The Mummy Case (14 page)

Knowing him to be unmarried, I assumed he was referring to his parents, but when I inquired he laughed and shook his head. "I refer to my spiritual family, Mrs. Emerson. My father in the Lord, the Reverend Ezekiel Jones, is the head of our little mission. His sister also labors in the vineyards of the Lord. It is almost time for our midday repast; will you honor our humble abode?"

I politely declined the invitation, explaining that the other members of our expedition were waiting for us, and we took our leave. Before we were quite out of earshot, Emerson said loudly, "You were confoundedly polite, Amelia."

"You make it sound like a crime! I felt it necessary to be overly cordial to compensate for your rudeness."

"Rude? I, rude?"

"Very."

"Well, I call it rude to walk into a man's house and order him to leave off worshiping his chosen god. What effrontery! Mr. Cabot and his 'father in the Lord' had better not try their tricks on ME."

"I hardly think even Mr. Cabot would try to convert YOU," I said, taking his arm. "Hurry, Emerson, we have been too long away. Goodness knows what mischief Ramses has got into by now."

But for once Ramses was innocent of wrongdoing. We found him squatting in the sand near the monastery, digging. Already a small pile of potsherds had rewarded his efforts. At the sight of his dedicated labors Emerson's expression lightened, and I hoped the irritation produced by the presence of the missionaries had been alleviated.

Shortly thereafter the arrival of a contingent of men from the village assured us that the priest did mean to cooperate with our endeavors. This first levy consisted of craftsmen—masons and brickmakers, carpenters and plasterers. Emerson beamed when he saw his augmented audience; he may and does deny it, but he loves putting on a theatrical performance. His exorcism that day was one of his best, despite the fact that he turned his ankle while capering around the house chanting poetry and prayers. The audience applauded enthusiastically and declared
themselves relieved of all apprehension concerning evil spirits. Before long the place was swarming with activity, and I had high hopes that by nightfall we would have a roof over our heads and a cleared floor on which to place our camp cots, tables and chairs.

The men from Aziyeh did not fraternize with the villagers. Their professional skills and the parochialism of the peasant mentality, which regards a man from a village two miles off as a foreigner—not to mention the religious differences—made them view the "heretics" with haughty contempt. I knew there would be no trouble, however, for Abdullah was an excellent foreman and his men were guided by him. No less than four of them were his sons. They ranged in age from Feisal, a grizzled man with grown children of his own, to young Selim, a handsome lad of fourteen. He was obviously the apple of his father's eye and the adored Benjamin of the family. Indeed, his infectious boyish laughter and pleasant ways made him a favorite with all of us. In Egyptian terms he was already a man, and would soon take a wife, but since he was closer in age to Ramses than any of the others, the two soon struck up a friendship.

After I had watched the lad for a while and assured myself that my initial impression of his character was correct, I decided to appoint him as Ramses' official guide, servant and guard. John's unsuitability for the role was becoming only too apparent. He was always trying to prevent Ramses from doing harmless things—such as digging, which was, after all, our reason for being there—and allowing him to do other things, such as drinking unboiled water, that were not at all harmless. Besides, John was proving useful in other ways. He had picked up Arabic with surprising quickness and mingled readily with the men, displaying none of the insular prejudices that afflict many English persons, including some who ought to know better. As I swept sand from the large room, once the refectory of the monastery, that we had selected for our parlor, I could hear John chatting away in his ungrammatical but effective Arabic, and the other men laughing good-naturedly at his mistakes.

Late in the afternoon, when I emerged from the house to inspect the repairs on the roof, I saw a small procession advancing toward me. Leading it were two gentlemen mounted on donkeyback. The tall, graceful figure of Mr. Cabot was immediately recognizable. Beside him was another man wearing the same dark clerical garb and a straw boater. It was not until the caravan had come closer that I realized the third person was female.

My heart went out to the poor creature. She wore a highnecked, long-sleeved gown of dark calico, with skirts
so
full they almost hid the donkey. Only its head and tail protruded, with bizarre effect. One of the old-fashioned shovel bonnets— a style I had not seen in years—completely hid her face, and so enveloping was her attire it was impossible to tell whether she was dark or fair, young or old.

