LITTLE THINGS.
“Papa, won’t you send Hugh down for your paper, and let me read to
you?” asked Marcy when her father made his regular visit to her that
evening.
“You can’t read, my daughter,” said Mr. Merrick.
“Oh, yes, I can,” said Marcy, with a touch of her old mischief. “I’ve
learned to read--truly, papa. You’d really be surprised if you knew how
advanced I am for a little girl of my age.”
Of course she obtained her desire, and Mr. Merrick found the first
alleviation of his sorrow in listening to the clear little voice,
grown a bit tremulous, going over the report of the stock market most
conscientiously, pausing for prompting on the hard words.
“Will you come every night, papa dear, and let me read?” Marcy asked,
drawing his head down for a good-night kiss. “And will you explain
things to me, and make me understand all about politics and money and
everything? You see, if I am to do without my feet, and depend on my
head for pleasure, it ought to be a very good one, and you must fill it
with sense.”
“Dear little Marcy,” said her father huskily, “have you found out that
you may have to depend on your head for pleasure? I’ll come certainly,
and I’ll do all I can to give you happiness, my poor little girl. But
you are better, Marcy; you seem brighter and more like yourself. I have
really enjoyed my hour with you.”
“That’s what I want,” cried Marcy delighted. “I’m not much better yet,
papa, but I mean to try to be a great deal better.”
The next morning Marcy heard furious stamping and roars of wrathful
misery from the next room.
“That’s no one on earth but Hugh,” she said to herself, and called,
“Hugh! Hugh! come here. What is the matter?”
“Plague take this old tie!” said Hugh, appearing in the doorway, very
red of face, with a plaid Windsor tie dragging dejectedly in his hand.
“Norah’s off somewhere, and I called and called Nellie, and I can’t
find her. I can’t tie this old tie, and I’ll be late for school.”
“If that’s all, I can help you. Come here, small boy; I’ll tie it for
you,” said Marcy, turning on her side as much as she could, for she
could not raise herself in bed.
Hugh marched over to her, and as her skilful fingers gave a deft
pull here, and a pat and poke there, the scowl disappeared from his
forehead, and the red faded from his cheek.
“There, give me a kiss in payment,” said Marcy. “Trot along now, and
the next time you want anything, come to Marcy, and she’ll do it for
you.”
“You’re awful nice, Marcy,” said Hugh, giving her a squeeze that nearly
made her shriek with pain, but was welcome none the less. “I think
you’re nicer than any one, and I never knew it till now.”
“There’s one little bee after honey,” thought Marcy, tired, but smiling
as she remembered Father Glenn’s story of the garden.
Presently she heard a plaintive little voice outside her door singing
in a kind of chant: “I _wis_ I had some one to play wiz. I wis I _had_
some one to play wiz.”
“Lulie, come in here,” called Marcy. “I’ll play with you.”
“How can you?” demanded Lucy, coming in with her doll--“how can you
play fen you’re hurted so badily, Marcy? Good-morning,” she added as an
afterthought.
“Good-morning,” replied Marcy. “I can play lots of things.”
“House?” asked Lucy, brightening at the prospect.
“House, and having company, and going travelling, and heaps of things,”
said Marcy; and the eldest and youngest member of the Merrick family
began to play without loss of time, and to Marcy’s surprise she really
enjoyed it.
“Now, Marcy, let’s betend you was sick, and I’m your nurse, and must
tell you a story to ’muse you,” said Lucy, climbing on the bed, and
sitting down tailor fashion.
“Once upon a time there was a little boy, and he cut off his sister’s
hair, and he went out in the woods to walk, and a big bear came ’long,
and ate him up, and he was all deaded, and that’s all. Is that nice?”
said Lucy, bringing her tale to a sudden and tragic close because she
heard Norah coming.
“Not very nice for the little boy, but it’s a fine story, Lu. Where did
you hear it?” asked Marcy.
“I just made it up as I went ’long,” said Lucy, with a wave of her
hands and toss of her curly head.
“Now come up-stairs, Lucy dear,” said Norah, appearing in the doorway;
“you mustn’t tire sister Marcy.”
“She didn’t tire me, Norah; at least not much, and I liked it. I never
knew how cunning she was before,” said Marcy.
“And I never knew how nice you were,” said Lucy, not to be outdone in
appreciation. “I’m coming every day to play wiz you.”
Lucy was borne away, and Marcy had a long rest. After luncheon Nellie
came. She was dismissed from school early that day, and always
hastened to Marcy’s side, who looked forward longingly to her coming.
To-day she saw that there was a shadow on Nellie’s usually happy face,
and set about discovering the cause.
