The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [106]
After I had locked the door I thanked John and told him he could now retire. He said hesitantly, “If it would not be an inconvenience, madam—could I sit with you and the professor for a while?”
“Certainly, John; you know you are always welcome. But I thought you were occupied with Leviticus.”
“Numbers, madam; I had got as far as Numbers. I don’t think madam, I will ever get past Numbers.”
“Don’t lose heart; you can succeed at anything if you try.” To be honest, my encouragement was a trifle abstracted. John’s romantic and religious problems had begun to bore me, and I had more pressing matters on my mind.
As we passed Ramses’ door I saw the too-familiar slit of light beneath it. I was surprised he had not popped his head out to ask what we were doing, for he was usually as curious as a magpie. I tapped on the door. “Lights out, Ramses. It is past your bedtime.”
“I am working on somet’ing, Mama. May I have a half-hour’s grace, please?”
“What are you working on?”
There was a pause. “The Coptic manuscript, Mama,” he said at last.
“You will ruin your eyes studying that faded script by lamplight. Oh, very well; half an hour, no more.”
“T’ank you, Mama. Good night, Mama. Good night, John.”
“Good night, Master Ramses.”
“I wonder how he knew you were with me,” I said musingly.
When we returned to the parlor Emerson was gathering his scattered papers. “What a mess,” he grumbled. “Give me a hand, will you, John?”
John hastened to oblige. The papers having been restored to the table, he asked eagerly, “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
“No, thank you; I will have to sort them myself. Go back to your Bible, John—and much good may it do you.”
John gave me a look of appeal and I said, “John wants to sit with us awhile, Emerson. Proceed, John. Sit.”
John sat. He sat on the edge of the chair, hands on his knees and eyes fixed on Emerson. It was impossible to work with that silent monument present; I was not surprised when after a time Emerson put down his pen and commented, “You appear to be at loose ends, John. You have about you a certain air of indecision. Is something troubling you?”
I knew John would not confide in him. The poor lad had been subjected to many derisive comments on the subject of religion, and although Emerson had been—for Emerson—fairly considerate about John’s romantic yearnings, his generally sardonic look and manner was not of the sort that would inspire a young lover to pour out the (usually insipid) sentiments that fill his heart. Emerson’s attachment to me is romantic, but it is never insipid.
John scratched his head. “Well, sir…”
“The young lady, I suppose. Give it up, John. You will never make headway there; she has given her heart to Brothers David and Ezekiel, and to Jesus—not necessarily in that order.”
“Emerson, you are being rude,” I said.
“I am never rude,” Emerson said indignantly. “I am consoling John and assisting him to a better understanding. If he wishes to persist in his absurd attachment I won’t stand in his way. Have I stood in his way? Have I prevented his wandering off to the mission half the evenings in the week? What do you do there, John?”
“Well, sir, we talk, sir. It is what Brother Ezekiel calls the hour of social intercourse.”
Emerson’s mouth widened into a grin. I coughed in a pointed manner, catching my eye, he refrained from comment, and John went on, “Brother Ezekiel speaks of his boyhood days. His mother, sir, must have been a regular saint. He can’t tell how many switches she wore out on him—beating the devils out,