"But you are wonderfully like her."
Betty looked surprised.
"I don't see how," she answered.
"No, because we never see ourselves. But when I first knew you both, I
was immensely struck by the curious resemblance between you, in mind, in
the things you said, in the things you did, the people you liked."
"We both liked you."
"Yes."
"It would have been strange if we had both loved you!" Betty said,
musingly.
Bellairs laughed again, and gave his horse a cut with the whip. "I only
wanted one to do that," he said, not quite truthfully. "And, thank God,
I have got my desire."
Betty did not answer.
"Haven't I?" he persisted.
"You know whether you have or not," she answered. "How beautiful the
sunset is going to be to-night. Look at the light over Karnak."
She pointed towards the temple with her whip. Bellairs felt a crawling
despair that numbed him What did it all mean? Was he torturing himself
foolishly, or was this instinct which gnawed at his heart a thing to be
reckoned with? When he left Betty at the dahabeeyah, he walked slowly,
in the gathering shadows, along the path which skirts the dingy temple
of Luxor. This change in Betty was simply inexplicable. In no way could
he account for it. She had not the definite, angry coldness of a girl
who had made a dreadful mistake and hated the man who had led her to
make it. No; she seemed rather in a state of mental transition. She was
setting foot on some bridge, which, Bellairs felt, led away from the
shore on which she had been standing with him. Was her first transport
of love and joy a pretence? He could not believe so. He knew it was
genuine. That was the puzzle which he could not put together. And then
he tried to comfort himself by thinking deliberately of the many moods
that make the feminine mind so full of April weather, of how they come
and pass and are dead. All men had suffered from them, especially all
lovers. He could not expect to be exempt--only, till now, Betty had
seemed so utterly free from moods, so steadily frank, eager, charming,
responsive. Bellairs finally argued himself into a condition of despair,
during which he came to a resolve of despair. He silently decided to
seek a quiet interview with Clarice, and ask her what was the matter
with Betty. After all, there was no reason why he should not take this
step. Clarice had evidently not cared deeply for him. Otherwise, she
would not have accepted his desertion with such truly agreeable
fortitude. Theirs had been a passing flirtation--nothing more. And,
indeed, their intimacy gave him the right to consult her, while her
close knowledge of Betty must render her an infallible judge of any
reasons which there might be to render the latter's conduct
intelligible.
* * * * *
Bellairs did not have to wait long before he put his resolve into
practice. That evening Betty, who had become more and more abstracted
and silent, got up soon after dinner, and said she was tired, and was
going to bed. Bellairs tried to get a moment with her alone, but she
frustrated the attempt by holding out her hand to him in public and
markedly bidding him good-night before Lord and Lady Braydon. When she
had disappeared, Bellairs sought Clarice, who was downstairs in the
saloon writing letters. Clarice looked up from the blotting-pad as he
entered.
"I want to talk to you," he exclaimed abruptly.
"I am writing letters."
"Do give me a few minutes."
"Very well," she said, pushing her paper away and laying down her pen.
"What is it?"
"That's what I want to ask you. What has come over Betty? Is she ill?"
"Betty! Has anything come over her?"
Bellairs tapped his fingers impatiently on the table.
"Don't tell me you haven't noticed the change," he said. "Forgive me for
saying that I couldn't believe it if you did."
"In that case I won't trouble myself to say it."
"Ah--you have! Then what's the matter? Tell me."
"Hush, don't speak so loud or the sailors will hear you, and Abdul
understands English. I did not say I knew the reason of this change."
"You must. You are Betty's other self, or rather she is--was--yours."
"Was! Do you mean that she is not now?"
"Remember, she loves me."
"Oh, and that makes a difference?"
"Surely!"
"You have observed it?"
Bellairs hesitated. He scarcely knew whether to reply in the affirmative
or the negative. He resolved upon a compromise.
"There has hardly been time yet," he said; "naturally, I expect that
Betty will place me before every one else."
Mdlle. Leroux's eyes flashed under the hanging lamp.
"What we expect is not always what we get," she said significantly.
Bellairs flushed. He understood that she was alluding to his treatment
of her, but he preferred to ignore it, and went on:--
"Is Betty ill to-night?"
"Not at all."
"Then what on earth is the matter? I ask you for a plain answer. I think
I deserve so much."
"Men are always so deserving," she said with bitterness.
"And women are always so exacting," he retorted. "But please answer my
question."
"I will first ask you another. If you reply frankly to me, I will reply
frankly to you."
She leaned her elbows on the table, supporting her face on the palms of
her upturned hands, and looked into his eyes.
"Ask me," said Bellairs eagerly; "I'll do anything if you'll only
explain Betty to me."
"Why did you try to make me love you? Why did you make love to me?"
