Galusha the Magnificent Part 66

Martha took pity on her. "Well, all right, Primmie," she said. "Go, if you want to. I don't believe Jethro will care. And," with a shrug, "I don't know as another idiot, more or less, added to the rest of us, will make much difference."

Sat.u.r.day, the eventful day, or the day of the eventful evening, was fine and clear. At noon an unexpected event, the first of several, occurred; Zacheus, bringing the mail from the post office, brought a large and heavy letter addressed to Galusha Bangs, Esq., and stamped in the upper left-hand corner with the name of the National Inst.i.tute of Was.h.i.+ngton.

Galusha opened it in his room alone. It was the "plan," the long-ago announced and long-expected plan in all its details. An expedition was to be fitted out, more completely and more elaborately than any yet equipped by the Inst.i.tute, and was to go to the Nile basin for extended and careful research lasting two years at least. And he was offered the command of that expedition, to direct its labors and to be its scientific head. Whatever it accomplished, he would have accomplished; the rewards--the understanding grat.i.tude of his fellow archaeologists the world over would be his, and his alone.

He sat there in his room and read and reread the letter. The terms in which the offer had been made were gratifying in the extreme. The confidence in his ability and scientific knowledge were expressed without stint. But, and more than this, between the lines he could read the affection of his a.s.sociates there at the Inst.i.tute and their pride in him. His own affection and pride were touched. A letter like this and an offer and opportunity like these were wonderful. The pride he felt was a very humble pride. He was unworthy of such trust, but he was proud to know they believed him worthy.

He sat there, the many sheets of the letter between his fingers, looking out through the window at the brown, windswept hollows and little hills and the cold gray-green sea beyond. He saw none of these. What he did see was the long stretch of ridged sand, heaving to the horizon, the brilliant blue of the African sky, the line of camels trudging on, on.

He saw the dahabeah slowly making its way up the winding river, the flat banks on either side, the palm trees in silhouetted cl.u.s.ters against the sunset, the shattered cornice of the ruins he was to explore just coming into view. He saw and heard the shrieking, chattering laborers digging, half naked, amid the scattered blocks of sculptured stone and, before and beneath them, the upper edge of the doorway which they were uncovering, the door behind which he was to find--who knew what treasures.

"Mr. Bangs," called Martha from the foot of the stairs, "dinner's ready."

Galusha was far away, somewhere beyond the Libyan desert, but he heard the summons.

"Eh?" he exclaimed. "Oh, yes, yes, Miss Martha, I am coming."

As he descended the stairs, it occurred to him that the voices calling him to dinner across the sands or beneath the palms would be quite different from this one, they would be masculine and strange and without the pleasant, cheerful cordiality to which he had become accustomed.

Martha Phipps called one to a meal as if she really enjoyed having him there. There was a welcome in her tones, a homelike quality, a... yes, indeed, very much so.

At table he was unusually quiet. Martha asked him why he looked at her so queerly.

"Eh? Do I?" he exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I wasn't aware. I beg your pardon. I hope you're not offended."

She laughed. "Mercy me," she said, "I'm not offended so easily. And if your absent-mindedness could make me take offense, Mr. Bangs, we should have quarreled long ago. But I should like to know what you were thinkin' about. You sat there and stared at me and your face was as solemn as--as Luce's when it is gettin' past his dinner time. You looked as if you had lost your best friend."

He did not smile even then. Nor did he make any reply worth noting. As a matter of fact, he was awakening to the realization that if he accepted the call to Egypt--and accept he must, of course--he would in solemn truth lose his best friend. Or, if not lose her exactly, go away and leave her for so long that it amounted to a loss. He must leave this dining room, with its plants and old pictures and quaint homeliness, leave the little Phipps' cottage, leave its owner.... The dazzling visions of sands and sphinxes, of palms and pyramids, suddenly lost their dazzle. The excitement caused by the reading of the letter dulled and deadened. The conviction which had come upon him so often of late returned with redoubled vigor, the conviction that he had been happy where he was and would never be as happy anywhere else. Egypt, even beloved Egypt with all the new and wonderful opportunities it now offered him, did not appeal. The thought was alarming. When he did not want to go to Egypt there must be something the matter with him, something serious. What was it?

After dinner he told her of the offer which had been made him.

"Perhaps you would like to see the letter," he said. "It is a very kind one. Dear me, yes. Much kinder than I deserve."

She read the long letter through, read the details of the great plan from end to end. When the reading was finished she sat silent, the letter in her lap, and she did not look at him.

