The Ape Who Guards the Balance (39 page)

“Thank God for that,” said my husband piously. His eyes followed me as I went round the room extinguishing the lamps. “It’s going to be up to you, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Evelyn relies on your judgment, and you have Walter firmly under your thumb, along with the rest of us. If you supported the young people . . .”

“Impossible, Emerson.”

“Is it? I wonder, Amelia, if you yourself know why you are so intransigent.”

I had put out all the lamps but one. Shadows crept into the room. I went to Emerson. He drew me into his arms and I laid my aching head on his breast. It had been an unpleasant scene.

“You’ll have to come to grips with it sooner or later, my dear,” Emerson said gently. “I cannot help you this time. Confound it, I could have done without this! Life is complicated enough, with a maniacal killer on the loose and Davis wrecking that damned tomb!”

  
(xvii)
    
From Manuscript H

Holding him firmly by the hand, Nefret led the way to David’s room. Ramses was still dazed. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with his own selfish feelings, he might have noticed certain things: the way Lia had clung to David the day she arrived, the look on David’s face as he held her; Nefret’s efforts to give them some time alone; even the girl’s deference toward Abdullah, like that of an expectant bride trying to ingratiate herself with her future father-in-law. No wonder she had trusted so unhesitatingly in Daoud! He had underestimated the child. There wasn’t a scrap of false pride in her, and he honored her for it.

His mother hadn’t noticed anything either. He found that amusing. She prided herself on her perception in romantic matters. Well, this wasn’t the only one she had missed.

David’s gloomy face brightened when he saw who it was. “What happened?” he asked.

“Just about what you might have expected,” Nefret said. “Damn, I should have brought the whiskey.”

“I don’t need it, dear,” David said with an affectionate smile.

“I do.” Nefret dropped onto the bed and kicked off her shoes. “Give me a cigarette, Ramses, I need something to quiet my nerves. I’m still furious. Why are they acting this way?”

“You don’t understand,” David said bitterly. “It’s one thing to take a stray dog off the street and train him to sit and fetch and carry, and boast of his accomplishments; but he’s still a dog, isn’t he?” He hid his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“
You
don’t understand,” Ramses said. He couldn’t have explained why he was moved to defend his mother; he had criticized her himself, to her face. His mother was wrong and Nefret was right, but . . . He went on, “I expect Mother is feeling rather wretched just now. She’s come smack up against prejudices she never knew existed because they were buried so deep. The same is true of Uncle Walter and Aunt Evelyn. That sense of superiority isn’t so much taught as taken for granted; it would require an earthquake to shake feelings that are the very foundation of their class and nationality. It isn’t easy for them.”

“Harder for David,” Nefret snapped.

“At least he has the satisfaction of knowing that he’s in the right and they are not,” Ramses said. “Don’t be so self-righteous, Nefret. Have you forgot that the people of your Nubian oasis treated their servant class like animals—referring to them as ‘rats,’ depriving them of the most basic necessities? Prejudice of one sort or another seems to be a universal human weakness. Few individuals are completely free of it, including the ones who pride themselves on being open-minded.”

“The Professor isn’t like that.”

“Father despises people quite impartially and without prejudice,” Ramses said.

Even David smiled at that, but he shook his head. “He is different, Ramses. And so are you.”

“I hope so. How did I fail you, David, that you were unable to tell me?”

“You have never failed me, my brother,” David muttered. “I tried—I wanted to—but . . .”

“But you feared I would think you unworthy of my cousin? For the love of God, David, you ought to know me better than that!”

“I didn’t! I do! I . . . Damn it, Ramses, don’t make me feel more of a worm than I already feel. It was what you said one night, about taking advantage of a girl—expecting her to keep her promise even if she stopped caring for you—”

“Have a cigarette,” Ramses said.

“Oh. Uh . . . Thank you.”

“You two certainly have interesting conversations when I’m not around,” Nefret remarked. “Which one of your numerous conquests were you talking about, Ramses?”

“None of your business.”

She laughed, as he had expected, and he turned away to light David’s cigarette, fearing his face would betray him. He had no right to feel so happy when his friend was miserable, but he couldn’t help it.

