THE BEGINNING OF LIVING.
A week passed with no change in Marcy’s condition, but each of the
seven days wrought its work in the Merrick family. Mr. Merrick forgot
business altogether in his absorbing anxiety and grief, and Mrs.
Merrick clung to her other children with a tenderness they had never
felt in her before as she waited in tense dread to know the fate of her
eldest, cleverest, and now, at least, her dearest child. Inez realized
that she had never loved her sister half enough, and that there were
other qualities more precious than knowledge of social propriety; for
it was to Nellie--brave, pious, cheerful, kind Nellie to whom she
turned for the only comfort she could get during these dark days. At
last, on the eighth day, Marcy opened her eyes wonderingly on the
world, smiled at the tear-wet faces around her, and fell asleep, and
the three solemn doctors standing in consultation around her bed said
that she would live. But following quickly on the joy of this verdict
came the sorrow of hearing that, though Marcy would not die, she would
never again be the bright, gay Marcy of old; that the injury was to the
spine, and that the most that could be hoped for her was the suffering
of a cripple through all the long coming years.
It was a hard saying, and her father and mother shrank from looking in
the face the dreadful fate which had fallen on Marcy. Yet what must be
borne must be, and each of the Merricks, in his or her way, tried to
adjust themselves to a sorrow that at times seemed more bitter than if
Marcy had died.
The only thing to do now was to nurse the poor child back to such
health as might be hers, and keep from her the knowledge that never
again would she run about, a happy creature on the happy earth. But it
was not easy to deceive Marcy. As the days passed and she grew stronger
she felt the sorrow in the air, and looked with eyes made big and
hollow by pain from face to face, trying to penetrate the grief she
saw written on them.
“I’m getting better, Norah?” she asked one day. “Truly, Norah, I am
better. Don’t you think so? I shan’t die, shall I, Norah?”
“Die, alanna!” cried Norah, with a dismal attempt at gayety; “not you.
Of course you’re better; and I only wish I was as sure of living as
many years as you are. And that’s true. God help you, darling, and help
us all, that we almost have to wish you weren’t,” added Norah under her
breath.
But Marcy was not satisfied. One day Grace was left alone with her,
very proud to be so trusted, and sat like a faithful little dog with
her brown eyes fastened on Marcy’s face, ready to jump if she saw any
sign of her wanting anything.
“Gracie, come here,” Marcy whispered.
Grace sprang up quickly and knelt by Marcy’s face, obedient to the
motion of her finger.
“Tell me the truth, Gracie,” Marcy said, still in a whisper. “Have you
heard them say anything about me?”
“I don’t know,” Gracie stammered.
“H’sh! not so loud. Yes, you know, Gracie. You must tell sister Marcy
just the truth. Am I going to die?”
“No, Marcy, you’re not going to die,” answered Grace, relieved to be
able to say something good.
“Honest, Grace? Maybe they don’t tell you,” Marcy said.
“Yes--no; but I heard them talking. You’re not going to die----”
Grace stopped so suddenly that Marcy seized her little hand.
“Then what is it? When shall I be well? When shall I get up, and go to
school, and dance, and everything?” cried Marcy, the dread that had
been haunting her more than the fear of death clutching her heart.
Grace only sobbed.
“You mustn’t ask me anything; I’m not to tell you,” cried the poor
little thing in great distress.
“Grace, tell me, shall I ever be well again?”
Grace shook her head.
“Never!” cried Marcy sharply, forgetting her fear of being overheard.
“Not never,” wailed Grace, and Marcy’s clasp of her wrist relaxed.
“All right, Gracie,” she said in a queer, husky voice; “you were a good
child to tell me the truth. I’ll go to sleep now.”
And Grace crept back to her chair, relieved that Marcy took the news so
quietly.
But from that day Marcy did not mend; she lay with closed eyes, getting
thinner and paler, scarcely speaking, but trying, poor child, to face
her awful doom alone, and say good-by in silence to youth and life when
she was but twelve. She did not dare ask any one just how bad her lot
was to be, but she pictured herself lying as she then was for years and
years, while the children grew up, and her father and mother and Norah
died, and she grew old in her little bed, worse off than the prisoners
whose pictures she had seen, working on the roads in chains. At last
she could endure her thoughts no longer.