"They are very kind to me, aren't they?" he said, gravely. "Very kind and generous. The thought of it quite--ah--overwhelms me, really. Of course, I know what they say concerning my--ah--the value of my service is quite ridiculous, overstated and--and all that, but they do that thinking to please me, I suppose. I... Why--why, Miss Martha, you--you're not--"

She smiled, a rather misty smile. "No," she said, "I'm not. But I think I shall if you keep on talkin' in that way."

"But--but, Miss Martha, I'm so sorry. I a.s.sure you I did not mean to hurt your feelings. If I have said anything to distress you I'm VERY sorry. Dear me, dear me! What did I say? I--"

She motioned him to silence. "Hush, hus.h.!.+" she begged. "You didn't say anything, of course, except what you always say--that what you have done doesn't amount to anything and that you aren't of any consequence and--all that. You always say it, and you believe it, too. When I read this letter, Mr. Bangs, and found that THEY know what you really are, that they had found you out just as--as some of your other friends have, it--it--"

She paused. Galusha turned red. "I--I--" he stammered. "Oh, you mustn't talk so, Miss Martha. It's all nonsense, you know. Really it is."

She shook her head and smiled once more.

"All right," she argued. "Then we'll call it nonsense; but it's pretty glorious nonsense, seems to me. I do congratulate you, Mr. Bangs. And I congratulate the Inst.i.tute folks a great deal more. Now tell me some more about it, please. Where is this place they want you to go to?"

That afternoon Galusha spent in wandering about the countryside. He went as far from home as the old graveyard in South Wellmouth. He took a long walk and it should have been a pleasant one, but somehow it was not, particularly. All he could think of was the two facts--one, that he had been offered a wonderful opportunity, for which he should be eagerly and hugely grateful; two, that he was not grateful at all, but resentful and rebellious. And what on earth was the matter with him?

Martha was setting the supper table when he came in. He went to his room and when he came down supper was almost ready. Primmie was in the kitchen, busy with the cooking.

"We're having an early supper, Mr. Bangs," said Martha. "That everlastin' seance begins about half past seven, so Cap'n Jethro took pains to tell me, and he'll be crosser'n a hen out in a rainstorm if we're not on time."

Galusha looked surprised. He had forgotten the seance altogether. Yes, he had quite forgotten it. And, up to that noon, he had thought of very little else the entire week. What WAS the matter with him?

"Lulie is goin' to send Zach over to tell us when they're ready to set sail for Ghost Harbor," went on Martha. "That will save us watchin' the clock. What say?"

But he had not said anything and she went on arranging the dishes. After an interval she asked a question.

"How soon--that is, when will you have to leave us--leave here, Mr.

Bangs?" she asked. She was not looking at him when she asked it.

Galusha sighed. "In about two weeks, I--ah--suppose," he said.

"Oh!"

"Ah--yes."

There was another silent interval. Then Martha turned her head to listen.

"Wasn't that an automobile I heard then?" she asked. "Yes, it is. It can't be the Spiritualist crowd comin' so soon. No, it is stoppin' here, at our gate. Is it Doctor Powers, I wonder?"

She went to the window, pulled aside the shade and looked out.

"It is a big car," she said. "It isn't the doctor, that's sure. There's a man gettin' out, a big man in a fur coat. Who on earth--?"

Steps sounded without upon the walk, then there was a knock upon the side door, that of the dining room. Martha opened the door. A man's voice, a brisk, businesslike voice, asked a question.

"Why, yes," replied Miss Phipps, "he lives here. He's right here now.

Won't you step in?"

The man who had asked the question accepted the invitation and entered the dining room. He was a big, broad-shouldered man in a racc.o.o.n motor coat. He took off a cap which matched the coat and looked about the room. Then he saw Galusha.

"Why, h.e.l.lo, Loos.h.!.+" he said.

Galusha knew him, had recognized the voice before he saw its owner. His mouth opened, shut, and opened again. He was quite pale.

"Ah--ah--why, Cousin Gussie!" he stammered.

For the man in the fur coat standing there in Martha Phipps' dining room was the senior partner of Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot.

CHAPTER XIX

For perhaps thirty seconds after the exchange of greetings, the trio in the Phipps' dining room stood where they were, practically without moving. Mr. Cabot, of course, was smiling broadly, Miss Phipps was gazing in blank astonishment from one to the other of the two men, and Galusha Bangs was staring at his relative as Robinson Crusoe stared at the famous footprint, "like one thunderstruck."

It was Cabot who broke up the tableau. His smile became a hearty laugh.