The Mummy or Ramses the Damned Read Free Page A

smiled.
    “Randolph, the marriage may or may not happen; it may or may not solve things for both of us—”
    “Don’t say that, old boy.”
    “But I must have that twenty thousand pounds before Edith comes home.”
    “Precisely, Elliott, precisely.”
    “You know, you might say no to your son once in a while.”
    A deep sigh came from Randolph. Elliott didn’t press it. He knew as well as anyone did that Henry’s deterioration was no joke any longer; it had nothing to do with sowing wild oats, or going through a rough period. There was something thoroughly rotten in Henry Stratford and there always had been. There was very little that was rotten in Randolph. And so it was a tragedy; and Elliott, who loved his own son, Alex, excessively, had only sympathy for Randolph on that score.
    More assurances; a positive din of assurance. You’ll get your twenty thousand pounds. But Elliott wasn’t listening. He was watching the dancers again—his good and gentle son whispering passionately to Julie, whose face wore that look of determination that flattered her for reasons that Elliott could never fully understand.
    Some women must smile to be beautiful. Some women must weep. But with Julie, the real radiance shone only when she was serious—perhaps because her eyes were too softly brown otherwise, her mouth too guileless, her porcelain cheeks too smooth.
    Fired with determination, she was a vision. And Alex, for allhis breeding, and all his proffered passion, seemed no more than “a partner” for her; one of a thousand elegant young men who might have guided her across the marble floor.
    It was the “Morning Papers Waltz” and Julie loved it; she had always loved it. There came back to her now a faint memory of dancing once to the “Morning Papers Waltz” with her father. Was it when they had first brought home the gramophone, and they had danced all through the Egyptian room and the library and the drawing rooms—she and Father—until the light came through the shutters, and he had said:
    “Oh, my dear, no more. No more.”
    Now the music made her drowsy and almost sad. And Alex kept talking to her, telling her in one way or another that he loved her, and there was that panic inside her, that fear of speaking harsh or cold words.
    “And if you want to live in Egypt,” Alex said breathlessly, “and dig for mummies with your father, well then, we’ll go to Egypt. We’ll go straight after the wedding. And if you want to march for the vote, well then, I shall march at your side.”
    “Oh, yes,” Julie answered, “that’s what you say now, and I know you mean it with all your heart, but Alex, I’m just not ready. I cannot.”
    She couldn’t bear to see him so deadly earnest. She couldn’t bear to see him hurt. If only there were a little wickedness in Alex; just a little bit of meanness as there was in everyone else. His good looks would have been improved by a little meanness. Tall, lean and brown-haired, he was too angelic. His quick dark eyes revealed his entire soul too easily. At twenty-five, he was an eager and innocent boy.
    “What do you want with a suffragette for a wife?” she asked. “With an explorer? You know I could very well be an explorer, or an archaeologist. I wish I was in Egypt with Father right now.”
    “Dearest, we’ll go there. Only marry me before we go.”
    He leaned forward as if he meant to kiss her. And she moved back a step, the waltz carrying them almost recklessly fast, so that for a moment she felt light-headed and almost as if she were truly in love.
    “What can I do to win you, Julie?” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll bring the Great Pyramids to London.”
    “Alex, you won me a long time ago,” she said, smiling. Butthat was a lie, wasn’t it? There was something truly terrible about this moment—about the music with its lovely compelling rhythm, and the desperate look on Alex’s face.
    “The simple truth is … I don’t want to be married. Not