"That man! You're mad if you think I'll--"
"And you are disinherited and penniless if you don't!" Randolph lowered his voice as he leaned forward. "I mean this, Henry. All your life I've given you everything you ever wanted. But if you don't toe the line now, and see this thing to the bloody end, I shall remove you from the board of Stratford Shipping. I shall terminate your salary and your personal income. Now you will be on that ship. And you will keep an eye on your cousin and see she doesn't elope with that revoltingly handsome Egyptian! And you will keep me posted as to everything that is going on."
Randolph removed a slim white envelope from his breast pocket. He laid it on the bedside table. There was a thick wad of money in the envelope. Henry could see that. His father rose to go.
"And don't wire me from Cairo that you're broke. Stay away from the gaming tables and the belly dancers. I shall expect a letter or a telegram within a week's time."
Hancock was beside himself.
"Left for Egypt!" he sputtered into the telephone. "But the whole collection is still there in that house! How could she do this!"
He motioned for silence to the clerk who meant to disturb him. Then he slammed down the black receiver in its hook.
"Sir, the newspapermen are here again, about the mummy."
"Oh, damn the mummy. That woman's gone off and left that treasure locked up in her living room, as if it were a collection of dolls!"
Elliott stood beside Julie and Ramsey watching from the high railing as Alex kissed his mother at the foot of the gangplank far below.
"But I'm not here to cluck over you like a mother hen," Elliott said to Julie. Alex embraced his mother again and then hurried to board. "I only want to be close at hand if you need me. Please don't be so distressed."
Lord, he meant it. It hurt him to see the look on her face.
"But Henry, why on earth has Henry come along? I don't want Henry with us."
Henry had boarded only moments before without a civil word to anyone, looking as pale and overwrought and generally miserable as he had looked the day before.
"Yes, I know." Elliott sighed. "But my dear, he's your next of kin and--"
"Give me space to breathe, Elliott. You know I love Alex, I always have. But a marriage to me may not be the best thing for him. And I've been perfectly honest about it all along."
"I know, Julie, believe me, I know. I always have. But your friend--" He gestured to the distant figure of Ramsey, who was watching all the goings-on of the harbour with obvious excitement. "How are we not to worry? What are we to do?"
She could not resist him. That had always been the case. One night several months back, when she'd had too much champagne and there'd been entirely too much dancing, she'd told Elliott she was more in love with him than she'd been with Alex. If he'd been free and asking for her hand, it would have been a fait accompli. Of course Alex had thought she was joking. But there had been a strange secret look in her eye that flattered Elliott immensely. And he saw a pale flicker of that same look now. And what a liar he was. What a liar he was being just now.
"All right, Elliott," she said. She kissed him on the cheek, and he loved it. "I don't want to hurt Alex," she whispered.
"Yes, darling," he said. "Of course."
There was a violent blast from the steam whistle. The last call for boarding passengers. Parties had broken up in the staterooms, and a steady stream of guests was going ashore.
Suddenly Ramsey came pounding towards them. He spun Julie around as if he didn't realize his own strength. She stared blankly.
"Feel it, Julie, the vibrations. I must see these engines."
Her face softened at once. It was as if his excitement were contagious.
"Of course you must. Elliott, excuse me. I have to take Ramse ... I mean Mr. Ramsey ... to the engine room, if it can possibly be arranged."
"Allow me," Elliott said agreeably, motioning for a young officer in a crisp white uniform who had just come out on deck.
Alex was unpacking already when Elliott entered the little drawing room between their staterooms. Two steamer trunks stood open. Walter moved to and fro with armfuls of clothes.
"Well, this is pleasant, isn't it?" Elliott said, surveying the little couch and chairs, the tiny portal. There had not been much time to arrange for proper accommodations, but Edith had stepped in finally and seen to everything herself.
"You look tired, Father. Let me order you some tea."
The Earl eased himself into the little gilded fauteuil. Tea did sound rather nice. What was that fragrance? Were there flowers in this room? He saw none. Only the champagne in its glistening ice bucket and the glasses ready on the silver tray.
