Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [87]
He was attired in evening dress; the austere black and white became his sturdy body and handsome face very well. He had become exceedingly tanned. I felt as if he ought to be wearing the crimson sashes and orders of some exotic foreign emissary, or even the gold-embroidered robes of a Bedouin sheik.
We dined on the upper deck. The canopy had been rolled back, and the great vault of heaven, spangled with stars, formed a roof finer than any oriental palace could boast. As we sipped our soup, a feeling of unreality swept over me. It was as if the preceding week had never happened. This was a night like the first nights on the dahabeeyah, surrounded by the sights and sounds and olfactory sensations that had so quickly become dear and familiar. The soft lapping of the water against the prow and the gentle sway of the boat; the liquid voices of the crewmen down below, as mellow and wordless as music to our untrained ears; the balmy night breeze, carrying the homely scents of burning charcoal and pitch and unwashed Egyptian; and under them all the indefinable, austere perfume of the desert itself. I knew I would never be free of its enchantment, never cease to desire it after it was gone. And although the strange events of past days seemed remote and dreamlike, I knew that in some indefinable way they had heightened the enjoyment of the journey, given it a sharp tang of danger and adventure.
Lucas was drinking too much. I must admit he held his wine like a gentleman; his speech did not become slurred nor his movements unsteady. Only his eyes showed the effect, becoming larger and more brilliant as the evening wore on; and his conversation became, if possible, quicker and more fantastical. One moment he declared his intention of returning to the camp, for fear of missing another encounter with the mummy; the next moment he was ridiculing the whole affair—the Emerson brothers, their shabby way of life, the absurdity of spending the years of youth grubbing for broken pots—and declaring his intention to move on to the luxuries of Luxor and the glories of Thebes.
Evelyn sat like a pale statue, unresponsive to the jeers or to the increasingly soft glances her cousin directed at her. She had not dressed for dinner, but was wearing a simple morning frock, a faded pink lawn sprigged with tiny rosebuds.
Lucas kept looking at the gown; finally he burst out, “I don’t mean to criticize your choice of costume, Cousin, but I yearn to see you in something becoming your beauty and your station. Since that first night in Cairo I have not seen you wear a gown that suited you. What a pity I could not bring your boxes with me!”
“You are too conscientious, Lucas,” Evelyn replied. “It may relieve you to know that I am not looking forward to unpacking those boxes. I shall never wear the gowns again; their elegance would remind me too painfully of Grandfather’s generosity.”
“When we return to Cairo we will burn them unopened,” Lucas declared extravagantly. “A grand auto-da-fé of the past! I want to supply you with a wardrobe fitting your station, my dear Evelyn—with garments that will have no painful memories associated with them.”
Evelyn smiled, but her eyes were sad.
“I have the wardrobe befitting my station,” she replied, with a loving glance at me. “But we cannot destroy the past, Lucas, nor yield to weakness. No; fortified by my faith as a Christian, I will look over Grandfather’s gifts in solitude. There are trinkets, mementos I cannot part with; I will keep them to remind me of my errors. Not in any spirit of self-flagellation,” she added, with another affectionate look at me. “I have too much to be thankful for to indulge in that error.”
“Spoken like an Englishwoman and a Christian,” I exclaimed “But indeed, I have difficulty in hearing you speak, Evelyn; what is going on down below? The men are making a great