“Nellie,” she said one day, “shut the door and sit here by me.”
Nellie obeyed. For a few moments Marcy did not speak, then she opened
her eyes and looked into Nellie’s rosy, healthy face.
“You look so well,” she said. “I know; Gracie told me, Nellie.”
Nellie looked frightened.
“Told you?” she began, and stopped.
“Told me I should never be better,” said Marcy, and two big tears ran
down her cheeks.
Nellie was shocked, but rallied with great presence of mind.
“But that isn’t true, Marcy dear,” she said.
“Don’t fool me, Nellie; I couldn’t bear that,” Marcy cried.
“I’ll tell you just the truth,” said Nellie. “You will be better. The
doctor says you may be able to lie in an invalid’s chair by Christmas,
but you won’t ever be as strong as before you were hurt.”
“If she only won’t ask me if she will ever walk!” thought Nellie.
Marcy looked at her.
“That’s something, but it isn’t much,” she said slowly. “I’ll be an
invalid, won’t I, Nellie?”
“Yes, I suppose you will,” Nellie answered gently; “but all invalids
are not much invalids. You can’t tell how much better you will be.”
“And all those splendid things I was going to be and do! Invalids are
no use,” said Marcy.
“Now, Marcy, I think you can do more splendid things than you ever
dreamed of,” said Nellie.
“You mean I can be patient and good. Well, but I am not good, and all
that is no use,” said poor Marcy.
“Indeed, it is,” cried Nellie. “Oh, I believe you’re not getting better
just because you aren’t hoping for anything! Why, you can have the most
wonderful life, and do the most splendid things even though you are
shut up here. I can’t explain, but I know you can just be grand, and
the most use of anybody in the whole house.”
Marcy closed her eyes wearily.
“Perhaps,” she said, and Nellie went away, having an idea in her busy
brain which she meant to carry out at once.
From the first of her coming to New York Nellie had been a prime
favorite with Father Glenn, the kindly, gray-haired priest who came
occasionally to see the Merricks. To him Nellie repaired, and laid
before him Marcy’s case.
“So you think she wants something to live for,” he said, smiling down
on the earnest, little, round face. “I suspect you are right, Nellie.
It is pretty hard for any one to live without hope. I’ll go to see
Marcy to-morrow, and we will see if we cannot help the poor little soul
to face her martyrdom with courage.”
Father Glenn was a busy man, but he made time that night to write a
little story especially for Marcy. With this in his pocket he rang
the Merricks’ bell, and went up to the room where Marcy lay. Norah
slipped out when he entered, and he drew his chair up to the bedside,
and holding the thin, white hand, talked gently to Marcy, telling her
stories, and watching the pinched face, from which he could win no look
of interest beyond a wan smile for politeness’ sake. At last he said:
“Well, Marcy, I could find it in my heart to envy you. It is not all
of us who get our wishes so perfectly fulfilled as you are to have
yours.”
Marcy opened her eyes.
“I, Father Glenn?” she said.
“Yes, you. Why, you always wanted to lead some sort of a great and
wonderful life, and now you can. And you hoped to be able to write
great poems, and now you will have a chance not merely to write them,
but be one yourself.”
“I’m never going to be anything now, Father; I’ll never be well,” said
Marcy, and her voice trembled.
“I’ve written a little wee bit of a story, Marcy dear. Will you let me
read it to you, and tell me what you think of it?” was Father Glenn’s
only answer.
He pulled his manuscript out of his pocket as Marcy moved her head on
the pillow a little nearer him, and began to read:
“Once upon a time there was a garden, which was full of the most
beautiful bright flowers. But though the flowers were all very gay,
and nodded in the breeze, and made a fine display in the garden, not
one bore any honey nor had any perfume. So the garden was not a very
useful garden, and in spite of its beauty the gardener was sad when he
looked at it, because it yielded no sweetness or no food for the bees,
nor did the birds love to hover over it. One day there came up in a
shady, out-of-the-way corner a tiny white blossom. It grew near the
ground, and did not stand up tall and brave like the other flowers;
indeed, no one walking through the garden would have seen it at all.
