There was a King in Egypt Part 45

Every vestige of colour left Millicent's face. She felt sick. "And you have been to him? You touched him!"

"Of course. I wished to judge for myself. There is no doubt about it."

"M-i-c-h-a-e-l!" The word was a long-drawn-out expression of horror.

A wave of inexpressible terror and disgust overwhelmed Millicent; she could scarcely speak or move. "You knew, and yet you went to him. How could you, oh, how could you?"

He scarcely heard her. "These natives who have never been vaccinated take it very badly. Smallpox is a scourge with all Africans, from the north to the south."

Millicent's mind was now working furiously. She did not wish to let Michael see how terrified she was, or how angry.

"Go and change," she said. "Go at once. Get Abdul to disinfect you--I brought any amount of stuffs."

"Oh, I'm all right--I'm not afraid. I was with him for a long time last night. If I'm going to take it, the mischief's done."

Millicent's quick mind travelled. Michael had been with this sick saint the night before. He, Michael, might be a carrier of the disease, even if he were immune from it himself. And she had been fool enough to throw herself into his arms! Oh, what a fool! She might even now be incubating the horrible, loathsome disease. She was soul-sick. Her fear and rage were inseparable. But she must, of course, make a good show.

"Never mind, Mike, about last night. Probably the disease was not at such an infectious stage as it is now--you may not have contracted it.

Take what precautions you can--go quickly and disinfect yourself. Are you really sure it's smallpox?" She said the last words with a shudder. "Ugh! it's horrible!"

"Yes," Michael said. "The spots have appeared on his wrists and at the back of his neck. Abdul knows the beastly disease only too well--the vomiting and the headaches and the fall in the temperature. It appears that he told Abdul that he had been very, very sick for some days before we met him. But malaria might have accounted for the sickness--and the headaches. No one could have diagnosed it until the spots appeared. Abdul's not to blame."

"What are you going to do?" Millicent said. "Stick to him? I suppose you will!" she shivered.

"I will isolate his tent. I can't go on and leave him here, if you mean that."

"Oh, you're crazy! Think of Margaret, if you won't think of yourself!"

"She wouldn't have me do it."

"Leave one or two of the men behind with him. It's absurd, running such a risk. He will probably die, in any case."

"When I needed his help I meant to stick to him. When he now needs mine, am I to desert him? You said my goodness was not disinterested.

It was not, but I can't stoop to that."

"If these Moslems really think he's a saint, they'll nurse him faithfully. I'll pay them what they ask--anything."

"Money isn't everything, Millicent--surely you know that?"

"It can do a great deal. If you hadn't met him, he'd have died."

"But I have met him. Doesn't that show that I am entrusted with his welfare?"

"A chance meeting."

"That absurd word! By chance you mean such a big thing that your mind can't imagine it! You choose to call a link in the Divine Chain chance! the Chance which gives life, the Master of that which is ordained, you mean!"

"You can't nurse him, you can't do anything more for him than see that he has all that he wants. 'The faithful' will carry out your instructions. Do be practical, reasonable."

"It's no use, Millicent, I can't leave him. I won't." Michael shivered. "It's chilly. Let's go and eat our dinner."

"You must change first--I insist. It's only right to others."

"Then don't wait for me."

"Oh yes, I will. Only be quick." Millicent knew that she was too sick with fear to eat and enjoy the excellent dinner which had been prepared for them. As she waited for Michael, she cursed her own folly, her own abominable bad luck. If Michael was a carrier, she had no chance, unless she was one of those rare people who are immune from the disease. She did not think she was, because when she was last vaccinated, when she was fifteen, she had been very, very ill and sick.

She felt physically tired, for her brain was quick. It was imagining horrible things. She was visualizing her own beauty spoilt, her fair skin deeply pitted with pock-marks, her colour all gone. The disease would take the glitter from her hair, the glow from her personality.

She knew the result of smallpox. She saw herself, a little, washed-out, yellow-skinned woman, with weak eyes and drab-coloured hair.

Oh, why had she ever called Michael's attention to the saint? If he had not gone to his rescue, he would have died where he fell, bathed in the blood-red light of the afterglow. Why had Michael been such a fool as to touch him and nurse him? Had she not warned him that the fanatic was filthy and probably infectious? And, to make matters still worse, to leave no room for chance, she had of her own will flung herself into Michael's arms! Her determination to subject his will to hers, to triumph over Margaret, had brought her to this! Michael was further from her than ever. She had disgusted him; his only thought for her now was his desire to make her as religious as himself. She had to admit her defeat.

And this was how it had ended! Michael, the mystic, the quixotic idiot, had taken into his camp a creature sick with smallpox, and she, Millicent, had probably contracted it by her act of rashness! The desert seemed scarcely large enough to hold her anger. It stifled and exhausted her.

During dinner very little was spoken between the two, for Millicent was devastated by her own terrors and Michael was making plans for the sick man's isolation. His tent must remain where it was, while Michael's own, and all the servants', except those inhabited by the men who wished to nurse the saint, must be moved to a safe distance.

Millicent's going was driven from his mind.

Millicent was thankful that Michael did not notice how little she ate at dinner. The servant did; nothing pa.s.ses a native's eye. He knew the woman's terror.

Soon after their coffee was served they separated, Millicent going to her own tent and Michael to consult with Abdul. When Millicent reached her tent and had managed to compose her mind, she sent for Ha.s.san.

Half an hour later he left her. He had much to do. The _Sitt's_ orders were comprehensive.

Michael went early to bed. He was very tired. At about two o'clock in the morning he stirred in his sleep. Was he hearing the distant sound of camels roaring, or was he dreaming? He was too lazy to find out.

If there were jackals prowling about, the night-guards would see to them. Undoubtedly something had disturbed him, for as a rule he slept without moving the long night through.

Conscious of feeling deliciously sleepy and totally indifferent to anything but his own comfort, he soon fell asleep again. In his dreams he heard again the liquid sound of bells--mule bells and camel bells--growing fainter and fainter as the animals travelled into the distance.

In the morning, when he awoke, it was with a new lightness of spirit and refreshed vitality. A sense of freedom exalted him, a subconscious freedom, which had been absent for some days. The glory of the desert called to him. He felt spiritually and physically vitalized.

Even the recollection of the nature of the saint's illness did not damp his spirits. He would recover with careful nursing, and when he was better they would go on their way rejoicing. The Promised Land seemed nearer.

It was scarcely time for his early cup of tea, yet he saw Abdul bringing it. Perhaps the joy of life had waked him, too, perhaps he also was eager to get up and greet the morn. What a wonderful morning it was! All pure, cool, clear sunlight. Michael's heart, a throbbing organ of praise, sent forth a paean to the pagan skies.

"Is the Effendi awake? May his servant enter?"

"Yes, Abdul, come in."

Abdul entered with the noiseless movements of his race. As he stood by his master's bed, Michael saw that the unemotional native was attempting to hide his anger. Something had greatly upset him.

"What is it, Abdul? Has anyone been unkind to the saint?"

"_Aiwah_, Effendi, it is not that." Abdul spoke lengthily and in the correct Arabic fashion. He must not approach the subject too quickly.

"Tell me," Michael said. "What troubles you, Abdul?"

"_Aiwah_, Effendi, the honourable _Sitt_ has left you. She has gone--there is no trace of her camp."