Mr. Cabot was the first to dismount. "We are here," he exclaimed.

"So I see," I replied, thanking heaven I had sent Emerson and Ramses out to survey the site.

"I have the honor," Mr. Cabot continued, "to present my revered mentor, the Reverend Ezekiel Jones."

There was nothing in the appearance of this person to justify the reverence and pride in Mr. Cabot's voice. He was of middle height, with the heavy shoulders and thick body of a workingman, and his coarse features would have been better hidden by a beard. His forehead was crossed by lowering dark brows as thick as my finger. His movements were awkward; he climbed awkwardly off his mount and awkwardly removed his hat. When he spoke I had some inkling as to why he commanded the admiration of his young acolyte. His voice was a mellow baritone, marred by an unfortunate American accent, but resonant and musical as a cello.

"How do, ma'am. We figured as how you could use some help. This here's my sister, Charity."

The woman had dismounted. Her brother grasped her by the shoulder and shoved her at me, like a merchant hawking his
wares. "She's a hard worker and a handmaiden of the Lord," he went on. "You tell her what you want done."

A thrill of indignation passed through me. I offered the girl my hand. "How do you do, Miss Jones."

"We don't use worldly titles," her brother said. "Brother David here tends to forget that. Oh, it's all right, my friend, I know it's respect that prompts you—"

"It is indeed, sir," said "Brother David" earnestly.

"But I don't deserve respect, Brother. I'm just a miserable sinner like the rest of you. A few steps further up the road that leads to salvation, maybe, but a miserable sinner just the same."

The self-satisfied smile with which he proclaimed his humility made me want to shake him, but the young man gazed at him with melting admiration. "Sister Charity" stood with her hands folded at her waist and her head bowed. She looked like a silhouette cut out of black paper, lifeless and featureless.

I had been undecided as to whether to invite the visitors to enter the house; the decision was taken out of my hands by Brother Ezekiel. He walked in. I followed, to find that he had seated himself in the most comfortable chair the room contained.

"You've got quite a bit done," he said in obvious surprise. "Soon as you paint over that heathen image on the wall—"

"Heathen?" I exclaimed. "It is a Christian image, sir; a pair of matched saints, if I am not mistaken."

" 'Ye shall make unto yourselves no heathen images,'" Ezekiel intoned. His sonorous voice echoed hollowly.

"I am sorry I cannot offer you refreshment," I said. "As you see, we are not yet settled in."

This was an act of rudeness worthy of Emerson himself, for the portable stove was alight and the kettle was coming to the boil. As I was to learn, rudeness was no defense against Brother Ezekiel. "As a rule I don't hold with stimulants," he remarked coolly. "But I'll take a cup of tea with you. When in Rome, eh? I know you Britishers can't get on without it. You set down, ma'am. Charity'll tend to the tea. Well, go on, girl, where are
your manners? Take off your bonnet. It ain't overly bright in here and I don't want you spilling nothing."

The room was bright enough for me to get a good look at the face displayed by the removal of the absurd bonnet. It was not a fashionable style of beauty. Her skin was extremely pale— not surprising, if she went about in that stovepipe of a bonnet— and the delicacy of her features, combined with her diminutive size, made her look like a child some years away from the bloom of womanhood. But when she glanced shyly at me, as if asking my permission to proceed, I was struck by the sweetness of her expression. Her eyes were her best feature, soft and dark, half veiled by extraordinarily long, curling lashes. Her abundant brown hair was strained back from her face into an ugly bun, but a few curls had escaped to caress her rounded cheeks.

I smiled at her before turning a less amiable look on her brother. "My servant will prepare the tea," I said. "John?"

I knew he had been listening. The new door into the courtyard had been hung, and it stood a trifle ajar. The door promptly opened, and I felt an almost maternal pride when he appeared. He was such a splendid specimen of young British manhood! The sleeves of his shirt were rolled high, displaying the muscular arms of a Hercules. He stood with stiff dignity, ready to receive my orders, and I felt sure that when he spoke his vowels would be in perfect order.

The response to my summons was never uttered. Vowels and consonants alike died in his throat. He had seen the girl.

