school-life was, for the most part, very unsatisfactory. Her
school-days had been more than usually pleasant and rewarding, in
spite of the sorrows and disappointments and unsolvable puzzles which
are sure to trouble thoughtful girls of her age. But she had grown so
used at last to living by rules and bells that she could not help
feeling somewhat adrift without them. It had been so hard to put
herself under restraint and discipline after her free life in
Oldfields that it was equally hard for a while to find herself at
liberty; though, this being her natural state, she welcomed it
heartily at first, and was very thankful to be at home. It did not
take long to discover that she had no longer the same desire for her
childish occupations and amusements; they were only incidental now and
pertained to certain moods, and could not again be made the chief
purposes of her life. She hardly knew what to do with herself, and
sometimes wondered what would become of her, and why she was alive at
all, as she longed for some sufficient motive of existence to catch
her up into its whirlwind. She was filled with energy and a great
desire for usefulness, but it was not with her, as with many of her
friends, that the natural instinct toward marriage, and the building
and keeping of a sweet home-life, ruled all other plans and
possibilities. Her best wishes and hopes led her away from all this,
and however tenderly she sympathized in other people's happiness, and
recognized its inevitableness, for herself she avoided unconsciously
all approach or danger of it. She was trying to climb by the help of
some other train of experiences to whatever satisfaction and success
were possible for her in this world. If she had been older and of a
different nature, she might have been told that to climb up any other
way toward a shelter from the fear of worthlessness, and mistake, and
reproach, would be to prove herself in most people's eyes a thief and
a robber. But in these days she was not fit to reason much about her
fate; she could only wait for the problems to make themselves
understood, and for the whole influence of her character and of the
preparatory years to shape and signify themselves into a simple chart
and unmistakable command. And until the power was given to "see life
steadily and see it whole," she busied herself aimlessly with such
details as were evidently her duty, and sometimes following the right
road and often wandering from it in willful impatience, she stumbled
along more or less unhappily. It seemed as if everybody had forgotten
Nan's gift and love for the great profession which was her childish
delight and ambition. To be sure she had studied anatomy and
physiology with eager devotion in the meagre text-books at school,
though the other girls had grumbled angrily at the task. Long ago,
when Nan had confided to her dearest cronies that she meant to be a
doctor, they were hardly surprised that she should determine upon a
career which they would have rejected for themselves. She was not of
their mind, and they believed her capable of doing anything she
undertook. Yet to most of them the possible and even probable marriage
which was waiting somewhere in the future seemed to hover like a
cloudy barrier over the realization of any such unnatural plans.
They assured themselves that their school-mate showed no sign of being
the sort of girl who tried to be mannish and to forsake her natural
vocation for a profession. She did not look strong-minded; besides she
had no need to work for her living, this ward of a rich man, who was
altogether the most brilliant and beautiful girl in school. Yet
everybody knew that she had a strange tenacity of purpose, and there
was a lack of pretension, and a simplicity that scorned the deceits of
school-girl existence. Everybody knew too that she was not a
commonplace girl, and her younger friends made her the heroine of
their fondest anticipations and dreams. But after all, it seemed as if
everybody, even the girl herself, had lost sight of the once familiar
idea. It was a natural thing enough that she should have become expert
in rendering various minor services to the patients in Dr. Leslie's
absence, and sometimes assist him when no other person was at hand.