Then he remembered. The morning glory he had crushed into his pocket. It was still giving off a latent perfume.
"Yes, tea would be fine, Alex, but there's no hurry," he murmured. Reaching into his pocket, he found the mangled little blossom and drew it out and lifted it to his nose.
A very pretty scent indeed. And then he thought of that conservatory, overgrown fantastically with leaves and blossoms. He looked at the morning glory. As he watched, it straightened, the creases in its waxy petals disappearing. It opened completely and within seconds had become again a perfect bloom.
Alex was talking, but Elliott did not hear him. He merely looked stupidly at the flower. Then he crushed it again, tightly in the palm of his hand.
Slowly he looked up to see that Alex was just putting down the telephone.
"Tea in fifteen minutes," Alex said. "What's the matter, Father? Father, you're white as a--"
"Nothing. No. It's nothing. I want to rest now. Call me when the tea comes."
He stood up, the flower clenched still in his fist.
When he had shut the door of his stateroom, he leaned against it, the sweat flooding down his back. He opened his hand. Again the blossom sprang back from a crushed and broken thing into a perfect flower, the blue-and-white petals lengthening before his eyes.
For an endless time, it seemed, he stared at it. The tiny bit of green leaf at its base curled as he watched. Then he realized he was looking at himself in the mirror. The grey-haired, partially crippled Earl of Rutherford, handsome still at fifty-five, though every step he took was an agony. He let go his walking stick, ignoring it as it fell, and with his left hand felt of his grey hair.
He could hear Alex calling him. The tea had already come. Carefully he took out his wallet. He crushed the flower again and slipped it into the leather folds. Then he bent over very slowly and picked up his cane.
In a daze, it seemed, he stared at his son, who poured the tea for him.
"You know, Father," Alex said, "I'm beginning to think it's going to work out after all. I've had a good look at Ramsey. He's quite a handsome fellow, but he's too old for her, don't you think?"
Oh, but this was too much fun, this great floating iron palace with little shops on board, and a great banquet room and a dance floor where musicians would later play!
And his quarters, why, never as a King had he had such splendid quarters aboard a seagoing vessel. He was laughing almost foolishly as the stewards finished unpacking the very last of Lawrence Stratford's clothes.
Samir closed the door after they'd gone, then turned and drew out a great deal of paper money from his coat.
"This will take care of your wants for a long time, sire, only you must not show it all at one time."
"Yes, my loyal one. That was the common wisdom when I'd slip out of the palace as a boy." He gave another exuberant laugh. He couldn't help himself. The ship even contained a library and a small cinema; and then all the marvels below deck. And the gentle, elegant members of the crew--all of whom had the manners of gentlemen--had told him he might move about as he wished.
"Your coin was worth a great deal more, sire, but I had little room to bargain."
"As they say in this day and age, Samir, don't give it another thought. And you are correct in your estimation of Lord Rutherford. He
believes. In fact, I should say he knows."
"But it's Henry Stratford that presents the danger. Would a fall from the deck on the high seas be justice?"
"Not wise. It would destroy Julie's peace of mind. The more I learn of this age, the more I understand its complexities, its highly developed concepts of justice. They are Roman, but they are something more. We shall keep an eye on the progress of Mr. Henry Stratford. When his presence becomes more of a trial to his cousin, then perhaps his death will be the better of two evils, and you need not worry about that part of it. I shall do it alone."
"Yes, sire. But if for any reason you do not want this task, I shall be more than happy to kill this man myself."
Ramses laughed softly. How he liked this one; so shrewd, yet honest; patient, yet keenly clever as well.
"Maybe we should kill him together, Samir," he said. "But whatever the case I am ravenous. When do we take this great meal together on the pink tablecloths amid the great potted palms?"
"All too soon, sire, and please be ... careful."
"Samir, do not worry," Ramses said. He took Samir's hand. "I have my instructions already from Queen Julie. I am to eat only one item of fish, one item of fowl, one item of meat, and not all at the same time."
It was Samir's turn to laugh softly.