A phrase of Mr. Tennyson's struck into my mind with the accuracy of an arrow thudding into the center of the target. "The curse is come upon me," cried the Lady of Shalott (a poor specimen of womanhood) when she first beheld Sir Launcelot. So might John have cried, had he been poetically inclined, when his eyes first beheld Charity Jones.

The girl was not unaware of his interest. It could not have been more apparent if he had shouted aloud. A faint, wild-rose flush warmed her cheeks and she lowered her eyes.

The lashes and the blush completed John's demoralization.

How he managed to make and serve the tea I am sure I do not know, since he never took his eyes off the girl. I expected Brother Ezekiel to resent John's interest. Instead he watched the pair with a curious absence of expression, and spoke scarcely a word. Brother David's gentlemanly manners had never shown to better advantage. He carried on an animated conversation, describing with considerable humor some of the problems he and his colleague had encountered with the villagers.

I thought I would have to take John by the shoulders and turn him out of the room when he was finished, but on the third repetition of my dismissal he stumbled out. The door remained slightly ajar, however.

Mr. Jones finally rose. "We'll be getting back," he announced. "I'll come for Charity at sundown."

"No, you'll take her with you," I said. "I appreciate your offer of assistance, but I do not need it. My people have matters well in hand." The reverend started to object. I raised my voice and continued, "If I require domestic help I will hire it. I certainly will not permit this young lady to act as my scullery maid."

Ezekiel's face turned puce. Before he could speak, David said, "My dear Mrs. Emerson, your delicacy does you credit, but you do not understand our views. Honest labor is no disgrace. I myself would willingly roll up my sleeves and wield brush or broom. I know Charity feels the same."

"Oh, yes, gladly." It was the first time the girl had ventured to speak. Her voice was as soft as a breeze sighing through the leaves. And the look she gave young David spoke louder than words.

"No," I said.

"No?" Ezekiel repeated.

"No."

When I employ a certain tone and accompany it with a certain look, it is a brave man who dares contradict me. Brother Ezekiel was not a brave man. If he had been, his companion's sense of fitness would have intervened.

"We will take our leave then," he said with a graceful bow.

"I hope our offer has not been misinterpreted."

"Not at all. It has only been declined. With thanks, of course." "Humph," said Brother Ezekiel. "All right, then, if that's how you want it. Good-bye. 1 will see you in church on Sunday."

It was a statement, not a question, so I did not reply. "And your servant too," Ezekiel continued, glancing in a meaningful way at the partially open door. "We make nothing of the social distinctions you Britishers believe in. To us all men are brothers in the eyes of the Lord. The young man will be heartily welcome."

I took Brother Ezekiel by the arm and escorted him out of the house.

As I watched them ride away, the girl a modest distance behind the two men, such indignation flooded my being that I stamped my foot—a frustrating gesture in that region, since the sand muffled the sound. The wretched pastor was not only a religious bigot and a crude boor, he was no better than a panderer for his god. Seeing John's interest in Charity, he meant to make use of it in winning a convert. I almost wished Emerson had been there, to take the wretch by the collar and throw him out the door.

I described the encounter later to my husband as we sat before the door enjoying the magnificent display of sunset colors across the amber desert sands. Ramses was some distance away, still digging. He had amassed quite a sizable heap of potsherds and bones. The cat Bastet lay beside him. From time to time her whiskers quivered as the scent of roasting chicken from the kitchen reached her nostrils.

To my annoyance Emerson gave me scant sympathy. "It serves you right, Amelia. I told you you were too polite to that fellow."

"Nonsense. If you had met the Reverend Ezekiel Jones, you would realize that neither courtesy nor rudeness affects him in the slightest."

"Then," said Emerson coolly, "you should have drawn your pistol and ordered him to leave."

I adjusted the weapon in question. "You don't understand the situation, Emerson. I foresee trouble ahead. The girl is infatuated with young David, and John—our John—has taken a fancy to her. It is a classic triangle, Emerson."

"Hardly a triangle," said Emerson, with one of those coarse masculine snickers. "Unless the pretty young man takes a fancy to—"