Part 83 (2/2)

She pressed her hands on Margaret's feet. ”I am far worse than you knew! You are not made like me, you won't even understand if he tells you the things I did.”

”I don't wish to speak of it to Margaret,” Michael said. ”Get up. I have seen your penitence once too often to believe in it now--get up.”

”Oh,” Millicent moaned, ”I know, I know! You think this is just another bit of the old Millicent. It isn't--it is true.”

”Get up,” Margaret said kindly. ”I was only trying to be kind because . . . well, perhaps it is because I am so happy myself that I can afford to forgive you. Don't kneel like that . . . I hate to see you.

Michael knows how little I deserve it . . . I have hated you with all my heart and soul, I have longed for my revenge.”

”My G.o.d!” Michael said quickly, ”I hate to see the little coward near you! How dared you come? Get up!” he said again. ”And clear out! I thought we had finished with you for ever!”

Millicent dragged herself to her feet. She stood before him, a slender, nun-like figure; one of the black shawls which enveloped her had fallen to the floor.

”Go on, say all you feel--I deserve it, every word of it! I left you to your fate when you were in danger, I fled from the camp with but one idea in my head--my own safety, my desire to get as far as I could from the infection of smallpox. I carried the hateful disease with me; I am so disfigured that you must never see me. Never!” Her words ended in a low cry of self-pity.

”My G.o.d!” Michael said. ”Are you speaking the truth! Did you get smallpox?” He knew that the blame was partly his.

”Yes, but don't look at me. I can't bear it. Anything but that, oh not that!” Michael had stooped to raise her a veil.

His eyes met Margaret's. ”Poor soul!” he said. ”Poor little soul!”

”Yes, fate has punished me,” Millicent said. ”You can do no more.”

Michael groaned. ”We have not talked of it all yet, Margaret,” he said miserably, ”the horror of the smallpox.”

”Millicent has told me about it, Michael.” She tried to smile. ”It is a thing of the past. What good will talking do? We are happy again.”

Millicent turned to Michael. ”I have told her a very little,” she said. ”And now I have something which I must tell you. When I saw her in Cairo I told her that I had been with you, I told her that you would write to me, I inferred that you and I were lovers.”

Michael bent his head. He was innocent of any deed of unfaithfulness, but what of his desires? What of the night when Margaret's presence had saved him? He wondered if she was conscious of the part she had played in his renunciation.

”And you still trusted me?” Michael's words were so full of grat.i.tude and wonder that Margaret's veins were flooded with happiness. How greatly he had been tempted!

”I remembered my promise. More than once it seemed to me that I succeeded in being very near you.”

Her eyes questioned him. He understood; his eyes answered her.

”I told her that I had been with you,” Millicent said, ”but not for how long. She never dreamed that my coming was quite unknown to you, that I was with you for so short a time, that you hated my presence in the camp. How well she knew you!”

Margaret turned to Michael. ”Yes, I knew him,” she said. ”Thank G.o.d, I knew him! We learnt to know each other in the Valley, and I think I realized the situation better than you thought I did.”

”But I must tell you, I must show you even more than you dream of how true and loyal he has been.”

”No, no, please don't,” Margaret said. ”Michael has told me all I want to know.” She was sorry for Michael's embarra.s.sment; he writhed under the whole thing.

Millicent paid no attention to her words. She repeated the story for Margaret's benefit. Michael turned away impatiently. He had meant to tell Margaret all the details of his life in the desert when they were married and alone together.

”As I told you,” Millicent said, ”I met him in the desert. I had found out where he was going to. He was furiously angry . . . he wanted me to go back. I stayed against his wishes. The saint turning up the same day as I did made him forget me. I often tried to win him from you . . . and I thought I was succeeding. The only reason he didn't turn me out of the camp was because of my equipment and food--they were good for the holy man, who was ill. He was sickening with the smallpox, only we didn't know it. Michael took him into his camp. I told you about that. We didn't know what was the matter with him, but Michael behaved like an angel to the lunatic. When he discovered that he had smallpox, I implored him to leave him. When he wouldn't, I fled. That very night I left him alone, even though I had told him that I loved him--I had offered myself to him. I took all my luxuries with me. I was mad . . . furiously angry. He had taken the sick man in against all my entreaties; he had scorned my love. The next morning Ha.s.san told me that one of my men had deserted, left our camp at dawn.”

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