"Are you unhappy still?" Ramses asked.
"No, sire. I am very happy. Don't ever be disappointed in my sombre expression. I have seen more in my life, as of this moment, than I ever dreamed I would see. When Henry Stratford is dead, I shall ask for nothing more."
Ramses nodded. His secret was safe forever with this one, he knew it, though he could not fully understand this quality of wisdom and resignation. He had never known it when he was mortal. He didn't know it now.
T WAS a sumptuous first-class dining room, crowded already with gentlemen in white tie and tails and ladies in low-cut dresses. When Julie came in and took her chair, Alex rose to assist her. Henry and Elliott, already seated opposite, also rose, and though Julie nodded to Elliott, she found herself incapable of looking at her cousin.
She turned to Alex, and placed her hand on his. Unfortunately she could not help overhearing Henry continuing to talk angrily in Elliott's ear. Something about Alex being a fool that he could not have stopped Julie from taking this trip.
Alex, staring down at the plate before him, seemed somewhat at a loss. Was this the time or place for truth? She felt she must be honest from the beginning, or matters would only become worse for Alex, and she must see that they did not.
"Alex," she said in a low voice, "I may stay in Egypt. I don't know what my plans are. You know sometimes, my darling, I think you need someone as good as you are."
He wasn't surprised by her words. He thought for only a moment before answering. "But how could I want anyone better than you? I'll follow you into the jungles of the Sudan if that's where you want to go."
"You don't know what you're saying."
He bent forward, his voice dropping to the most intimate whisper. "I love you, Julie. Everything else in my life I take for granted. But not you. And you're more precious to me than all the rest put together. Julie, I mean to fight for you, if that's what must be done."
What could she possibly say to him that would not wound him? He looked up suddenly. Ramses and Samir were here.
For a moment, she was speechless. Ramses was a vision in her father's white boiled shirt and beautifully cut tailcoat. As he took his seat, his every gesture seemed more graceful and more decorous than those of the Englishmen around him. He veritably glistened with vigour and well-being. The smile he flashed was like a light.
Then something happened. He stared at Julie's bare shoulders, at the plunging neck of her gown. He stared in particular at the tiny shadow between her half-naked breasts. And Alex stared at Ramses in polite outrage. And Samir, taking a seat to the left of the Earl, was obviously already alarmed.
She must do something. Still staring at her, as if he'd never laid eyes on a woman before, Ramses took the chair on her left.
Quickly, she opened his napkin for him, whispering:
"Here, in your lap. And stop staring at me. It's a ball gown, quite proper!" She turned at once to Samir opposite. "Samir, I'm so glad you could make this journey with us."
"Yes, and here we are," Elliott said immediately, filling the silence. "All having dinner together exactly as I'd planned. Isn't that marvellous! Seems I got my way after all."
"So you did." Julie laughed. She was relieved suddenly that Elliott was there. He would smooth over one awkward moment after another; he did it instinctively. In fact, he probably couldn't stop himself. It was this buoyant charm among other things which kept him perpetually in demand.
She dared not look directly at Henry, but she could see he was hopelessly uneasy. He was already drinking. His glass was half full.
The waiters brought the sherry now, and the soup. Ramses had already reached for the bread. He had torn off a very large piece from the small loaf and eaten it whole.
"And tell me, Mr. Ramsey," Elliott continued, "how did you enjoy your stay in London? You weren't with us very long."
Why the hell was Ramses smiling?
"I found it an overwhelming place," he said with immediate enthusiasm. "A curious blending of fierce wealth and inexplicable poverty. I do not understand how so many machines can produce so much for so few, and so little for so many...."
"Sir, you're questioning the entire Industrial Revolution," Alex said, laughing nervously, which for him was most certainly a symptom of ill ease. "Don't tell me you're a Marxist. It's rather seldom that we encounter radicals in our ... our circle."
"What is a Marxist! I am an Egyptian," Ramses said.
"Of course you are, Mr. Ramsey," said Elliott smoothly. "And you're no Marxist. How perfectly ridiculous. You knew our Lawrence in Cairo?"