Marilla became insensible at the sight of the least dangerous of
wounds, and could not be trusted to suggest the most familiar
household remedy, after all her years of association with the
practice of medicine, and it was considered lucky that Nan had some
aptness for such services. In her childhood she had been nicknamed
"the little doctor," by the household and even a few familiar friends,
but this was apparently outgrown, though her guardian had more than
once announced in sudden outbursts of enthusiasm that she already knew
more than most of the people who tried to practice medicine. They once
in a while talked about some suggestion or discovery which was
attracting Dr. Leslie's attention, but the girl seemed hardly to have
gained much interest even for this, and became a little shy of being
found with one of the medical books in her hand, as she tried to fancy
herself in sympathy with the conventional world of school and of the
every-day ideas of society. And yet her inward sympathy with a
doctor's and a surgeon's work grew stronger and stronger, though she
dismissed reluctantly the possibility of following her bent in any
formal way, since, after all, her world had seemed to forbid it. As
the time drew near for her school-days to be ended, she tried to
believe that she should be satisfied with her Oldfields life. She was
fond of reading, and she had never lacked employment, besides, she
wished to prove herself an intelligent companion to Dr. Leslie, whom
she loved more and more dearly as the years went by. There had been a
long time of reserve between her childish freedom of intercourse with
him and the last year or two when they had begun to speak freely to
each other as friend to friend. It was a constant surprise and
pleasure to the doctor when he discovered that his former plaything
was growing into a charming companion who often looked upon life from
the same standpoint as himself, and who had her own outlooks upon the
world, from whence she was able to give him by no means worthless
intelligence; and after the school-days were over he was not amazed to
find how restless and dissatisfied the girl was; how impossible it was
for her to content herself with following the round of household
duties which were supposed to content young women of her age and
station. Even if she tried to pay visits or receive them from her
friends, or to go on with her studies, or to review some text-book of
which she had been fond, there was no motive for it; it all led to
nothing; it began for no reason and ended in no use, as she exclaimed
one day most dramatically. Poor Nan hurried through her house
business, or neglected it, as the case might be, greatly to Manila's
surprise and scorn, for the girl had always proved herself diligent
and interested in the home affairs. More and more she puzzled herself
and everybody about her, and as the days went by she spent them out of
doors at the old farm, or on the river, or in taking long rides on a
young horse; a bargain the doctor had somewhat repented before he
found that Nan was helped through some of her troubled hours by the
creature's wildness and fleetness. It was very plain that his ward was
adrift, and at first the doctor suggested farther study of Latin or
chemistry, but afterward philosophically resigned himself to patience,
feeling certain that some indication of the right course would not be
long withheld, and that a wind from the right quarter would presently
fill the flapping sails of this idle young craft and send it on its
way.
One afternoon Nan went hurrying out of the house just after dinner,
and the doctor saw that her face was unusually troubled. He had asked
her if she would like to drive with him to a farm just beyond the
Dyers' later in the day, but for a wonder she had refused. Dr. Leslie
gave a little sigh as he left the table, and presently watched her go
down the street as he stood by the window. It would be very sad if the
restlessness and discord of her poor mother should begin to show
themselves again; he could not bear to think of such an inheritance.
But Nan thought little of anybody else's discomforts as she hurried
along the road; she only wished to get to the beloved farm, and to be
free there from questions, and from the evidences of her unfitness for
the simple duties which life seemed offering her with heartless irony.
She was not good for anything after all, it appeared, and she had been
cheating herself. This was no life at all, this fretful idleness; if
only she had been trained as boys are, to the work of their lives! She
had hoped that Dr. Leslie would help her; he used to talk long ago
about her studying medicine, but he must have forgotten that, and the
girl savagely rebuked society in general for her unhappiness. Of
course she could keep the house, but it was kept already; any one with
five senses and good health like hers could prove herself able to do
any of the ordinary work of existence. For her part it was not enough
to be waited upon and made comfortable, she wanted something more, to
be really of use in the world, and to do work which the world needed.
Where the main road turned eastward up the hills, a footpath, already
familiar to the reader, shortened the distance to the farm, and the
young girl quickly crossed the rude stile and disappeared among the
underbrush, walking bareheaded with the swift steps of a creature
whose home was in some such place as this. Often the dry twigs, fallen
from the gray lower branches of the pines, crackled and snapped under
her feet, or the bushes rustled backed again to their places after she
pushed against them in passing; she hurried faster and faster, going
first through the dense woods and then out into the sunlight. Once or
twice in the open ground she stopped and knelt quickly on the soft
turf or moss to look at a little plant, while the birds which she
startled came back to their places directly, as if they had been quick
to feel that this was a friend and not an enemy, though disguised in
human shape. At last Nan reached the moss-grown fence of the farm and
leaped over it, and fairly ran to the river-shore, where she went
straight to one of the low-growing cedars, and threw herself upon it
as if it were a couch. While she sat there, breathing fast and glowing
with bright color, the river sent a fresh breeze by way of messenger,
and the old cedar held its many branches above her and around her most
comfortably, and sheltered her as it had done many times before. It
need not have envied other trees the satisfaction of climbing straight
upward in a single aspiration of growth.
And presently Nan told herself that there was nothing like a good run.
