“No. To prove it I will make you promise me something. I—I had a letter from Fritzy Nunky to-day.”
The lad’s face changed color. Then he asked:
“Well, what did he say?”
“He is in constant correspondence with the doctor; and that gentleman hopes to see you within a month.”
Octave’s voice, saying this, was very distinct and firm. It was what she had really come into the room to say, but after it was spoken she trembled.
Melville lay with his dark eyes fixed on hers as if he could scarcely credit his own ears. He was terrified, and yet glad; he depended upon her to stand by him, and yet he almost hated her for what she had done. All this Octave read with that keen intuition of hers, and if her face flushed a little her steadfast gaze did not cease to encourage him. “O Octave, have you really done it?”
“Really, Melville. The great doctor, the great healer, is surely coming.”
“I—I cannot bear it!” Melville hid his face in his hands and a shudder passed over his thin frame.
A feeling of contempt for his weakness rose in the girl’s breast, but was quickly stifled. She forced herself to think of all he had endured, and that he had never known the happiness of activity. She, herself, could bear anything, any amount of torture, to be restored to health, were she in his stead; but Melville had suffered so much! It was a sign that her own womanly nature was developing in the right direction that she did remember all this, and that her next words should have been as wise.
“You can bear it bravely. I know you are no coward. Besides, it will not be suffering to you, but success. Think, Melville; you said the other day that you wished for nothing so much as fame. Well, then, if you are true to yourself in this, all the world will talk of you with wonder and gratitude. Listen—this is my plan.” The girl pitched her voice too low for any possible overhearing; but what she said produced a marvellous effect upon her cousin.