But after it began to grow there quietly and humbly all the air was
full of fragrance, and the birds and bees went out of their way to pass
the garden, and having passed it, they would fly back again, and hover
around that corner of the garden where the little white blossom was
hidden; and soon all the air got musical with the song of birds and hum
of bees where no birds or bees had ever been before. And the strangest
part of it all was that, tiny as it was, this little blossom, and
though it was hidden away in a dark corner, it was so full of honey and
fragrance that it not only fed and rejoiced the bees and birds itself,
but it shed its sweetness on all the other flowers, and they began to
grow sweet, too; and the garden that had been but a garden of gorgeous
colors and flaunting blossoms became so fragrant that the gardener
smiled as he looked on it, and said: ‘Blessings on the little hidden,
frail white blossom, for it has transformed my useless garden into a
garden of delight.’”
“It is a sweet story, Father,” said Marcy as he ended; “but how?”
Father Glenn smiled, well pleased.
“I see you understand the little allegory, Marcy,” he said. “How are
you to be like this little blossom, do you mean?”
“Yes, Father,” said Marcy. “You see, I never was anybody before I fell,
and I don’t see how I can be anything now.”
“You have gained one thing,” said the kind priest. “I doubt if one
little girl would have been willing once to admit that she was nobody.
Now I’ll tell you, my dear, how you can be the happiest, cleverest,
most useful little lassie in all this big city. You know, Marcy, this
has been a household where everybody went his own way. You can be
the link to draw them together. You can always be ready with needle
and thread for any little service. You can be ready to listen to
everybody’s troubles, and help them through them. You can read to the
children, and play with them. You can show the boys how lovely a good,
sweet girl is, and they will be better men for knowing it; and when
they grow older the thought of their loving, pure sister will keep
them away from many a danger of which you will never know. And you
can coax your father into sitting with you and reading to you, until
he gets into the habit of living close to his children, and enjoying
them as much as they will enjoy him; and you can do all this merely
by being unselfish, putting all yourself away, and living for others.
Your misfortune can be the greatest blessing, for when anything goes
wrong Marcy will be at her post, and when anybody needs a service or
sympathy, they will know where to find Marcy. And you can make this
room a blessed little chapel, like the churches in the early days,
when men were wild and revenge was in every man’s own hand; for then
the churches were sanctuaries, and whoever took refuge in them was
safe. So your room can be the refuge of all you love, and this little
white hand can change and hold together all the lives of the rest of
the household. And so I say, although all this would not prevent your
writing great poems, if the talent was yours, still you can surely do
something much finer. You can make your whole life a poem, and your
dreams can be fulfilled and far surpassed.”
Marcy’s cheeks were flushed when Father Glenn ceased speaking, and her
eyes were bright.
“I’ve been praying to die,” she said, “but if I can do all this I won’t
mind living.”
“That’s my brave girl,” said the priest heartily. “You mustn’t pray to
die. You will have many a weary hour of discouragement, but never mind.
When you feel thus do something for somebody, and don’t think about
poor, little, wounded Marcy at all.”
“Nellie can help me; she’s that kind of girl. She does all those things
for her brothers and sisters, and is well, too. Isn’t that better?”
said Marcy wistfully.
“Neither better nor worse, but much easier,” said Father Glenn. “You
have a harder, higher place to fill, because you will keep nothing for
yourself. You try the plan, Marcy, and a year from now we shall see a
real poem called Marcella Merrick--a poem of a brave, unselfish life,
the patient bearing of a heavy cross. Good-by, dear little girl; don’t
think I am not very sorry that you have such a hard burden to bear.”
But Marcy smiled brightly.
“Don’t be sorry, Father Glenn,” she said. “I’ll try to be like the
flower that was so little and plain, but made one spot sweet. And I
guess it was a happy flower, don’t you?”
“I am sure it was,” said the old priest, laying his hand on her dark
hair. “God bless you, dear. I think instead of dying you are just
beginning to live.”