THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE.
IN THE SAME SERIES.
THE BLISSYLVANIA POST OFFICE. By Marion Ames Taggart. 16mo,
cloth, 50 cents.
AN HEIR OF DREAMS. By Sallie Margaret O’Malley. 16mo, cloth,
50 cents.
A SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. By Anna T. Sadlier. 16mo, cloth, 50
cents.
THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY ONE.
BY
MARION AMES TAGGART,
_Author of “The Blissylvania Post Office,” etc._
NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO:
BENZIGER BROTHERS,
_Printers to the Holy Apostolic See_.
1897.
Copyright, 1897, by Benziger Brothers.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
A GIFTED GIRL, 5
CHAPTER II.
AN ARRIVAL, 17
CHAPTER III.
HUMILIATIONS, 31
CHAPTER IV.
THE END OF DREAMING, 42
CHAPTER V.
THE BEGINNING OF LIVING, 54
CHAPTER VI.
LITTLE THINGS, 68
CHAPTER VII.
A FRIEND IN NEED, 83
CHAPTER VIII.
A MERRY CHRISTMAS AFTER ALL, 97
CHAPTER IX.
NEW YEAR’S CALLS, 112
CHAPTER X.
A PARTING, 125
CHAPTER XI.
A REAL POEM, 137
THREE GIRLS, AND ESPECIALLY ONE.
CHAPTER I.
A GIFTED GIRL.
The Merricks as a family were very much like a great many other people
in the world--not remarkable in any way. The five younger children were
every-day girls and boys, but the eldest girl was gifted.
Mr. Merrick was too busied with making money for his flock--in which he
was wonderfully successful--to realize what it meant to be the father
of a genius; but Mrs. Merrick felt with pride that Marcella was not
like other girls, and her sisters and brothers realized it too, but
with more annoyance than pleasure.
Marcella--or Marcy as she was called--was only twelve, but she had
made up her mind to do something to amaze the world. She was not sure
whether she should be the greatest singer, or the greatest painter,
or the greatest poet of her day; but she should be one of these
things, and that which she finally decided upon she was to be in the
superlative degree.
In the mean time she wrote pretty bad verses, and made sketches in
which nothing ever seemed to have the appearance it had in nature;
and these bulls of the promise of her future greatness were carefully
treasured by her mother, to whom alone--and the genius herself--they
were beautiful. Marcy was a pretty child, and would have been much
prettier had not her delicate face been written over with thoughts of
self, and there were in it possibilities of great beauty if the nobler
side of her childish character should be ever aroused.
Mr. Merrick was occupied with business; his children did not feel very
well acquainted with him. Poor Mrs. Merrick had social ambition, and
was eagerly pursuing an upward course in life, trying, as she said,
“to make a place in the world for her children,” which left her less
time than was needed to make them fit to occupy a place in the world as
fine men and women. Happily she sent the children to Catholic schools,
and, being healthy and sweet-natured little souls, they were growing
up better than one might have feared they would in a home where the
highest standards were lacking.
There were Marcy, and Inez--whose name was Agnes, but whose mother
preferred the Spanish form as less common--and Bob, and Hugh, and
Grace, and little Lucy, the baby, who resented the title, being arrived
at the dignity of three years.
Bob and Hugh managed to get a good deal of pleasure out of each other,
but the rest were not especially congenial; and though Inez was but
a year younger than Marcy, they had scarcely any interest in common.
Marcy took refuge in a land of dreams, and spent most of her time in
the house curled up in a favorite window that gave her a glimpse of
the grass of Central Park and full view of the tree-tops, in dreamy
idleness, which Bob scornfully called “mooning,” and from which, if
any one disturbed her, she was likely to emerge very cross.
Poor little Marcy “dreamed noble deeds all day long,” but did not do
them; nor had it ever occurred to her that there was no poem, or song,
or picture so beautiful as an unselfish life.
Marcy sat in her own particular nook one bright October afternoon.
For fully twenty minutes she had not taken her eyes from the floating
clouds over the swaying tree-tops, nor had she touched the pencil,
poised in mid-air, to the sheet of paper laid ready on her lap. The
sheet was long, but so far there was but one line on it, written very
fine near the top, to leave plenty of room for the long poem of which
it was intended to be the beginning.
