The ways of cabmen are similar, the civilized world over; and it did
not confuse Octave as it would a less accustomed traveller to have a
number of these enterprising Jehus rush for her little hand-bag, as she
emerged from the great station, and stood for a moment looking about
her.
She had been half over Europe in company with her Uncle Fritz, who
never liked to journey anywhere alone, and who found the sturdy Octave
his least troublesome “pickle” whenever he was minded to refresh
himself with the presence of any of them. Besides, the girl had the
great gift of observation. If she had once seen a thing she never
forgot it; all its little details had impressed themselves upon her
memory with the distinctness of a photograph.
She had visited the great building where she had left the train but
once before, and that once when, in company with her guardian, she had
passed through it on her journey to Deer Hill. Yet so keenly had she
observed her surroundings, that she knew directly which way to turn for
a certain kind-faced policeman, whom she had seen befriend a little
girl while she was waiting for their outward-bound train.
Now, to look for a particular policeman in a great city like New York
would have seemed to an older person very much like looking for the
proverbial “needle in the hay-mow”; but to the adventurous and romantic
Octave it appeared the simplest thing in the world. So, with a feeling
of perfect security, she lightly moved away from the detaining cabbies,
rigidly holding to the little satchel which contained a hair-brush and
comb, and Melville’s well-filled pocket-book.
Ah! there he was, in almost the same place on the block where she had
last beheld him. And, with the confidence of an old acquaintance,
Octave walked straight to the officer and bade him a pleasant “Good
evening.”
“Good evening,” returned the gentleman in blue uniform, looking a
little surprised at the unusual salutation. He was accustomed to be
addressed as: “Say, look here! Where is, or what is, so and so?”
“I want to go to Prof. Edric von Holsneck’s. Which is the best way, and
will you get me a carriage?”
“Eh? What? I didn’t quite ‘catch on,’” was the reply.
Octave frowned. It was getting late, and she was anxious to get to her
destination before it grew too dark for her to observe what Uncle Fritz
called “her bearings.” She had a wild idea of taking a night-train back
to the mountain; but if she should find that unadvisable she would have
to look up a lodging place.
“I want to go to the house of Prof. von Holsneck,” said the girl,
repeating her first statement with the distinctness known at The
Snuggery as “Octave’s spunk.” “You certainly must know the residence of
a man so famous.”
“Well, I don’t then. I know who he is and what he is; but where he
lives I never took the trouble to find out. Why do you want to go
there? He is a big feller, too busy to be bothered.”
Octave tossed her head with a movement of scorn, which she considered
quite womanly. “I wish to see him on business. If--you don’t know
anything about him, how am I going to find my way?”
“Easy enough. Look in the Directory.”
“Where will I find the ‘Directory?’” asked the girl, tapping her foot
impatiently.
“In the drug store on the corner.”
Octave’s eyes followed the glance of the policeman, and, thanking him,
she made her way to the place and pursued her inquiries. Very speedily
she had possessed herself of all the needed information, and set out
to visit the great scientist. An older and a wiser person would have
hesitated long before intruding upon one so fully occupied as Prof,
von Holsneck; but the girl had but one idea in her mind, and believed
that the man she sought was the best one in the world to help her to
her object. Why, then, should she not go to him? To her it appeared the
most natural way, when one was in need, to apply at head-quarters for
the assistance required; and she knew very well that in neither Europe
nor America was there any one who could approach the professor in his
special branch of knowledge.
But, simple as the affair appeared to her, it did not apparently strike
others in just the same light. The trim and prim lackey who opened the
door of the great mansion to the plainly dressed girl stared at her in
a most disconcerting way.
The professor was at home; but the professor was engaged in dining.
The professor was not to be interrupted on any pretext whatever, when
he was at table. Would she leave her card? This last inquiry with a
supercilious sneer which, if anything had been needed to put Octave “on
her mettle” would certainly have accomplished it.
“My card will be of no use, in this case. My business is personal; and
I will come in and await the professor’s leisure.” She coolly moved
forward into the vestibule, and, much as he would have liked to do so,
the servant did not dare refuse her entrance. Nor was he wholly to be
blamed for this reluctance. He knew, if she did not, that his master’s
hours of recreation were few, and of labor many; and that each had a
distinct and weighty money value. The lackey’s business was to serve
and save his employer, and in his eyes there seemed nothing which a
chit of a girl, arriving in a cheap railway hack, could possibly want
with the great man except to beg for something or other.
“Shall I wait here?” asked Octave, as the man allowed her to stand just
within the entrance and made no effort to give her a seat.
“If you will tell me your business, I will see if you can have an
audience; that is, when the professor has finished dining,” replied the
servant, loftily.
“It would be impossible for you to understand my business,” replied the
visitor with a hauteur fully equalling Jeems’s own. And, as he stared
at her afresh nor made any motion toward serving her, she walked into
the first room she saw open, and quietly sat down to await developments.
“Well, I like this!” exclaimed the quick-tempered girl; “I wonder what
Fritzy Nunky would say!”
[Illustration: ONE PAINTING ESPECIALLY CAPTIVATED HER ATTENTION. Page
175.]
Then she began to look about her, and soon forgot the awkwardness
of her situation, the lateness of the hour, and all the other
disagreeable things which she should have remembered. The walls of the
reception room were lined with pictures, and there was nothing which
had so intense a fascination for Octave as a beautiful picture. She
knew at a glance that these were such; though she could not have told
why, save that they reminded her of those she had delighted in among
the great galleries abroad, where she had so often gone with her Uncle
Fritz.
One painting especially captivated her attention. It was an “Interior”
of a German peasant home. In her childhood Octave had seen dozens just
such homes, and in one of them she had passed some of the merriest days
she could remember.
“Oh! I do believe that was painted for a portrait of dear old Hans
Schwartz! And that is Gretchen with the baby--it really, really is! Oh,
who could have done that, and how did it come here? Good evening, Hans;
hast thou the white cow already milked? And may I have some of the
foaming liquid for supper? Gretchen’s brown bread would taste so good
this very minute. Give it, Gretchen, and I’ll nurse the baby for you.”
She had thought herself entirely alone when she entered the apartment,
and she had forgotten everything else but delight at finding here a
real--she was certain it was a real--portrait of some of her oldest
friends. So thinking, she had not feared to talk aloud to them; and she
was recalled to herself by the sharp surprise of hearing a voice close
to her elbow.
“You seem to be impressed with that picture.”
Octave wheeled around, too unconscious of herself to be abashed.
“Oh, but I have been in that very kitchen--I surely have, and drank my
milk out of one of those very earthen bowls! I don’t know who painted
it, or how in the world it came here and I came to see it, but that is
Hans Schwartz’s cottage at Erding, where we children have passed three
summers and had such fun.” Octave paused in her eagerness, recalled to
the time and place by the striking of a clock somewhere near.
The clear radiance of shaded electric lights suffused the apartment,
which the girl now observed was simply but elegantly arranged. For
the first time a feeling of timidity stole over her, and a sense that
she had intruded arose to trouble her. It might be that she had made
a mistake; if so, the only thing left for her to do was to get away
as quickly as she could. She looked into the face of the old man who
had spoken to her, and noticed with satisfaction that he was as simply
attired and as every-day-like in his appearance as herself.
“Can you tell me, sir, if it would be possible for me to have a few
minutes’ conversation with the gentleman who owns this house,--the
great professor of chemistry, and--lots of other things?”
The old man smiled. “On what subject, my child?” He did not disconcert
her as the liveried servant had done, and, if he was surprised to
see her occupying the great man’s gallery, and enjoying his pictures
without leave or license, he was too kindly to say so.
“This dear old fellow is somebody’s grandfather,” thought Octave,
reminded by his gentleness of Grandmother Amy; “I wonder if he is a
sort of upper servant; he looks as if he felt at home.” Aloud she
said:--
“I had rather not try to explain it to any one except the professor, or
to some one he will recommend, if he is too busy to see me. It is about
a discovery that a boy made. I don’t understand it myself, but the boy
wrote it all down on paper, and I have seen it act. I do hope he will
see me, for I believe he would be interested, if he heard the whole
story.”
At that moment, Octave’s suspicion that her companion was “somebody’s
grandfather” was confirmed. A merry little child ran into the room,
and with a scream of delight that she had escaped her nurse’s hands,
bounded upon the old man’s knee. “O grandpa! don’t let her take me to
bed, will you? I haven’t played you were a bear for three days!”
“Three days, is it, sweetheart? That is long indeed, for little people
to remember. Maybe I will play bear, soon; just now I am busy. Go and
tell the good _bonne_ that I wish you to stay up one half-hour longer;
then you may come and sit upon my lap, and hear me talk with this young
girl.”
The child ran swiftly away, singing something in French; and thereby
puzzling poor Octave’s brain still more. A baby of three, possibly
four, years old, who talked in excellent English and sang carols in
French, was astonishing enough; but not so greatly such as to be met
at the entrance by pomposity in livery and find the interior, if far
richer, as unpretentious as the living room at The Snuggery.
Her puzzle was destined to increase. “Now, my dear, if you will show
me the papers, and tell me what you wish, I shall be happy to serve
you,” said the old man, stroking his white beard and looking into her
astonished eyes with the most encouraging of smiles.
“You--you? Are you Prof. Edric von Holsneck?” faltered Octave.
“Yes. It was he you came to see?”
“Yes, si-ir; but--but I--perhaps I had better go away. I didn’t think
so at first, but now it seems like presumption for me to talk to--to
you.” Try as she would, the girl could not reconcile the real professor
with her preconceived notion of him. She had fancied a tall, stern,
spectacled person, in a laboratory, and with learning fairly oozing
from his gaunt person. But this man, he might have been--anybody!