“Don’t feel put upon because David didn’t tell you,” Nefret said. “He didn’t confide in me either. It was Lia who told me. Poor little thing, she wanted a confidante so desperately. It’s hard to be madly in love and not be able to talk about it.”

“Is it?” Ramses said.

“So I’ve been told.” Nefret sat up, crossed her legs, and smoothed her skirt. “Now you understand why she was so determined to come on to Luxor. It wasn’t selfishness; she was worried sick about him.”

“And I’m worried about her,” David said soberly. “It’s just as well they are leaving tomorrow. If I never see her again—”

“Don’t lose heart, David, we’ll talk them round,” Nefret promised. She yawned like a sleepy kitten. “Goodness, what a day! I’m going to bed. Come along, Ramses, you’ve got circles under your eyes the size of teacups.”

“In a minute.”

“You aren’t angry with me, are you?” David asked, after she had gone, leaving the door pointedly open.

“No. But when I think of how often I whined at you—”

“Now we can take it in turn,” David said, with almost his old smile. “Do you remember one night—how long ago it seems!—the night you first told me how you felt about Nefret, and I said . . .”

“ ‘You make such a fuss about such a simple thing.’ ”

“Something like that. I wonder you didn’t knock me down. If it’s any consolation, I’ve paid dearly for that smug remark.”

Ramses extinguished his cigarette and got up. He put his hand on David’s shoulder and looked searchingly at him. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

“No.” David smiled faintly. “But I’m not going to behave like some ass of a Byronic hero. I have too much to be thankful for. And I won’t give up hope. I know I’m not worthy of her, but no one would cherish her more than I. If I can win Uncle Walter and Aunt Evelyn over—”

“Don’t worry about them. The only one who really counts is Mother.”

:

T
he ancient Egyptians had no word for “conscience,” but the heart, which was also the seat of the intelligence, was the witness for or against a man when he stood in the Hall of the Judgment. That night I searched my heart in the sonorous phrases of the verses of the Declaration of Innocence, which I had recently translated. I had not driven away the sacred cattle, or stolen milk from the mouth of babes. I had not taken the lives of men (except when they tried to take mine) or been a teller of lies (except when it was absolutely necessary). “O thou who makest mortals to flourish,” I whispered, “I do not curse a god. O thou of the beautiful shoulders, I am not swollen with pride . . .”

Was I, though? Was it false pride and bigotry that made me refuse to consider a marriage between those two? When I believed it was Ramses who held the girl in his arms—had my indignation been as strong as when I realized the man was David?

Yes. No. But that was different.

I turned onto my side and drew closer to Emerson. He did not wake, or put his arm around me. He was sound asleep. There was nothing on his conscience. Nor on mine, I told myself. But it was a long time before I emulated Emerson.

He was up before me in the morning, which was not the usual thing. I dressed in haste and went to the verandah, where I found Emerson conversing with Sir Edward, and Fatima hovering over them with coffee and tea and sugary cakes, to keep them from starving until breakfast.

I didn’t doubt she knew of the most recent development. Servants always do know such things, and none of the participants in the argument had bothered to lower their voices. She was properly veiled, in the presence of the men, but her dark eyes were troubled.

“You look as if you could do with a stimulant, Peabody,” remarked my husband, making room for me on the settee. “Have a seat and a cup of coffee, and leave the children alone. I have already spoken with all of them, and they have promised . . . Where are you going, Sir Edward? Sit down.”

“I thought you would prefer to discuss private family matters—”

“There is no such thing around this house,” Emerson said acerbically. “You have become involved in our affairs, so you may as well leave off being tactful. I do not invite your opinion on the matter, however.”

The lines of laughter framing Sir Edward’s mouth deepened. “I would never venture to offer it, sir.”

He was impeccably groomed as always, attired in well-cut tweeds and polished boots, his white shirt spotless. He returned to his chair and picked up his cup, which Fatima had refilled.

“As for other matters,” he began.