“Anything wrong at school?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” Nellie said, swinging the curtain cord listlessly.
“Fail, Nellie?” hinted Marcy.
“Dear me, no; it’s so easy keeping ahead there I’m getting conceited. I
used to think I was a dunce, but even a dunce, if she tries, can beat
people who never try. Those girls hardly study at all, except Madeleine
Greene,” said Nellie, coming over to sit by Marcy.
Marcy considered a moment, then with tact she never could have shown
before her illness, she said:
“Talk to me about Prairie Rest, Nellie.”
Nellie’s face brightened. It was the first time any but her little
cousins had shown an interest in her home.
“I was thinking about it all day,” she said. “It’s getting Thanksgiving
time, and I keep wondering what they’re all doing.”
“Tell me what Aunt Mary looks like, and what kind of a sitting-room
yours is,” said Marcy.
Nellie closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and rocking very hard
began:
“Our sitting-room’s awfully sunny; it has two windows on the south and
one on the west, and it looks out on the street. I reckon you’d say it
was a funny street, because it has some blocks of limestone houses,
and some of wood standing alone, and some stores, and a church, all
in a bunch; but I don’t care, it’s nice. And the wall-paper’s cream
color, with sprays of gilt flowers. And the carpet’s all bright colors
mixed, and ma’s darned it in some places, for it gets such hard wear.
And there are some pictures; they aren’t very nice ones, but they’re
cheerful. They’re the kind of pictures that tell a story, and winter
evenings we make up stories about them, and have cookies for prizes for
the best, and pa’s judge. And the furniture’s covered with rep, and
it’s faded some, but it’s good yet, and there are odd pieces around,
mostly rockers. And we’ve china vases on the mantelpiece, and a picture
of the Sacred Heart over it, and ma sits here when she gets to sit
down. You needn’t laugh at it all, Marcy. It isn’t handsome, like this
house, but we have more fun in it,” added Nellie, with a touchiness
most unlike her pleasant self, born of the homesickness she was trying
to drive off.
“I didn’t want to laugh, Nellie,” said Marcy gently. “I am afraid you
do have better times there, but we shall have good times here, too, by
and by. I have a plan, Nellie; I asked mamma, and she was willing. You
know I have lots of nice clothes, and now I can never wear them again.
Inez won’t take them because the girls would know they were mine, and
you can’t wear them here for the same reason, besides you’re taller
than I. I want to make a box and send them to Aunt Mary to fix for the
children this winter. You say Kitty, next to you, is just about my
height. She can take lots of the things, and my gymnasium dress will
make a lovely winter dress for the little one Lulie’s age.”
Nellie ran to Marcy and buried her face in the counterpane, trying
not to cry as she remembered how pretty and gay Marcy looked in that
gymnasium dress on the fatal day of the fall, and how they had seen her
lying at the foot of the stairs in its soft crimson folds, motionless,
and perhaps dead.
“O Marcy dear, you don’t know how much good they’ll do, for ma wrote
she couldn’t afford to get new things for the children this winter,
because it had cost so much for me to come here. But I’d give anything
in all the world if you could wear them,” she said.
“We mustn’t talk about that, you know,” said Marcy with a little
shiver. “Norah has been laying them out for you to look at, so if
you’ll go up she’ll show them to you, and you and she can pack the box
and send it right away, so they’ll have it by Thanksgiving.”
Nellie did not dare trust herself to speak; she kissed Marcy, and went
away without a word.
“There,” sighed Marcy after she had gone, “it feels a little like being
dead, but it’s nice, for I’m sure they’ll like them, and after this
I must get papa to send them presents every year, so Aunt Mary will
always have things for the children. Dear me, I don’t believe I ever
thought of any one before in my life.”
Inez was Marcy’s next visitor, and she came in with a most woe-begone
expression.
“What’s wrong, Inez?” Marcy demanded. “You never look like that except
you’re in a scrape.”
“Well, so I am, but I’m not going to bother you,” said Inez, with an
air of heroic self denial.
“Why, it won’t bother me. I like to hear anything to make me forget,
you know,” replied Marcy.
Inez did not need much urging.
“You see,” she explained, “Saturday will be my birthday, and I’d been
telling the girls I would ask them to luncheon, and take them to the
matinée, for mamma had said I could. Then when you got sick they all
said they supposed the party was off, and I said it wouldn’t make any
difference, for you weren’t going to be sick a little while--I mean, it
wouldn’t be any different by and by. Oh, no, I mean----”
“Yes, I know, Inez; please go on,” said Marcy.
“Well,” Inez resumed, somewhat embarrassed, “I’ve been telling them
we should have them just the same, and now mamma says it would be
perfectly heathenish to have a theatre party so soon after you were
hurt, and if I had any heart I should not want them, and I’m sure I
didn’t want them, only I hate to tell them they can’t come.”
