put a great deal of hope and
faith and affection into that child's career. It would disappoint you
dreadfully if she were not interesting and harmonious to people in
general. It seems a familiar fact now that she should have come to
live with you, that she should be growing up in your house; but the
first thing we know she will be a young lady instead of an amusing
child, and I think that you cannot help seeing that a great deal of
responsibility belongs to you. She must be equipped and provisioned
for the voyage of life; she must have some resources."
"But I think she has more than most children."
"Yes, yes, I dare say. She is a bright little creature, but her
brightness begins to need new things to work upon. She does very well
at school now, I hear, and she minds very well and is much less
lawless than she used to be; but she is like a candle that refuses to
burn, and is satisfied with admiring its candlestick. She is quite the
queen of the village children in one way, and in another she is quite
apart from them. I believe they envy her and look upon her as being of
another sort, and yet count her out of half their plans and pleasures,
and she runs home, not knowing whether to be pleased or hurt, and
pulls down half a dozen of your books and sits proudly at the window.
Her poor foolish mother had some gifts, but she went adrift very soon,
and I should teach Nan her duty to her neighbor, and make her take in
the idea that she owes something to the world beside following out her
own most satisfying plans. When I was a young woman it was a most
blessed discovery to me--though I was not any quicker at making it
than other people, perhaps,--that, beside being happy myself and
valuable to myself, I must fit myself into my place in society. We are
seldom left to work alone, you know. No, not even you. I know too much
about you to believe that. And it isn't enough that we are willing to
talk about ourselves. We must learn to understand the subjects of the
day that everybody talks about, and to make sure of a right to stand
upon the highest common ground wherever we are. Society is a sort of
close corporation, and we must know its watchwords, and keep an
interest in its interests and affairs. I call a gentleman the man who,
either by birth or by nature, belongs to the best society. There may
be bad gentlemen and good gentlemen, but one must feel instinctively
at home with a certain class, representatives of which are likely to
be found everywhere.
"And as for Nan, you will be disappointed if she does not understand a
little later your own way of looking at things. She mustn't grow up
full of whims and indifferences. I am too fond of you to look forward
calmly to your being disappointed, and I do believe she will be a most
lovely, daughterly, friendly girl, who will keep you from being lonely
as you grow older, and be a great blessing in every way. Yet she has a
strange history, and is in a strange position. I hope you will find a
good school for her before very long."
This was said after a moment's pause, and with considerable
hesitation, and Mrs. Graham was grateful for the gathering darkness
which sheltered her, and not a little surprised at the doctor's
answer.
"I have been thinking of that," he said quickly, "but it is a great
puzzle at present and I am thankful to say, I think it is quite safe
to wait a year or two yet. You and I live so much apart from society
that we idealize it a good deal, though you are a stray-away bit of
it. We too seldom see the ideal gentleman or lady; we have to be
contented with keeping the ideal in our minds, it seems to me, and
saying that this man is gentlemanly, and that woman ladylike. But I do
believe in aiming at the best things, and turning this young
creature's good instincts and uncommon powers into the proper channels
instead of letting her become singular and self-centred because she
does not know enough of people of her own sort."
Mrs. Graham gave a little sound of approval that did not stand for any
word in particular: "I wonder if her father's people will ever make
any claim to her? She said something about her aunt one day; I think
it was to hear whatever I might answer. It seemed to me that the poor
child had more pleasure in this unknown possession than was worth
while; she appeared to think of her as a sort of fairy godmother who
might descend in Oldfields at any moment."
"I did not know she thought of her at all," announced the doctor,
somewhat dismayed. "She never has talked about her aunt to me. I dare
say that she has been entertained with the whole miserable story."
"Oh, no," answered Mrs. Graham, placidly. "I don't think that is
likely, but it is quite reasonable that the child should be aware of
some part of it by this time. The Dyer neighbors are far from being
reticent, good creatures, and they have little to remember that
approaches the interest and excitement of that time. Do you know
anything about Miss Prince nowadays? I have not heard anything of her
in a long while."
"She still sends the yearly remittance, which I acknowledge and put
into the savings bank as I always have done. When Nan came to me I
advised Miss Prince that I wished to assume all care of her and should
be glad if she would give me entire right to the child, but she took
no notice of the request. It really makes no practical difference.
Only," and the doctor became much embarrassed, "I must confess that I
have a notion of letting her study medicine by and by if she shows a
fitness for it."
"Dear, dear!" said the hostess, leaning forward so suddenly that she
knocked two or three books from the corner of the table, and feeling
very much excited. "John Leslie, I can't believe it! but my dear man
used to say you thought twice for everybody else's once. What can have
decided you upon such a plan?"
"How happened the judge to say that?" asked the doctor, trying to
scoff, but not a little pleased. "I'm sure I can't tell you, Mrs.