Clump! clump! clump! came a rapid and sturdy tread up the stairs. The
door burst open, and Hugh appeared. “Say,” he began before he was in
sight, “fix my marble bag? It’s got a big hole in it, and I’ve lost my
new agate. Oh, I thought Norah was here! Where’s Norah?”
“My goodness! how should I know?” cried Marcy impatiently.
“Well, I want her to sew up my marble bag. I’ve lost my agate and some
alleys, only I can’t tell how many, ’cause I’ve forgotten how many Will
Easton won off me. Where’s Norah?”
“I tell you, I don’t know!” cried Marcy. “Go find her if you want your
bag sewed up. And, Hugh, never say he won them ‘_off_ me’; you don’t
have marbles on you. Say ‘he won them _from_ me.’”
“What d’you s’pose I care?” retorted Hugh, and departed to find Norah,
leaving the door open behind him. Marcy shut it with unnecessary
emphasis, and reseated herself with a sigh.
Presently some one came down-stairs from the floor above at such a
rate as could only be done by casting the body over the banisters, and
letting the feet follow as they could. This time it was Bob.
“Say, where are my bicycle stockings?” he cried. “Oh! I thought Norah
was here. I want my bicycle stockings, and I can’t find them. Where’s
Norah?”
“Bob, I don’t know,” said Marcy.
“Well, don’t take my head off. I want my stockings; the boys are
waiting. Couldn’t you come help me find them?”
“No, I could not. Go away; you’ve spoiled my rhyme, and I’ve just
thought of a good one,” said Marcy despairingly.
“And you don’t care a cent if my ride’s spoiled; glad I’m not such a
mean thing as you are,” retorted Bob, going off in high dudgeon.
Marcy settled herself once more, feeling very much abused, and had only
succeeded in forgetting Bob when down-stairs, one step at a time, came
the tread of little feet.
“Nonie, where’s Nonie?” cried Lucy, coming in. “I want Nonie to fitz my
dolly. Marcy, you fitz her; her dwess is all cwooked.”
“Lucy, I can’t fix your doll. Go find Norah,” cried Marcy. “Go away
this moment, and don’t bother me.”
“Naughty Marcy!” said Lucy severely. “I’ll wite Santa Closet not to
bwing you any pwesents Cwistmus.”
Bob met her in the doorway; he looked dangerous; the boys had gone
without him. He had not found Norah nor the stockings; his ride was
spoiled, and he was ready for mischief. “Hold on, Lu; where’re you
going?” he cried, seizing a curl in each hand and holding Lucy fast.
“Stay here; I want you. ‘Linger longer, Lucy, linger longer, Lu,’” he
sang tantalizingly.
Lucy raised her voice in vigorous protest. “Let me ’lone, Bob Mehwick!”
she screamed. “Let me go! I want Nonie. Marcy, make Bob let go me.”
“Bob,” cried Marcy, springing up, “let go of Lulie’s hair, and stop
bothering me. I’d box your ears for a cent.”
“I won’t offer one,” cried Bob, sticking his head around the door from
the hall whither he had fled, while Lucy went up-stairs one step at a
time, talking to her doll indignantly all the way.
Marcy shut the door in profound disgust. “I wonder if Madeleine Greene
knows how lucky she is to be an only child?” she said aloud as she
picked up the paper and pencil she had dropped in her rush on Bob.
“There’s no peace in this house for one single minute.”
Ten minutes later the door opened, and a pretty but angry face peeped
in, followed by the odor of violets, and a slender girl entered, saying:
“Oh, here you are, Marcy! I was looking for you.”
“Now, Inez, what _do_ you want? I do wish you’d let me alone!” cried
Marcy.
But Inez was too vexed to quarrel with her sister, to whom she wished
to pour out her grievance. “I’ve got something to tell you,” she said,
laying off her hat with a tragic gesture. “What do you think May
Vanderberg’s done?”
“I don’t know,” said Marcy in a tone that meant, “and, what is more, I
don’t care.”
