The Mummy or Ramses the Damned Read Free

men themselves. At Oxford years ago, in a carefree world, they had been lovers, and the year after they’d finished, they had spent a winter together south of Cairo in a houseboat on the Nile. Inevitably the world had separated them. Elliott had married Edith Christian, an American heiress. Lawrence had built Stratford Shipping into an empire.
    But their friendship had never faltered. They had spent countless holidays in Egypt together. They could still argue all night long about history, ruins, archaeological discoveries, poetry, what have you. Elliott had been the only one who really understood when Lawrence retired and went to Egypt. Elliott had envied Lawrence. And there had been the first bitterness between them. In the small hours, when the wine flowed, Lawrencehad called Elliott a coward, for spending his remaining years in London in a world he did not value; a world which gave him no joy. Elliott had criticized Lawrence for being blind and stupid. After all, Lawrence was rich beyond Elliott’s wildest dreams; and Lawrence was a widower with a clever and independent daughter. Elliott had a wife and son who needed him day in and day out to regulate the successes of their wholly respectable and conventional lives.
    “All I mean to say,” Randolph pressed, “is that if Lawrence would express his wish about this marriage …”
    “And the small matter of the twenty thousand pounds?” Elliott asked suddenly. The tone was soft, polite, but the question was unforgivably rude. Nevertheless he persisted. “Edith will be back from France in a week and she’s certain to notice that the necklace is missing. You know, she always does.”
    Randolph didn’t answer.
    Elliott laughed softly, but not at Randolph, not even at himself. And certainly not at Edith, who had only a little more money now than Elliott did and most of it in plate and jewels.
    Perhaps Elliott laughed because the music made him giddy; or something about the vision of Julie Stratford, dancing down there with Alex, touched his heart. Or perhaps because of late he had lost the ability to speak any longer in euphemisms and half-truths. It was gone along with his physical stamina, and the sense of well-being he had enjoyed throughout his youth.
    Now his joints hurt more and more with every passing winter; and he could not walk half a mile any longer in the country without suffering a severe pain in his chest. He did not mind having white hair at fifty-five, perhaps because he knew he looked rather good with it. But it bruised him secretly and deeply to have to use a cane wherever he went. These were all mere shadows, however, of what was yet to come.
    Old age, weakness, dependence. Pray that Alex was happily married to the Stratford millions, and not before too long!
    He felt restless, suddenly; dissatisfied. The soft swooshing music annoyed him; sick to death of Strauss, actually. But it was something keener.
    He wanted to explain it suddenly to Randolph, that he, Elliott, had made some crucial mistake a long time ago. Something to do with those long nights in Egypt, when he and Lawrence would walk through the black streets of Cairo together, or rail at each other drunkenly in the little saloon of the boat. Lawrencehad somehow managed to live his life along heroic proportions; he had accomplished things of which others were simply incapable. Elliott had moved with the current. Lawrence had escaped to Egypt, back to the desert, the temples, to those clear star-filled nights.
    God, how he missed Lawrence. In the last three years they had exchanged only a handful of letters, but the old understanding would never grow dim.
    “Henry took some papers with him,” Randolph said, “small matter of family stock.” He glanced about warily, too warily.
    Elliott was going to laugh again.
    “If it goes as I hope,” Randolph continued, “I’ll pay you everything I owe you, and the marriage will take place within six months, I give you my word.”
    Elliott