“Well, don’t be disagreeable, Octave. It is splendid, and you can’t deny it.”
“Who wishes to? See here, my friend, you may be a hero now, as I remarked a few minutes since, but you are not yet an angel. You are still quite—Capersy!”
Melville laughed. “I do not pose either as a hero or an angel; it is yourself who gives me the attributes of such. I only aspire—”
“Bless the lad! Don’t begin to talk too booksy, just because you are a genius-philanthropist! But we did have a Mystery! Even Aunt Ruth will have to admit that; and we did keep it all to our two selves, with a few necessary others like Fritzy Nunky and the specialist and the scientist and the attendants, and—”
But the mutual-congratulation meeting was speedily broken up. Outside the house a strange uproar had arisen. Don brayed; Rosetta cried: “To goodness knows!” Fritzy set up a shout that could have been heard a long distance; Abraham gave the peculiar whistle that with him indicated intense and pleased surprise; doors slammed, even the well-trained doors of The Snuggery, which had missed Aunt Ruth’s frequent “oily feather”; feet sounded in a rush over the gravel walks. But none of these unwonted if joyful sounds could drown the cheery rumble of wheels, nor the “Hoa! halloa!” which only one hearty German throat could give.
“Fritzy Nunky! Fritzy Nunky!” shouted Octave, and started to run away.
Suddenly something stayed her speeding feet. Three months ago the something would have had no effect; but now she stopped, and going back to the bed-side sat down and laid her hand again on that of Melville.
Weak and shaken yet, by the ordeal he had so lately and so manfully passed through, he could not subdue the tremor which seized him at sound of the well-known voice. Unspeakable thoughts of pride and humility, affection and loneliness, stole through the invalid’s mind. After all his achievements, after all his endurance—he was still alone. Aunt Ruth had her mother, the Pickels had their beloved guardian, but he—had only a memory of a love which had never failed him, but which he had despised till it was lost. “Genius” and “philanthropist” others might call him; but at that moment of others’ reunion, Melville remembered only that he was a sick and orphaned lad.
Then he felt the touch of sympathy upon his hand, and brought round his eyes from the wall where he had turned them to Octave’s face.
“Why don’t you go and meet your uncle?” he asked, pettishly.