“Is that all? I’ll fix that for you. Mamma’ll do anything I ask her to,
she’s so sorry for me, and I’ll tell her I want you to have the girls.
I couldn’t see them,” Marcy said, with a little shudder at the thought
of their curious and pitying eyes, “but I’d rather you would have your
birthday just as if I were well. Why, if I’m to be sick all my life I
must get used to your having good times without me, and what’s the use
of waiting? I’ll get mamma to let you have the girls, so that’s easily
set straight, Inez.”
Inez kissed her, quite unconscious of the pang this had cost her.
“It seems to me we were never sisters before, Marcy,” she said. “It’s
just as if there had been a sort of crust, and you had fallen through
and broken it all up.”
“Come,” said Marcy, smiling, “that’s one good thing, isn’t it? Maybe
some day I’ll be glad I fell.”
The room was growing dark, and Marcy was aroused from a nap by Bob
coming up-stairs, not two at a time, or tripping in his haste as usual,
but heavily and slowly.
“Bob, aren’t you going to speak to me?” Marcy called out.
Bob came in, sat on the edge of a chair, and kicked at the floor with
the toe of one boot, turned upright by a great effort.
“What’s the news?” asked Marcy.
“Nothing,” Bob replied gloomily.
“You don’t look jolly; won’t you tell me why?” Marcy persisted.
Bob looked up with a gleam of hope, which faded instantly.
“What’s the use?” he said.
“The use is I’d like to hear about almost anything, and so would you
if you had to lie here till you died,” said Marcy, skilfully using her
misfortune to obtain her desire, for no one in the family felt more
keenly than Bob the affliction that had befallen active Marcy.
“Well,” he said, softening, “I got into a scrape this afternoon.”
“Please tell me; I won’t tell,” Marcy begged.
“Well,” said Bob, “I was over on Sixth Avenue with some boys after
school, and we stopped in front of Old Bones’ shop. Old Bones is a
tailor, and we call him that because he’s so thin. We kind of threw
some pebbles around with our pea-shooters, and one--mine--went
through Old Bones’ window. We ran off, but Old Bones saw one of the
fellows--Nick Hale--and he says he’ll tell Mr. Hale and get Nick
licked. Now Nick says if I’ll give him fifty cents he’ll take the
licking, ’cause he don’t mind much; but if I don’t he’ll tell my father
that I really was the one who did it, and then I’ll be licked for sure,
and when father licks, he licks. I haven’t got a cent to buy Nick off,
and he’ll tell father this evening if I don’t.”
“Why, Bob Merrick, what a mean, sneaky thing, and you don’t even see
it’s mean!” cried Marcy, greatly excited.
“Yes, I do, but I can’t help it,” replied Bob. “What can a fellow do
when he hasn’t any money?”
“It’s not that, but you’d bribe Nick to take your punishment, and you’d
stand by and act a lie. Why, it’s as dishonorable and mean as it can
be.”
“I might have known you wouldn’t care!” said Bob sullenly.
“Yes, I do care, Bob dear, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give
you the fifty cents if you’ll take it round to the tailor shop and tell
the man that you broke the window, and not Nick Hale, and you came to
pay for it. I’d rather have all my skin taken off, if I were you, than
buy up such a cheating bargain as Nick made. But if you pay for the
window nobody can say a word to you, and be sure you tell Nick Hale
you’re not a liar nor a sneak.”
“You’re an awful good fellow, Marcy,” said Bob gratefully. “I’m glad I
told you. It _is_ kind of sneaky, now you speak of it----”
“It’s a lie,” interrupted Marcy.
“That’s so, but I hadn’t thought of it,” assented Bob. “If you’re sure
you don’t want your fifty cents, I’ll give it to Old Bones, and be
glad to be square.”
“I can’t use much money lying here,” said Marcy. “Hand me my purse
from the upper drawer. There,” she added, handing Bob the half dollar,
“the next time you’re in trouble tell me. Only, Bob, for mercy’s sake,
always be square and honest. You’d better be a cripple, like me, than a
sneak.”
Bob choked as he looked at her.
“I’m lots obliged, Marcy,” he said. “I wish you wouldn’t say _cripple_;
it makes me sick. I don’t want to be a sneak--honest. I never once
thought of it like that.”
“All right. Hurry up before the shop closes,” said Marcy. “Dear me,”
she said aloud as the door slammed, “it’s time I tried to get Bob away
from those boys.” And she sighed happily at this close of a day filled
with little acts for others, and with a new feeling of sisterly love
and care springing up in her heart.