Graham, only the idea has grown of itself in my mind, as all right
ideas do, and everything that I can see seems to favor it. You may
think that it is too early to decide, but I see plainly that Nan is
not the sort of girl who will be likely to marry. When a man or woman
has that sort of self-dependence and unnatural self-reliance, it shows
itself very early. I believe that it is a mistake for such a woman to
marry. Nan's feeling toward her boy-playmates is exactly the same as
toward the girls she knows. You have only to look at the rest of the
children together to see the difference; and if I make sure by and by,
the law of her nature is that she must live alone and work alone, I
shall help her to keep it instead of break it, by providing something
else than the business of housekeeping and what is called a woman's
natural work, for her activity and capacity to spend itself upon."
"But don't you think that a married life is happiest?" urged the
listener, a good deal shocked at such treason, yet somewhat persuaded
by its truth.
"Yes," said Dr. Leslie, sadly. "Yes indeed, for most of us. We could
say almost everything for that side, you and I; but a rule is
sometimes very cruel for its exceptions; and there is a life now and
then which is persuaded to put itself in irons by the force of custom
and circumstances, and from the lack of bringing reason to bear upon
the solving of the most important question of its existence. Of course
I don't feel sure yet that I am right about Nan, but looking at her
sad inheritance from her mother, and her good inheritances from other
quarters, I cannot help feeling that she might be far more unhappy
than to be made ready to take up my work here in Oldfields when I have
to lay it down. She will need a good anchor now and then. Only this
summer she had a bad day of it that made me feel at my wits' end. She
was angry with one of the children at school, and afterward with
Marilla because she scolded her for not keeping better account of the
family times and seasons, and ran away in the afternoon, if you
please, and was not heard from until next morning at breakfast time.
She went to the old place and wandered about the fields as she used,
and crept into some shelter or other. I dare say that she climbed in
at one of the windows of the house, though I could not make quite sure
without asking more questions than I thought worth while. She came
stealing in early in the morning, looking a little pale and wild, but
she hasn't played such a prank since. I had a call to the next town
and Marilla had evidently been awake all night. I got home early in
the morning myself, and was told that it was supposed I had picked up
Nan on the road and carried her with me, so the blame was all ready
for my shoulders unless we had both happened to see the young culprit
strolling in at the gate. I was glad she had punished herself, so that
there was no need of my doing it, though I had a talk with her a day
or two afterward, when we were both in our right minds. She is a good
child enough."
"I dare say," remarked Mrs. Graham drily, "but it seems to me that
neither of you took Marilla sufficiently into account. That must have
been the evening that the poor soul went to nearly every house in town
to ask if there were any stray company to tea. Some of us could not
help wondering where the young person was finally discovered. She has
a great fancy for the society of Miss Betsy Milman and Sally Turner at
present, and I quite sympathize with her. I often look over there and
see the end of their house with that one little square window in the
very peak of it spying up the street, and wish I could pay them a
visit myself and hear a bit of their wise gossip. I quite envy Nan her
chance of going in and being half forgotten as she sits in one of
their short chairs listening and watching. They used to be great
friends of her grandmother's. Oh no; if I could go to see them they
would insist upon my going into the best room, and we should all be
quite uncomfortable. It is much better to sit here and think about
them and hear their flat-irons creak away over the little boys'
jackets and trousers."
"I must confess that I have my own clothes mended there to this day,"
said the doctor. "Marilla says their mending is not what it used to
be, too, but it is quite good enough. As for that little window, I
hardly ever see it without remembering the day of your aunt Margaret's
funeral. I was only a boy and not deeply afflicted, but of course I
had my place in the procession and was counted among the mourners, and
as we passed the Milman place I saw the old lady's face up there just
filling the four small panes. You know she was almost helpless, and
how she had got up into the little garret I cannot imagine, but she
was evidently determined to inspect the procession as it went down the
burying-ground lane. It was a pity they did not cut the window beneath
it in the lower room in her day. You know what an odd face she had; I
suppose it was distorted by disease and out of all shape it ever knew;
but I can see it now, framed in with its cap border and the window as
if there were no more of her."
"She really was the most curious old creature; it more than accounts
for Mrs. Turner's and Miss Betsy's love for a piece of news," said
Mrs. Graham, who was much amused. "But I wish we understood the value
of these old news-loving people. So much local history and tradition
must die with every one of them if we take no pains to save it. I hope
you are wise about getting hold of as much as possible. You doctors
ought to be our historians, for you alone see the old country folks
familiarly and can talk with them without restraint."
"But we haven't time to do any writing," the guest replied. "That is
why our books amount to so little for the most part. The active men,
who are really to be depended upon as practitioners, are kept so busy
that they are too tired to use the separate gift for writing, even if
they possess it, which many do not. And the literary doctors, the
medical scholars, are a different class, who have not had the
experience which alone can make their advice reliable. I mean of
course in practical matters, not anatomy and physiology. But we have
to work our way and depend upon ourselves, we country doctors, to whom
a consultation is more or less a downfall of pride. Whenever I hear
that an old doctor is dead I sigh to think what treasures of wisdom
are lost instead of being added to the general fund. That was one
advantage of putting the young men with the elder practitioners; many
valuable suggestions were handed down in that way."