Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [105]
“Donald! My dearest—my darling—speak to me! Oh God, he is dead, he is slain!”
I raised myself to a sitting position. Enid sat on the ground, all unaware of the mud that soaked her skirt. With the strength of love and desperation she had lifted the unconscious man so that his head lay on her breast. Her blouse and her little hands were dabbled with his blood, which was flowing copiously from a wound on his forehead.
“Put him down at once, you ninny,” I said.
For all the attention she paid me, I might not have been there at all. She went on moaning and showering kisses on his tumbled hair.
I was still short of breath but I forced myself to crawl toward them. “Lower his head, Enid,” I ordered. “You ought not to have lifted him.”
“He is dead,” Enid cried repetitiously. “Dead—and it is all my fault. Now he will never know how I loved him!”
Donald’s eyes flew open. “Say it again, Enid!”
Joy and relief, shame and confusion stained her lovely, tear-streaked face with a glory as of sunrise. “I—I—” she began.
“Say no more,” Donald exclaimed. With an agility that belied his encrimsoned visage, he freed himself from her embrace, and took her into his. She made but a feeble attempt to resist; his masterful manner overcame her scruples, and when I left them—as I did almost at once—I had no doubt that he would prevail. I also had no doubt but that my lecture on the subject of firmness had had the desired effect, and I congratulated myself on bringing this romantic confusion to a satisfactory end.
I had not gone far before I heard sounds indicative of haste and alarm. The sounds of haste were produced by a heavy body crashing through the reeds; the sounds of alarm were those of a well-loved voice raised to its fullest extent, which, as I have had occasion to remark, is considerable.
I answered, and Emerson soon stood face to face with me. He had dressed in such haste that his shirt was buttoned askew and hung out of his trousers. Upon recognizing me, he rushed forward, tripping over his dangling bootlaces, and lifted me in his arms.
“Peabody! Good Gad, it is as I feared—you are wounded! You are covered with blood! Don’t try to talk, Peabody. I will carry you home. A doctor—a surgeon—”
“I am not wounded, Emerson. It is not my blood you see, but Donald’s.”
Emerson set me on my feet with a thud that jarred my teeth painfully together. “In that case,” he said, “you can damned well walk. How dare you, Peabody?”
His angry voice and furious scowl touched me no less than his tender concern had done, for I knew they were prompted by the same affection. I took his arm. “We may as well go back to the house,” I said. “Donald and Enid will follow at their leisure.”
“Donald? Oh, yes. I assume he is not seriously wounded, for if he were, you would be dosing him and bandaging him and generally driving him out of his mind.”
“I suppose you followed Enid,” I said. “And she followed me, and I followed Donald. . . . How ridiculous we must have appeared!”
“You may call it ridiculous,” Emerson growled, holding my hand tightly in his. “I would call it something else, but I cannot find words strong enough to express my opinion of your callous disregard for every basic marital responsibility. How do you suppose I felt when I woke to find you gone, and saw a female form slip out of the gate? I thought it was you. I could not imagine why you should creep from my side unless—unless . . .”
Emotion overcame him. He began to swear.
“You must have realized that only the sternest necessity could have moved me to such a step, Emerson. I would have written a note, but there was not time.”
“There was time to wake me, though.”
“No, for then explanations would have been necessary, delaying me even longer.”
I proceeded to render the explanations. Emerson’s face lightened a trifle as he listened, but he shook his head. “It was extremely foolhardy of you, Peabody. For all you knew, you were walking into a conference