“She hasn’t invited me to her party!” said Inez, as if she defied the
world to produce another such wrong.
“Well, what of it? She didn’t ask me either, did she? I wish you’d go
away and let me write, Inez,” said Marcy.
“Of course she didn’t ask you,” said Inez, ignoring the latter part of
her sister’s remark. “But you don’t care. I heard she said she didn’t
want us.”
Marcy almost laughed. “Well, since she didn’t ask us, I suppose that’s
so,” she said.
“Yes, and if you had one bit of pride you’d care,” cried Inez.
“H’m! I don’t see that,” retorted Marcy. “That’s a funny pride to want
May Vanderberg’s invitation. I don’t care about going to her house
one bit more than she cares to have me. I don’t think she’s a very
nice girl. She stayed overnight with Mary Whiting once, and you know
she made fun and told about everything they had and did just because
they’re poor. And a girl that will do that isn’t a lady, and I don’t
care about knowing her.”
Inez gasped. “Not a lady! Why, Marcy Merrick! the Vanderbergs are one
of the old New York families; mamma said so.”
“I don’t care; she’s not a lady,” Marcy maintained stoutly. “It was a
mean, sneaky thing to do. What do you care if she didn’t ask you to her
party?”
“Well, I _do_ care,” replied Inez. “And I hate to be slighted; and what
would you do if you were me?”
“If I were you I’d speak good English, and I’d rather never be invited
to anybody’s party than say: ‘If you were _me_,’” said Marcy severely.
“Well, ‘if you were _I_,’ then,” said Inez. “You don’t care for
anything but trying to write poetry and mooning.”
“That’s all right,” said Marcy with sublime confidence. “When I’m
famous I’ll have more invitations than I want, for I never shall care
for such trash as parties; and you’ll be asked everywhere because you
are my sister.”
“It’s no more trash to go to parties and like nice dresses than it
is to be so vain and proud about being famous,” said Inez, stung by
Marcy’s tone of superiority, and not very grateful for the vague
prospect of future glory to be reflected on her by her sister’s fame.
“Oh, my, yes; it’s very different,” said Marcy. “These are great, big,
noble things; and when you’re dead people will see what you did; but
parties and all that kind of stuff is just--just _stuff_--that’s all.”
“There’s the bell to get ready for dinner,” cried Inez, rising hastily.
“Mamma’ll be sorry we’re not asked to May’s party. She likes to have
us know people like that.”
“Yes, there’s the bell; and between you, and Bob, and Hugh, and Lulie,
I’ve lost this afternoon,” sighed Marcy, gathering up her papers. “Yes,
I suppose mamma will be sorry. I don’t see why she cares, I declare,”
Marcy added with vigor. “Papa says he’ll send me to Europe when I’m
fifteen to finish my education. I wish he’d take the money now and
build a room for me way off somewhere, where none of you could come,
and pad the walls so I wouldn’t hear any noise.”
“Yes, you’re a nice sister,” said Inez. “All you want is never to see
any of us, and yet nothing you do is anything. You think you’re gifted,
but I don’t.”
Marcy’s eyes filled with sudden tears. Nothing touched her like
throwing cold water on her hopes. “Inez,” she said solemnly, “if I
thought I’d never be anything but just an every-day woman I’d die. I
want to have a splendid life. You don’t understand, Inez, how I feel.”
Her earnestness impressed Inez for a moment, and she was sorry she had
spoken so strongly. The two children were utterly unlike; and though
a year younger, the worldly little Inez was older in many ways than
Marcy, with her unguided longing for nobler things and mistaken notions
of how to reach them.
“Well, never mind, Marcy,” Inez said kindly. “Very likely you won’t
have a common life; you’re queer enough now, dear knows. Perhaps you
are gifted; I’m sure I can’t tell. Sometimes I think you’re silly, but
maybe that’s because you’re clever. I heard papa say once some man was
either a fool or a genius, and it was pretty hard telling them apart.
I forgot to tell you, the other day I heard one of the nuns saying
Marcella Merrick was a gifted girl, and they ought to know.”
And Marcy was comforted.