“We will discuss those later,” Emerson said. “After we have got my brother and his family away from here. Curse these distractions! As I was saying, Peabody, the children have agreed not to raise the subject again, so kindly refrain from doing so yourself. We will have a pleasant day seeing the sights as we planned, and put them on the train tonight.”

“Pleasant?” I repeated ironically. “It can hardly be that, with everyone moping or angry or self-conscious. I trust you did not raise false hopes, Emerson. That would be too cruel.”

“Let them hope, Peabody. One never knows; something may happen to change the situation.”

Something did happen.

I found nothing to complain of in the manners of my companions. Everyone was excessively polite, and the topic that was foremost in all our minds was never mentioned, but the emotional atmosphere was so thick that it destroyed all comfort. There were awkward silences and sideways glances and downcast eyes and mournful faces. I wished we had put the younger Emersons on the train that morning and got it over with.

Lia behaved better than I had dared expect. Not by word or look did she reproach her parents, but she was not very forthcoming with them either. She did not speak to David, or he to her. There was no need. Their eyes were eloquent.

The attractions of the temple of Karnak, well known to me, were not sufficient to turn my thoughts into happier channels. I therefore sought mental distraction by considering the course of action I meant to take in order to solve our other problem.

We were in the Hypostyle Hall at the time. The usual clumps of tourists were there, gathered round their guides, and Ramses was lecturing our group. As I stood at a little distance from them, deep in thought, a voice hailed me, and I turned to see a lady approaching. She was rather stout and florid of face and looked familiar, but I could not recall where I had met her until she reminded me.

“Mrs. Emerson, is it not? We met at Mr. Vandergelt’s soiree the other evening.”

It was the bad-mannered mama who had removed her daughter so precipitately from David. She was quite smartly dressed in a costume of dark green linen and a bonnetlike hat which shaded features that I had not taken particular notice of at the time. Assuming, as people will, that I remembered her name—which I did not—she launched into a gushing monologue about the beauties of Egypt and her enjoyment of the country, ending with an invitation to dine with her that evening at the Winter Palace.

Unfortunately, Emerson and I have acquired a certain notoriety, and there are those, I am sorry to say, who seek out well-known persons in order to brag about knowing them. I could only assume that this lady—whose name I still could not recall—was moved by that unattractive and, to me, inexplicable, desire.

I expressed polite regrets, therefore, explaining that we were otherwise engaged. She did not take the hint, saying she would not be leaving Luxor for several more days, and that any evening would suit her. Such rude persistence, in my opinion, justifies a firm response. I was about to utter it when she caught hold of my arm.

“There is the native who has been following me demanding money,” she said indignantly. “Come over here, Mrs. Emerson, where he won’t see us.”

The place toward which she was rapidly pulling me, with a grip that numbed my arm, was a doorway, now blocked, that had once admitted visitors to the Southern Precinct.

A thrill of anticipation ran through me. Was this another attempt at abduction? It hardly seemed likely, in such a crowded place, but the doorway was in a far corner and hidden by scaffolding.

Emerson stepped into view from behind an adjoining pillar. “Where the devil do you think you are going, Peabody?”

“Ah,” said my new acquaintance, releasing my arm. “It is your husband. A pleasure to see you again, Professor. I was just asking Mrs. Emerson if you would do me the pleasure of dining with me one evening.”

“Most unlikely,” said Emerson, looking her up and down. “But if you will give me your card I will let you know.”

She produced it, after fumbling in her capacious handbag and then—her purpose achieved, as she believed—returned to her group.

“Hmmm,” said Emerson, fingering the little piece of pasteboard.

“Where are the others?” I asked, hoping, though not really expecting, to avoid a lecture.

“There.” Emerson gestured. “Curse you, Peabody, if you are going to go on doing this sort of thing I will lock you up.”

“What could possibly happen here, with a hundred tourists around? She is only a harmless bore.”

“No doubt.” Emerson glanced at the card. “Mrs. Louisa Ferncliffe. Heatherby Hall, Bastington on Stoke.”

“Nouveau riche,” I said with a little sniff. “Her accent was quite common. We met her at Cyrus’s the other evening.”