For the Years to Come

"For the Years to Come" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a collection of short stories that reflect the author's deep appreciation for rural New England life and its enduring themes of community, human connection, and the passage of time. Jewett's lyrical prose and keen observations capture the simplicity and richness of everyday experiences, exploring the relationships between characters and their environments while celebrating the strength and resilience of women. Through vivid imagery and rich character development, Jewett invites readers to contemplate the beauty and complexities of life in a small town, making this collection a poignant reflection on the past and future.

• Short story

								
Late one summer afternoon Dr. Leslie was waked from an unusually long
after-dinner nap by Marilla's footsteps along the hall. She remained
standing in the doorway, looking at him for a provoking length of
time, and finally sneezed in her most obtrusive and violent manner. At
this he sat up quickly and demanded to be told what was the matter,
adding that he had been out half the night before, which was no news
to the faithful housekeeper.

"There, I'm sure I didn't mean to wake you up," she said, with an
apparent lack of self-reproach. "I never can tell whether you are
asleep or only kind of drowsin'. There was a boy here just now from
old Mis' Cunningham's over on the b'ilin' spring road. They want you
to come over quick as convenient. She don't know nothin', the boy
said."

"Never did," grumbled the doctor. "I'll go, toward night, but I can't
do her any good."

"An' Mis' Thacher is out here waitin' too, but she says if you're busy
she'll go along to the stores and stop as she comes back. She looks to
me as if she was breakin' up," confided Marilla in a lower tone.

"Tell her I'm ready now," answered the doctor in a more cordial tone,
and though he said half to himself and half to Marilla that here was
another person who expected him to cure old age, he spoke
compassionately, and as if his heart were heavy with the thought of
human sorrow and suffering. But he greeted Mrs. Thacher most
cheerfully, and joked about Marilla's fear of a fly, as he threw open
the blinds of the study window which was best shaded from the sun.

Mrs. Thacher did indeed look changed, and the physician's quick eyes
took note of it, and, as he gathered up some letters and newspapers
which had been strewn about just after dinner, he said kindly that he
hoped she had no need of a doctor. It was plain that the occasion
seemed an uncommon one to her. She wore her best clothes, which would
not have been necessary for one of her usual business trips to the
village, and it seemed to be difficult for her to begin her story. Dr.
Leslie, taking a purely professional view of the case, began to
consider what form of tonic would be most suitable, whether she had
come to ask for one or not.

"I want to have a good talk with you about the little gell; Nanny, you
know;" she said at last, and the doctor nodded, and, explaining that
there seemed to be a good deal of draught through the room, crossed
the floor and gently shut the door which opened into the hall. He
smiled a little as he did it, having heard the long breath outside
which was the not unfamiliar signal of Marilla's presence. If she were
curious, she was a discreet keeper of secrets, and the doctor had more
than once indulged her in her sinful listening by way of friendliness
and reward. But this subject promised to concern his own affairs too
closely, and he became wary of the presence of another pair of ears.
He was naturally a man of uncommon reserve, and most loyal in keeping
his patients' secrets. If clergymen knew their congregations as well
as physicians do, the sermons would be often more closely related to
the parish needs. It was difficult for the world to understand why,
when Dr. Leslie was anything but prone to gossip, Marilla should have
been possessed of such a wealth of knowledge of her neighbors'
affairs. Strange to say this wealth was for her own miserly pleasure
and not to be distributed, and while she often proclaimed with
exasperating triumph that she had known for months some truth just
discovered by others, she was regarded by her acquaintances as if she
were a dictionary written in some foreign language; immensely
valuable, but of no practical use to themselves. It was sometimes
difficult not to make an attempt to borrow from her store of news, but
nothing delighted her more than to be so approached, and to present
impenetrable barriers of discretion to the enemy.

"How is Nanny getting on?" the doctor asked. "She looks stronger than
she did a year ago."

"Dear me, she's wild as ever," answered Mrs. Thacher, trying to smile;
"but I've been distressed about her lately, night and day. I thought
perhaps I might see you going by. She's gettin' to be a great girl,
doctor, and I ain't fit to cope with her. I find my strength's
a-goin', and I'm old before my time; all my folks was rugged and sound
long past my age, but I've had my troubles--you don't need I should
tell you that! Poor Ad'line always give me a feelin' as if I was a hen
that has hatched ducks. I never knew exactly how to do for her, she
seemed to see everything so different, and Lord only knows how I worry
about her; and al'ays did, thinkin' if I'd seen clearer how to do my
duty her life might have come out sort of better. And it's the same
with little Anna; not that she's so prone to evil as some; she's a
lovin'-hearted child if ever one was born, but she's a piece o'
mischief; and it may come from her father's folks and their ways o'
livin', but she's made o' different stuff, and I ain't fit to make
answer for her, or for fetchin' of her up. I come to ask if you won't
kindly advise what's best for her. I do' know's anything's got to be
done for a good spell yet. I mind what you say about lettin' her run
and git strong, and I don't check her. Only it seemed to me that you
might want to speak about her sometimes and not do it for fear o'
wronging my judgment. I declare I haven't no judgment about what's
reasonable for her, and you're her guardeen, and there's the money her
father's sister has sent her; 't would burn my fingers to touch a cent
of it, but by and by if you think she ought to have schoolin' or
anything else you must just say so."

"I think nothing better could have been done for the child than you
have done," said Dr. Leslie warmly. "Don't worry yourself, my good
friend. As for books, she will take to them of her own accord quite
soon enough, and in such weather as this I think one day in the fields
is worth five in the school-house. I'll do the best I can for her."

Mrs. Thacher's errand had not yet been told, though she fumbled in her
pocket and walked to the open window to look for the neighbor's wagon
by which she was to find conveyance home, before she ventured to say
anything more. "I don't know's my time'll come for some years yet,"
she said at length, falteringly, "but I have had it borne in upon my
mind a good many ways this summer that I ain't going to stay here a
gre't while. I've been troubled considerable by the same complaints
that carried my mother off, and I'm built just like her. I don't feel
no concern for myself, but it's goin' to leave the child without
anybody of her own to look to. There's plenty will befriend her just
so long as she's got means, and the old farm will sell for something
besides what she's got already, but that ain't everything, and I can't
seem to make up my mind to havin' of her boarded about. If 't was so

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes