Part 8 (1/2)
”No, I won't.” Then he added, ”And not then unless I know WHY you ask for it, you can bet on that.”
Galusha was as grateful as if he had been granted a great favor. As they walked through the outer office together he endeavored to express his feelings.
”Thank you, thank you very much, Cousin Gussie,” he said, earnestly. His relative glanced about at the desks where rows of overjoyed clerks were trying to suppress delighted grins and pretend not to have heard.
”You're welcome, Loosh,” he said, as they parted at the door, ”but don't you ever dare call me 'Cousin Gussie' again in public as long as you live.”
Galusha Bangs returned to his beloved work at the National Inst.i.tute and his income was reinvested for him by the senior partner of Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot. Occasionally Galusha requested that a portion of it be sent him, usually for donation to this department or that or to a.s.sist in fitting out an expedition of his own, but, generally speaking, he was quite content with his modest salary. He unwrapped his mummies and deciphered his moldering papyri, living far more in ancient Egypt than in modern Was.h.i.+ngton. The Great War and its demands upon the youth of the world left the Inst.i.tute short-handed and he labored harder than ever, doing the work of two a.s.sistants as well as his own. It was the only thing he could do for his country, the only thing that country would permit him to do, but he tried to do that well. Then the Hindenburg line was broken, the armistice was signed and the civilized world rejoiced.
But Galusha Bangs did not rejoice, for his health had broken, like the enemy's resistance, and the doctors told him that he was to go away at once.
”You must leave all this,” commanded the doctor; ”forget it. You must get away, get out of doors and stay out.”
For a moment Galusha was downcast. Then he brightened.
”There is an expedition from the New York museum about to start for Syria,” he said. ”I am quite sure I would be permitted to accompany it.
I'll write at once and--”
”Here, here! Wait! You'll do nothing of the sort. I said forget that sort of thing. You can't go wandering off to dig in the desert; you might as well stay in this place and dig here. Get away from it all. Go where there are people.”
”But, Doctor Raymond, there are people in Syria, a great many of them, and most interesting people. I have--”
”No. You are to forget Syria and Egypt and your work altogether. Keep out of doors, meet people, exercise--play golf, perhaps. The main trouble with you just now is nerve weariness and lack of strength. Eat, sleep, rest, build up. Eat regular meals at regular times. Go to bed at a regular hour. I would suggest your going to some resort, either in the mountains or at the seash.o.r.e. Enjoy yourself.”
”But, doctor, I DON'T enjoy myself at such places. I am quite wretched.
Really I am.”
”Look here, you must do precisely as I tell you. Your lungs are quite all right at present, but, as you know, they have a tendency to become all wrong with very little provocation. I tell you to go away at once, at once. And STAY away, for a year at least. If you don't, my friend, you are going to die. Is that plain?”
It was plain, certainly. Galusha took off his spectacles and rubbed them, absently.
”Dear me!... Dear me!--ah--Oh, dear!” he observed.
A resort? Galusha knew precious little about resorts; they were places he had hitherto tried to avoid. He asked his stenographer to name a resort where one would be likely to meet--ah--a good many people and find--ah--air and--ah--that sort of thing. The stenographer suggested Atlantic City. She had no idea why he asked the question.
Galusha went to Atlantic City. Atlantic City in August! Two days of crowds and noise were sufficient. A crumpled, perspiring wreck, he boarded the train bound for the mountains. The White Mountains were his destination. He had never visited them, but he knew them by reputation.
The White Mountains were not so bad. The crowds at the hotels were not pleasant, but one could get away into the woods and walk, and there was an occasional old cemetery to be visited. But as the fall season drew on the crowds grew greater. People persisted in talking to Galusha when he did not care to be talked to. They asked questions. And one had to dress--or most DID dress--for dinner. He tired of the mountains; there were too many people there, they made him feel ”queerer” than ever.
On his way from Atlantic City to the mountains he happened upon the discarded magazine with the advertis.e.m.e.nt of the Restabit Inn in it.
Just why he had torn out that ”ad” and kept it he was himself, perhaps, not quite sure. The ”rest” and ”sea air” and ”pleasant people” were exactly what the doctor had prescribed for him, but that was not the whole reason for the advertis.e.m.e.nt's retention. An a.s.sociation of ideas was the real reason. Just before he found the magazine he had received Mrs. Hall's postcard with its renewal of the invitation to visit the Hall cottage at Wellmouth. And the Restabit Inn was at East Wellmouth.
His determination to accept the Hall invitation and make the visit was as sudden as it was belated. The postcard came in August, but it was not until October that Galusha made up his mind. His decision was brought to a focus by the help of Mrs. Worth Buckley. Mrs. Buckley's help had not been solicited, but was volunteered, and, as a matter of fact, its effect was the reverse of that which the lady intended. Nevertheless, had it not been for Mrs. Buckley it is doubtful if Galusha would have started for Wellmouth.
She came upon him first one brilliant afternoon when he was sitting upon a rock, resting his weary legs--they wearied so easily nowadays--and looking off at the mountain-side ablaze with autumn coloring. She was large and commanding, and she spoke with a manner, a very decided manner. She asked him if--he would pardon her for asking, wouldn't he?--but had she, by any chance, the honor of addressing Doctor Bangs, the Egyptologist. Oh, really? How very wonderful! She was quite certain that it was he. She had heard him deliver a series of lectures--oh, the most WONDERFUL things, they were, really--at the museum some years before. She had been introduced to him at that time, but he had forgotten her, of course. Quite natural that he should. ”You meet so many people, Doctor Bangs--or should I say 'Professor'?”
He hoped she would say neither. He had an odd prejudice of his own against t.i.tles, and to be called ”Mister” Bangs was the short road to his favor. He tried to tell this woman so, but it was of no use. In a little while he found it quite as useless to attempt telling her anything. The simplest way, apparently, was silently and patiently to endure while she talked--and talked--and talked.
Memories of her monologues, if they could have been taken in shorthand from Galusha's mind, would have been merely a succession of ”I” and ”I” and ”I” and ”Oh, do you really think so, Doctor Bangs?” and ”Oh, Professor!” and ”wonderful” and ”amazing” and ”quite thrilling” and much more of the same.