She looked to and fro along the river, and listened to the sheep-bell
which tinkled lazily in the pasture behind her. She looked over her
shoulder to see if a favorite young birch tree had suffered no harm,
for it grew close by the straight-edged path in which the cattle came
down to drink. So she rested in the old playground, unconscious that
she had been following her mother's footsteps, or that fate had again
brought her here for a great decision. Years before, the miserable,
suffering woman, who had wearily come to this place to end their
lives, had turned away that the child might make her own choice
between the good and evil things of life. Though Nan told herself that
she must make it plain how she could spend her time in Oldfields to
good purpose and be of most use at home, and must get a new strength
for these duties, a decision suddenly presented itself to her with a
force of reason and necessity the old dream of it had never shown. Why
should it not be a reality that she studied medicine?
The thought entirely possessed her, and the glow of excitement and
enthusiasm made her spring from the cedar boughs and laugh aloud. Her
whole heart went out to this work, and she wondered why she had ever
lost sight of it. She was sure this was the way in which she could
find most happiness. God had directed her at last, and though the
opening of her sealed orders had been long delayed, the suspense had
only made her surer that she must hold fast this unspeakably great
motive: something to work for with all her might as long as she lived.
People might laugh or object. Nothing should turn her aside, and a new
affection for kind and patient Dr. Leslie filled her mind. How eager
he had been to help her in all her projects so far, and yet it was
asking a great deal that he should favor this; he had never seemed to
show any suspicion that she would not live on quietly at home like
other girls; but while Nan told herself that she would give up any
plan, even this, if he could convince her that it would be wrong,
still her former existence seemed like a fog and uncertainty of death,
from which she had turned away, this time of her own accord, toward a
great light of satisfaction and certain safety and helpfulness. The
doctor would know how to help her; if she only could study with him
that would be enough; and away she went, hurrying down the river-shore
as if she were filled with a new life and happiness.
She startled a brown rabbit from under a bush, and made him a grave
salutation when he stopped and lifted his head to look at her from a
convenient distance. Once she would have stopped and seated herself on
the grass to amaze him with courteous attempts at friendliness, but
now she only laughed again, and went quickly down the steep bank
through the junipers and then hurried along the pebbly margin of the
stream toward the village. She smiled to see lying side by side a
flint arrowhead and a water-logged bobbin that had floated down from
one of the mills, and gave one a toss over the water, while she put
the other in her pocket. Her thoughts were busy enough, and though
some reasons against the carrying out of her plan ventured to assert
themselves, they had no hope of carrying the day, being in piteous
minority, though she considered them one by one. By and by she came
into the path again, and as she reached the stile she was at first
glad and then sorry to see the doctor coming along the high road from
the Donnell farm. She was a little dismayed at herself because she had
a sudden disinclination to tell this good friend her secret.
But Dr. Leslie greeted her most cheerfully, giving her the reins when
she had climbed into the wagon, and they talked of the weather and of
the next day's plans as they drove home together. The girl felt a
sense of guilt and a shameful lack of courage, but she was needlessly
afraid that her happiness might be spoiled by a word from that
quarter.
That very evening it was raining outside, and the doctor and Nan were
sitting in the library opposite each other at the study-table, and as
they answered some letters in order to be ready for the early morning
post, they stole a look at each other now and then. The doctor laid
down his pen first, and presently, as Nan with a little sigh threw
hers into the tray beside it, he reached forward to where there was
one of the few uncovered spaces of the dark wood of the table and drew
his finger across it. They both saw the shining surface much more
clearly, and as the dusty finger was held up and examined carefully by
its owner, the girl tried to laugh, and then found her voice trembling
as she said: "I believe I haven't forgotten to put the table in order
before. I have tried to take care of the study at any rate."
"Nan dear, it isn't the least matter in the world!" said Dr. Leslie.
"I think we are a little chilly here this damp night; suppose you
light the fire? At any rate it will clear away all those envelopes and
newspaper wrappers," and he turned his arm-chair so that it faced the
fireplace, and watched the young girl as she moved about the room. She
lifted one of the large sticks and stood it on one end at the side of
the hearth, and the doctor noticed that she did it less easily than
usual and without the old strength and alertness. He had sprung up to
help her just too late, but she had indignantly refused any assistance
with a half pettishness that was not a common mood with her.
"I don't see why Jane or Marilla, or whoever it was, put that heavy
log on at this time of the year," said Dr. Leslie, as if it were a
matter of solemn consequence. By this time he had lighted a fresh
cigar, and Nan had brought her little wooden chair from some corner of
the room where it had always lived since it came with her from the
farm. It was a dear old-fashioned little thing, but quite too small
for its owner, who had grown up tall and straight, but who had felt a
sudden longing to be a child again, as she quietly took her place
before the fire.
