There was a King in Egypt Part 42

"Tell me your English scene," he said. Something in Millicent's eyes drove him into speech. He, too, knew the throbbing silence, the solitude that thunders, the emptiness that is full of pa.s.sion.

"Well, first look at that tent and at those lazy, straight, brown-limbed women--they are just a bit of nature. Summer and winter, autumn and spring, will never change the scene. Look at that ocean of sand, and the moving heat, pa.s.sing like a wave over the desert. Take off your blue gla.s.ses, Mike, and dare to look at the sun. Face your great G.o.d Aton--look Him in the face."

Michael was silent, but he took off his blue gla.s.ses. He was no eagle; his eyes shrank from the world of blinding, unlimited light.

"Now visualize a wee robin 'flirting,' as Wells says, across a green English lawn."

The suggestion called up a thousand memories. A cloud of home-sickness dimmed the brightness of the sun. Michael could see a green, green lawn and the figure of his mother busy at her flower-beds; the robin's flirting was growing bolder; it was peeping up into her very face! The smell of moisture came to his nostrils.

"Nothing is more English than an English robin, Mike! In the autumn, when it comes near the house, what a darling it is--so well-turned-out, so fearless of humans!"

"Nothing," Mike said, "unless it's my mother herself, in her gardening gloves, cutting off the dead heads from the rose-beds."

"But she's Irish!"

"Well, I meant British. When you said things seen in England I visualized _my_ robin in Ireland, juicy, green, luscious Ireland!"

"Tell me about Ireland," Millicent said lightly. As she spoke, she made a hole in the sand; she pushed her hand and wrist into it--her gloves were off. She drove it in still further, until her elbow only was above the sand; her arm was buried in the desert.

"Take care of sand-flies," Michael said. Millicent's sleeve was rolled up.

"Are there any here? I've not been troubled with them."

"No, probably not--they are the plague of Upper Egypt."

"They were awful at a.s.suan. It's awfully hot, Michael!" Millicent referred to the sand. She withdrew her arm. "Give me your hand--just feel it." She pulled up his sleeve and took his hand. She held it in her own and thrust it into the hot, soft sand. With her free hand she pulled up her own sleeve and Michael's so as to allow their arms to sink still further into the sand; they were bare to the elbow. Her wrist and the palm of her hand were pressed close to Michael's.

Suddenly her hand ceased boring; she remained still, her soft fingers embracing Michael's. Her eyes sought his. He read their invitation.

"It's only our hands, Michael--let them rest." Her fingers tightened round his as she spoke; her eyes challenged him. At the challenge his pulses leapt, his hand ceased to resist. For two days he had been playing with fire. In the wilderness that surrounded them what waters would quench its leaping flames?

Millicent's soft arm lay with his; it was human and caressing. Then a fear came to him, born of a sudden intense hatred. She was such a little thing. He could strangle her, crush her to atoms. That was the way to put an end to it all.

The next moment Millicent was alarmed, terribly frightened. She was in Michael's arms. He was crushing her, crushing her to atoms. It was not a lover's embrace; it was the mad fury of a roused mystic. Would he crush her until he killed her?

"Don't, Mike, you'll choke me! You are choking me now. Do you want to kill me?"

"I could," he said. "And I'd like to!" He flung her from him on the soft sand. "Go away," he said. "Leave me and my camp for good and all!" His words were broken, mere breathless e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns. His eyes made a coward of the reckless woman, but she collected her quick wits.

She lay where he had flung her. She was not hurt or even stunned, but she knew that if she lay there in the position in which he had flung her, presently he would come to her and ask her if he had been too brutal. She traded on his tenderness to women, his horror of inflicting pain.

She lay motionless, the blue sky above her, the yellow sands stretching to the far-off horizon. She had tempted him willingly, deliberately.

Something had compelled her to test her power. Her annoyance at his apparent indifference to her presence had become too poignant to hide any longer. Anger was exhausting her nerves. She was conscious that she had burnt her boats, that her tactics were at fault.

Michael did not look at her. He was conscious of nothing in the world but an unbearable contempt for his own manhood. Why had he not driven her away long before this? Why had he silently acquiesced to her companionship?

Despising her as he did, why was she able to lower him in his own eyes?

Why did he tolerate her? Why had she any qualities which appealed to him? Why, oh why was she just what she was? He hated her at the moment, but he hated himself still more. When they got back to the camp he would tell Ha.s.san that their ways must lie apart. And now, at this very instant, he would go and tell her that she must leave; he must have it out with her.

He went to her and stooped over her. "Millicent," he said, "I want to speak to you."

"Yes, Mike."

"Get up and look at me. I want you to listen."

Still Millicent lay perfectly motionless. "I am listening."

He knelt down beside her. "Have I hurt you?"

A little groan was all her answer. Michael turned her face to his.

His hands were on her shoulders. She winced.

"Have I hurt you? I am sorry. I was too rough."

Millicent raised herself to her knees. Her face was tense, agonized.

She put her hands up to her head and held it.

Michael thought he heard a sob. Shame or pain convulsed her body; she rocked herself backwards and forwards.

"I am sorry I was so brutal," he said. "But you deserved it. I had to do it. I always have to be unkind--you are so foolish."

Still Millicent wept. She removed her hands and gazed at him with wet, mournful eyes. Michael put his arm round her and tried to raise her.

"You were very naughty--why were you so naughty?"

One of his arms was supporting her as she struggled to her feet. The next instant Millicent swung herself nimbly round and flung herself on his breast. He was helpless. Her hands were clasped behind his head.

"You wanted to kill me, Mike." Her fingers slipped round his throat.

"And now I should like to kill you, yes, kill you! Strangle you and leave your austere, ascetic body for the vultures to enjoy!"

Mike tried to shake her off, to unclasp her hands. She was as strong as a young leopard.

"I would," she said. "For I hate you and despise you!

"Then leave me," he said. "I wish to G.o.d you would!"

"Ah, but I won't!" The cry came from Millicent savagely. "I won't leave you, not until my will has subjected yours! Before I leave your camp you will have been my lover--mystic, aesthetic, dreamer, drifter!"

"Never!" Michael said. "Never, never that!"

Still Millicent clung to him. Her angry words blew her hot breath over his cheeks.

"You are not altogether the ascetic or the saint you appear to be. You have scorned my love. I will break your will. I will humble you in your own fine estimation of yourself. When I take it into my head to do a thing, I generally accomplish it."

Michael disengaged her hands with a tremendous wrench. If he hurt her thumbs he could not help it. He held her from him at arm's length and shook her, shook her as though she was a naughty child in a paroxysm of pa.s.sion which had to be subdued by extreme severity.

"You little devil!" he said. "You'll leave my camp at once, this very day! I've had more than enough of you!"

Millicent's eyes, as unflinching as Michael's, laughed triumphantly.