"Our Lawrence. Briefly I knew him." Ramses was staring at Henry. Julie quickly lifted her soup spoon and, giving him a gentle nudge with her elbow, demonstrated how the soup was to be eaten. He didn't so much as glance at her. He picked up his bread, dipped it in the soup and began eating it, glaring at Henry again.
"Lawrence's death came as a shock to me, as I'm sure it did to everyone," he said, dipping another enormous piece of bread. "A Marxist is a type of philosopher? I do remember a Karl Marx. I discovered this person in Lawrence's library. A fool."
Henry had not touched his soup. He drank another deep gulp of his Scotch and motioned for the waiter.
"It's unimportant," Julie said quickly.
"Yes, Lawrence's death was a terrible shock," Elliott said soberly. "I was sure he had another good ten years. Maybe twenty."
Ramses was dipping yet another enormous piece of the bread into the soup. And Henry was now staring at him with veiled horror, careful to avoid his eyes. Everyone was more or less quietly watching Ramses, who wiped up the very last of the soup now with another chunk of bread, and then downed the sherry, and wiped his lips with the napkin and sat back.
"More food," he whispered. "It's coming?"
"Yes, it is, but slow down," Julie whispered.
"You were a true friend of Lawrence?" Ramses said to Elliott.
"Absolutely," said Elliott.
"Yes, well, if he were here, he'd be talking about his beloved mummy," said Alex with that same nervous laugh. "As a matter of fact, why are you taking this trip, Julie? Why go back to Egypt when the mummy lies there in London waiting for examination? You know, I don't really understand...."
"The collection's opened several avenues of research," Julie said. "We want to go to Alexandria and then perhaps Cairo...."
"Yes, of course," Elliott said. He was clearly watching Ramses' reaction as the waiter set down the fish before him, a small portion in a delicate cream sauce. "Cleopatra," he went on, "your mysterious Ramses the Second claimed to have loved and lost her. And that happened in Alexandria, did it not?"
Julie had not seen this coming. Neither had Ramses, who h
ad laid down his bread and was staring at the Earl with a blank expression on his face. There came those dancing points of colour beneath the smooth skin of his cheeks.
"Well, yes, there is that aspect of it," Julie struggled. "And then we're going to Luxor, and to Abu Simbel. I hope you're all in fine form for an arduous journey. Of course if you don't want to continue ..."
"Abu Simbel," Alex said. "Isn't that where the colossal statues are of Ramses the Second?"
Ramses broke off half the fish with his fingers and ate it. Then he ate the second half. A curious smile had broken out on Elliott's face, but Ramses didn't see it. He was staring at Henry again. Julie was going to start screaming.
"Statues of Ramses the Great are everywhere, actually," Elliott said, watching Ramses mop up the sauce with the bread. "Ramses left more monuments to himself than any other Pharaoh."
"Ah, that's the one. I knew it," said Alex. "The egomaniac of Egyptian history. I remember now, from school."
"Egomaniac!" Ramses said with a grimace. "More bread!" he said to the waiter. Then to Alex: "What is an egomaniac? If you please?"
"Aspirin, Marxism, egomania," Elliott said. "These are all new ideas to you, Mr. Ramsey?"
Henry was becoming positively agitated. He had drunk the second glass of Scotch and now sat plastered to the back of his chair, merely staring at Ramses' hands as he ate.
"Oh, you know," Alex said blithely. "The fellow was a great braggart. He built monuments to himself all over the place. He bragged endlessly about his victories, his wives and his sons! So that's the mummy, and all this time I didn't realize."
"What in the world are you talking about!" Julie said suddenly.
"Is there any other Egyptian King in history who won so many victories," Ramses said heatedly, "and pleasured so many wives, and fathered so many sons? And surely you understand that in erecting so many statues, the Pharaoh was giving to his people exactly what they wanted."
"Now, that's a novel view!" Alex said sarcastically, laying down his knife and fork. "You don't mean the slaves enjoyed being flogged to death in the burning sun to build all those temples and colossal statues?"