"That log?" she said, "I wonder if you will never learn that we must
not burn it? I saw Marilla myself when she climbed the highest
wood-pile at the farther end of the wood-house for it. I suppose all
the time I have been away you have been remorselessly burning up the
show logs. I don't wonder at her telling me this very morning that she
was born to suffer, and suffer she supposed she must. We never used to
be allowed to put papers in the fireplace, but you have gained ever so
many liberties. I wonder if Marilla really thinks she has had a hard
life?" the girl said, in a different tone.
"I wonder if you think yours is hard too?" asked the doctor.
And Nan did not know at first what to say. The bright light of the
burning papers and the pine-cone kindlings suddenly faded out and the
study seemed dark and strange by contrast; but the doctor did not
speak either; he only bent towards her presently, and put his hand on
the top of the girl's head and stroked the soft hair once or twice,
and then gently turned it until he could see Nan's face.
Her eyes met his frankly as ever, but they were full of tears. "Yes,"
she said; "I wish you would talk to me. I wish you would give me a
great scolding. I never needed it so much in my life. I meant to come
home and be very good, and do everything I could to make you happy,
but it all grows worse every day. I thought at first I was tired with
the last days of school, but it is something more than that. I don't
wish in the least that I were back at school, but I can't understand
anything; there is something in me that wants to be busy, and can't
find anything to do. I don't mean to be discontented; I don't want to
be anywhere else in the world."
"There is enough to do," answered the doctor, as placidly as possible,
for this was almost the first time he had noticed distinctly the
mother's nature in her daughter; a restless, impatient, miserable sort
of longing for The Great Something Else, as Dr. Ferris had once called
it. "Don't fret yourself, Nan, yours is a short-lived sorrow; for if
you have any conscience at all about doing your work you will be sure
enough to find it."
"I think I have found it at last, but I don't know whether any one
else will agree with me," half whispered poor Nan; while the doctor,
in spite of himself, of his age, and experience, and sympathy, and
self-control, could not resist a smile. "I hate to talk about myself
or to be sentimental, but I want to throw my whole love and life into
whatever there is waiting for me to do, and--I began to be afraid I
had missed it somehow. Once I thought I should like to be a teacher,
and come back here when I was through school and look after the
village children. I had such splendid ideas about that, but they all
faded out. I went into the school-house one day, and I thought I would
rather die than be shut up there from one week's end to another."
"No," said Dr. Leslie, with grave composure. "No, I don't feel sure
that you would do well to make a teacher of yourself."
"I wish that I had known when school was over that I must take care of
myself, as one or two of the girls meant to do, and sometimes it seems
as if I ought," said Nan, after a silence of a few minutes, and this
time it was very hard to speak. "You have been so kind, and have done
so much for me; I supposed at first there was money enough of my own,
but I know now."
"Dear child!" the doctor exclaimed, "you will never know, unless you
are left alone as I was, what a blessing it is to have somebody to
take care of and to love; I have put you in the place of my own little
child, and have watched you grow up here, with more thankfulness every
year. Don't ever say another word to me about the money part of it.
What had I to spend money for? And now I hear you say all these
despairing things; but I am an old man, and I take them for what they
are worth. You have a few hard months before you, perhaps, but before
you know it they will be over with. Don't worry yourself; look after
Marilla a little, and that new hand-maid, and drive about with me.
To-morrow I must be on the road all day, and, to tell the truth, I
must think over one or two of my cases before I go to bed. Won't you
hand me my old prescription book? I was trying to remember something
as I came home."
Nan, half-comforted, went to find the book, while Dr. Leslie, puffing
his cigar-smoke very fast, looked up through the cloud abstractedly at
a new ornament which had been placed above the mantel shelf since we
first knew the room. Old Captain Finch had solaced his weary and
painful last years by making a beautiful little model of a ship, and
had left it in his will to the doctor. There never was a more touching
gift, this present owner often thought, and he had put it in its place
with reverent hands. A comparison of the two lives came stealing into
his mind, and he held the worn prescription-book a minute before he
opened it. The poor old captain waiting to be released, stranded on
the inhospitable shore of this world, and eager Nan, who was
sorrowfully longing for the world's war to begin. "Two idle heroes,"
thought Dr. Leslie, "and I neither wished to give one his discharge
nor the other her commission;" but he said aloud, "Nan, we will take a
six o'clock start in the morning, and go down through the sandy plains
before the heat begins. I am afraid it will be one of the worst of the
dog-days."
