Crocodile On The Sandbank Part 13

"Peabody will be pleased that I retain my beard?" Emerson inquired.

"Miss Peabody claims that men grow beard in order to hide weak features. Receding chins, spots on the face..."

"Oh, does she? She implies my chin is weak?"

"She has never seen it," Walter pointed out.

"Hmph."

That was all he said; but since silence followed the grunt, I knew Walter had won his point.

Seeing, as I now did, the beardless countenance of Emerson, I understood why he had cultivated whiskers. The lower part of his face looked a little odd, being so much paler than the rest, but the features were not displeasing- although the mouth was set in such a tight line I could not make out its shape. The chin was certainly not weak; indeed, it was almost too square and protuberant. But it had a dimple. No man with a dimple in his chin can look completely forbidding. A dimple, for Emerson, was out of character. No wonder he wished to hide it!

Emerson's defiant eyes met mine, and the comment I had been about to make died on my lips.

"Tea or lemonade?" I inquired.

When I handed him his cup, a half-stifled expletive burst from his lips. Walter followed his gaze.

"My dear Miss Peabody, your poor hands!"

"There must be some better way of going about it," I muttered, trying to wrap my skirt around the members in question. "I haven't given the matter much thought as yet."

"Naturally not," Emerson said gruffly. "Women don't think. A little forethought would prevent most of the suffering they constantly complain about."

Walter frowned. It was the first time I had seen the young fellow look at his brother with anything but affectionate admiration.

"You should be ashamed to speak so, Radcliffe," he said quietly. "Miss Peabody's hand was swollen and painful for hours after you pa.s.sed the crisis of your sickness, you held it so tightly; and I had to carry her to her bed because her limbs were cramped from kneeling beside you all night long."

Emerson looked a little uncomfortable, but I think I was even more embarra.s.sed. Sentimentality always embarra.s.ses me.

"No thanks, please," I said. "I would have done as much for a sick cat."

"At least you must stop working on the pavement," Walter said. 'Tomorrow I will take over the task."

"You can't do the pavement and supervise the workers at the same time," I argued, conscious of an inexplicable annoyance.

Emerson, slouching in his chair, cleared his throat.

"Abdullah is an excellent foreman. There is no need for Walter to be on the spot at all times. Or is there, Walter?"

How he had sensed the truth I do not know, but Walter's uneasy silence was answer enough.

"Come," Emerson insisted, in a voice of quiet firmness. "I knew this evening that something was worrying you. What is it? Fruitless speculation will be worse for me than the truth, Walter; be candid."

"I am willing to be candid, but it isn't easy to be explicit," Walter said, smiling faintly. "You know how one becomes sensitive to the feelings of the men. There are so many meaningful signs- the singing of the work crews, the way in which they move about, the joking and laughter- or the lack thereof. I don't know how long it has been going on. I only sensed it today."

"Then it has not been going on long. You are too experienced to be unaware, preoccupied though you are." Emerson glanced meaningfully at Evelyn, who sat listening with her hands folded in her lap. "Are the men hostile? Are they hiding something they don't want us to know about?"

Walter shook his head; the dark hair tumbled over his high brow, giving him the look of a worried schoolboy.

"Neither of those, I think. Your illness disturbed them; you know how superst.i.tious they are, how ready to find evil demons behind every accident. But I can't really account for the feeling. There is a general laxity, a slowing down, a- a stillness. As if they knew something we don't know- and are afraid of it."

Emerson's brows drew together. He struck his hand on his knee.

"I must see for myself."

"If you venture out into that sun tomorrow, you will be back in bed by noon," I said firmly. "Perhaps I can have a look around myself. But I hate to neglect my pavement, even for a day."

"Peabody, you are not to touch the pavement tomorrow," Emerson said. "Infection is in the air here; you will lose a finger or two if you continue to rub them raw."

I am not accustomed to be spoken to in that tone. Oddly enough, I was not angered by the order, or by the name. Emerson was looking at me with a kind of appeal. His mouth had relaxed. It was, as I had suspected, a well-shaped organ.

"Perhaps you are right," I said.

Evelyn choked on her tea and hastily set the cup down.

"Yes," I continued. "No doubt you are right. Then I will supervise the workers tomorrow and see what I can ascertain. What are you digging up at present, Walter?"

The conversation became technical. Evelyn showed us the progress of her drawing; this time Emerson unbent far enough to mutter, "Not at all bad," and suggest that Evelyn might copy some of the tomb reliefs when she had finished the pavement.

"A trained artist would be a G.o.dsend on expeditions like this," he exclaimed, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm. "We cannot save all the relics; we are like the boy with his finger in the dike. But if we had copies of them before they are destroyed..."

"I would like to learn something of the hieroglyphic signs," Evelyn said. "I could copy them more accurately if I knew what they meant. For example, there seem to be a dozen different kinds of birds, and I gather each has a different meaning. When the inscriptions are worn it is not always possible to see what the original form was; but if one knew a little of the language ..."

Emerson beetled his eyebrows at her, but it was clear that he was impressed; before long be was drawing birds on his napkin and Evelyn was attempting to copy them. I looked at Walter. His ingenuous face was luminous with pleasure as he watched his admired brother and the girl he loved. Yes, he loved her; there could be no question of that. She loved him too. And at the first declaration from him, she would ruthlessly destroy their happiness because of a convention that seemed more absurd the more I considered it. Knowing what was in store, my heart ached at the sight of Walter's face.

We sat late on our little balcony that night, watching the afterglow fade and the stars blaze out; even Emerson was companionably silent under the sweet influence of the scene. Perhaps we all had a premonition of what was to come; perhaps we knew that this was our last peaceful evening.

I was brushing my hair next morning when I heard the hubbub below. Within a few minutes Walter came running up the path and shouted for me. I went out, fearing some disaster; but his expression was one of excitement rather than alarm.

"The men have made a discovery," he began. "Not in the ruins of the city- up in the cliffs. A tomb!"

"Is that all? Good Gad, the place is overfumished with tombs as it is."

Walter was genuinely excited, but I noticed that his eyes strayed past me to where Evelyn stood before the mirror, listening as she tied a ribbon around her hair.

"But this one has an occupant! All the other tombs were empty when we found them-robbed and rifled in antiquity. No doubt this new tomb has also been robbed of the gold and jewels it once contained, but there is a mummy, a veritable mummy. What is even more important, Miss Peabody, is that the villagers came to me with the news instead of robbing the tomb. That shows, does it not, that the fancies I expressed last evening were only fancies. The men must trust us, or they would not come to us."

They trust Mr. Emerson because he pays them full value for every valuable object they find," I said, hastily bundling my hair into its net. "They have no reason to resort to antiquities dealers under those conditions."

"What does it matter' Walter was fairly dancing with impatience. "I am off, I cannot wait to see, but I thought you might like to accompany me. I fear the trail will be rough..."

"I fear so, too," I said grimly. "I must apply myself to the question of appropriate costume. My rationals are an improvement on skirts, but they do not go far enough. Do you think, Evelyn, that we could fashion some trousers out of a skirt or two?"

The trail was rough, but I managed it. A few of the villagers accompanied us. As we walked, Walter explained that the tombs we were inhabiting were known as the Southern Tombs. Another group of ancient sepulchers lay to the north, and were, logically enough, referred to as the Northern Tombs. The newly discovered tomb was one of this group.

After several long miles I finally saw a now-familiar square opening in the cliffs above us, and then another beyond the first. We had reached the Northern Tombs, and a scramble up a steep slope of detritus soon brought us to the entrance to the new tomb.