“There is no presumption in any honest person’s talking to any other.
Evidently you thought you had something worth saying or you would not
have taken the trouble to come and try to say it. I shall be glad to
hear or read the matter you have in hand.” His manner, rather than his
words, said also that he would be glad to do so at once, for wasted
moments were a thing unknown in his day’s calendar.
Octave became herself again on the instant. All her timidity vanished,
and with the simple directness of manner which some found so charming
because it was so wholly natural and unconscious of self, she told
him Melville’s story. The little grandchild came in, and, evidently
accustomed to be quiet when her grandfather so desired, nestled herself
in his arms and lay there still, with her eyes fixed upon Octave’s
face, and apparently listening closely to every word she uttered.
“The papers,” said Prof. von Holsneck, when she had related with lucid
brevity all that had led up to Melville’s discovery. His eyes had
gained in brightness and his whole manner had lost the look of age and
fatigue it had worn when Octave first beheld him. Knowledge was to this
man what a draught of wine is to some others.
Swiftly Octave opened the closely guarded pocket-book, and gave the
professor some simple lines of writing, with odd looking formulæ. To
her, they were less intelligible than Greek; but to the gentleman
they were a familiar language. Their meaning, also, appeared to have
startled and delighted him; for he suddenly laid down the sheets of
paper and looked at Octave searchingly. “Do you tell me that this was
prepared by a boy of fourteen years? An invalid, and alone?”
“I do. He has had good instruction until within the last six months,
when the professor who used to live on Deer Hill Mountain removed to
the South. My cousin Melville cares for nothing so much as study, and
he has had no chance to do anything else. I don’t know much about boys,
but it seems to me he is awfully clever, is he not?”
“He is more. He is a genius.”
“And is the ‘stuff,’ good for anything?”
“Time will prove, and some exhaustive experiments. It interests me. I
will look into it. If you will give me your address, I will write to
him.” Octave drew out her card, but, as she was about to hand it to her
host, he said, “How did you come here? With friends?”
“I came alone, sir.”
“Alone! Where shall you spend the night?”
“I--hoped to get through in time to go home, but I fear it is too
late. Will you be good enough to tell me some hotel that is nearer
the station than the _Metropole_? I want to get back as early in the
morning as I can.”
“Do you know the _Hotel Metropole_?”
“Yes, sir; we stopped there for a week when we came to America with
Uncle Fritz. But it is a long way down, I think.”
The great man looked at the girl who was but a child, but who seemed so
little dismayed at hunting up a lodging place in a great city alone,
and after dark. There was nothing bold in her manner, if there was
perfect fearlessness--the fearlessness of innocent ignorance. Then his
eyes fell down upon the little grandchild in his arms. “My dear young
lady, you are too young to have done this thing alone, and I cannot let
you go away to-night. You must remain with us.”
“Oh! sir, I did not dream of making myself such a trouble to you. I
came only to find out for poor Melville if there was anything in his
idea, and I knew nobody could tell me as well as you. I couldn’t bear
to have him bothered by people who did not know exactly; it will be
such a glorious thing for him if he is right, and he couldn’t bear
suspense.”
The girl’s flattering candor was pleasant to the learned man, for there
is no one so wise but that he likes appreciation; besides, the frank
face pleased him in other ways, and he was minded to hear the history
of the cottage she had recognized by its portrait on his walls.
He touched a button, and the servant who had treated Octave with so
much contempt appeared. “Send away this young lady’s cab. She will pass
the night here.”
Octave held out her purse, but the professor waived it aside. “You
are my guest. If I mistake not, the most notable I have entertained
for many a day.” The girl understood that he referred to Melville’s
possible discovery, for the same eager light had come into the bright
eyes of the scientist, and she felt no undue elation at his words.
She, the messenger, was nothing to him but a messenger; and, with a
funny little grimace at herself, she reflected that even in this most
important transaction of her young life she was still “only Octave.”
“Why are you smiling, girl?” asked the grandchild, slipping her hand
confidingly into the young visitor’s.
“At foolish thoughts, my dear.”
The professor roused himself. “Have you had your dinner, Miss--”
“Octave Pickel. No, sir; but that is of no consequence.”
“It should be of the highest consequence to a growing girl. Run, little
one, and ask grandmother to have supper prepared for our guest. And
Pickel, you said? The name commends itself to me. I am indebted to
those of that name for many great kindnesses. It may not be the same
family; yet you recognized the Erding cottage. Did you ever live at
Munich?”
“It is my home,” responded Octave, eagerly.
“The great publishing house of ‘Pickel & Pickel’--do you know that,
too?”
“Do I not? Since I am part of the ‘& Pickel.’ The head of the house is
Fritz; and Franz, his brother, was my father.”
The professor held out his hands in cordial greeting. “Then, indeed,
you are in the house of friends. Now, while the supper is made ready,
tell me about the cottage the picture of which my son painted.”