"Yes," answered Nan eagerly, and then she came close to the doctor,
and looked at him a moment before she spoke, while her face shone with
delight. "I am going to be a doctor, too! I have thought it would be
the best thing in the world ever since I can remember. The little
prescription-book was the match that lit the fire! but I have been
wishing to tell you all the evening."
"We must ask Marilla," the doctor began to say, and tried to add,
"What _will_ she think?" but Nan hardly heard him, and did not laugh
at his jokes. For she saw by his face that there was no need of
teasing. And she assured herself that if he thought it was only a
freak of which she would soon tire, she was quite willing to be put to
the proof.
Next morning, for a wonder, Nan waked early, even before the birds had
quite done singing, and it seemed a little strange that the weather
should be clear and bright, and almost like June, since she was a good
deal troubled.
She felt at first as if there were some unwelcome duty in her day's
work, and then remembered the early drive with great pleasure, but the
next minute the great meaning and responsibility of the decision she
had announced the evening before burst upon her mind, and a flood of
reasons assailed her why she should not keep to so uncommon a purpose.
It seemed to her as if the first volume of life was ended, and as if
it had been deceitfully easy, since she had been led straight-forward
to this point. It amazed her to find the certainty take possession of
her mind that her vocation had been made ready for her from the
beginning. She had the feeling of a reformer, a radical, and even of a
political agitator, as she tried to face her stormy future in that
summer morning loneliness. But by the time she had finished her early
breakfast, and was driving out of the gate with the doctor, the day
seemed so much like other days that her trouble of mind almost
disappeared. Though she had known instinctively that all the early
part of her life had favored this daring project, and the next few
years would hinder it if they could, still there was something within
her stronger than any doubts that could possibly assail her. And
instead of finding everything changed, as one always expects to do
when a great change has happened to one's self, the road was so
familiar, and the condition of the outer world so harmonious, that she
hardly understood that she had opened a gate and shut it behind her,
between that day and its yesterday. She held the reins, and the doctor
was apparently in a most commonplace frame of mind. She wished he
would say something about their talk of the night before, but he did
not. She seemed very old to herself, older than she ever would seem
again, perhaps, but the doctor had apparently relapsed into their old
relations as guardian and child. Perhaps he thought she would forget
her decision, and did not know how much it meant to her. He was quite
provoking. He hurried the horse himself as they went up a somewhat
steep ascent, and as Nan touched the not very fleet steed with the
whip on the next level bit of road, she was reminded that it was a
very hot morning and that they had a great way to drive. When she
asked what was the matter with the patient they were on their way to
see, she was answered abruptly that he suffered from a complication of
disorders, which was the more aggravating because Nan had heard this
answer laughed at as being much used by old Dr. Jackson, who was
usually unwilling or unable to commit himself to a definite opinion.
Nan fancied herself at that minute already a member of the profession,
and did not like to be joked with in such a fashion, but she tried to
be amused, which generosity was appreciated by her companion better
than she knew.
Dr. Leslie was not much of a singer, but he presently lifted what
little voice he had, and began to favor Nan with a not very successful
rendering of "Bonny Doon." Every minute seemed more critical to the
girl beside him, and she thought of several good ways to enter upon a
discussion of her great subject, but with unusual restraint and
reserve let the moments and the miles go by until the doctor had
quickly stepped down from the carriage and disappeared within his
patient's door. Nan's old custom of following him had been neglected
for some time, since she had found that the appearance of a tall young
woman had quite a different effect upon a household from that of a
little child. She had formed the habit of carrying a book with her on
the long drives, though she often left it untouched while she walked
up and down the country roads, or even ventured upon excursions as far
afield as she dared, while the doctor made his visit, which was apt to
be a long one in the lonely country houses. This morning she had
possessed herself of a square, thin volume which gave lists and plates
of the nerve system of the human body. The doctor had nearly laughed
aloud when he caught sight of it, and when Nan opened it with decision
and gravity and read the first page slowly, she was conscious of a
lack of interest in her subject. She had lost the great enthusiasm of
the night before, and felt like the little heap of ashes which such a
burning and heroic self might well have left.