Bellairs pushed back his chair and there was an awkward silence.
Clarice's question was very unexpected and very difficult to answer.
"Well?" she said, still with her eyes on his.
"Is it any good our discussing this?" he replied at length. "It meant
nothing to you. It is over."
"How do you know it meant nothing to me?"
"You have shown that by your conduct. You care nothing. I am indifferent
to you."
"No, not indifferent, not at all."
"What? You can't mean--no, it is absurd!"
"What is absurd?"
"You can't--you don't mean that you really have any feeling for me?"
"I do mean it!"
Bellairs felt very uncomfortable. He scarcely knew what to do or say. He
fidgeted on his chair almost like a boy caught in a dishonest act.
"We had really better not talk about it," he said.
"Very well." Clarice reached out her hand for her pen and drew the
blotting-pad towards her.
"But Betty?" said Bellairs uneasily.
"You have not answered my question. I shall not answer yours." She
dipped her pen in the ink and prepared to go on with her letter.
Bellairs grew desperate.
"Look here," he said; "you must tell me the reason of this change in
Betty. Now I know you don't care for me, you don't really love me."
"No, I don't love you," she said quickly.
"Well, then, since you say that, I will answer your question. I tried to
win your heart because I wanted to win Betty's!"
"What do you mean?"
"That Betty is practically you--or was, your echo, in word, deed,
thought. Her mind, her heart, followed yours in everything. I loved her,
and I knew that if I made you like me very much she must follow you in
that feeling as in others. Since you don't love me, I can dare to tell
you this."
Clarice sat silent.
"Are you angry?" he asked.
"Go on," she said.
"That's all." Again a silence.
"It was your fault in a way," Bellairs said awkwardly. "You made Betty
your other self. Why did you not let her alone?"
"Can a strong nature help impressing itself on others?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm no psychologist. But--you must let Betty alone
now," he said.
"Suppose I can't. Suppose this sympathy between us has got beyond my
control?"
"I shall release Betty from this bondage to you," Bellairs said, "my
love will--"
"You! Your love!" Clarice said. And she burst into a laugh.
Bellairs suddenly leaned forward across the table.
"I believe you hate me," he exclaimed.
She, on her part, leaned forward till her face was near his.
"You're right," she whispered; "I do hate you. Now you know what's the
matter with Betty."
For a moment Bellairs did not understand.
"Now--I know--" he repeated. "I don't--Ah!" Comprehension flashed upon
him.
"You devil," he said--"you she-devil! Curse--curse you!" Clarice laughed
again. Bellairs sprang up.
"No, no, I won't believe it," he cried. "I can't. The thing's
impossible."
"Is it? The pendulum of my heart has swung back from love to hate.
Betty's is following."
"No, no!"
"Wait, and you will see. Already she seems to care less for you. You
yourself have remarked it."
"I have not," he said with violence.
"To-morrow she will care less, and so less--less--till she too--hates
you."
"Never!"
"Only wait--and you will know. And now, good-night. I must really write
my letter. It is to my mother, and must go by to-morrow's mail."
She resumed her writing quietly. Bellairs watched her for a moment. Then
he strode out of the room, across the gangway, up the bank.
How dark the night was.
* * * * *
The explanation of Clarice struck Bellairs with a benumbing force. In
vain he argued to himself that it was not the true one, that no heart
could follow another as she said Betty's followed hers, that no nature
could merely for ever echo another's. Some furtive despair lurking in
his soul whispered that she had spoken the truth. An appalling sense of
utter impotence seized him, as it seizes a man who fights with a shadow.
But he resolved to fight. His whole life's happiness hung on the issue.
On the following day he forced himself to be cheerful, gay, talkative.
He went early to the dahabeeyah, and proposed to Lord Braydon a picnic
to Thebes. Lord Braydon assented. A hamper was packed. The boat was
ordered. The little party assembled on the deck of the _Hatasoo_ for the
start; Lady Braydon, in a wide hat and sweeping grey veil, Clarice with
her big white parasol lined with pale green, Lord Braydon in his helmet,
his eyes protected by enormous spectacles. But where was Betty? Abdul,
the dragoman, went to tell her that they were going. She came, without
her hat, or gloves, holding a palm leaf fan in her hand.
"I am not coming," she said.
Clarice glanced at Bellairs. He pressed his lips together and felt that
he was turning white underneath the tan the Egyptian sun rays had
painted on his cheeks. Lady Braydon protested.
"What's the matter, Betty?" she said. "The donkeys are ordered and
waiting for us on the opposite bank. Why aren't you coming?"
"I have got a headache. I'm afraid of the sun to-day." All persuasion
was useless. They had to set out without her. Bellairs was bitterly
angry, bitterly afraid. He could scarcely make the necessary effort to
be polite and talkative, but Lord and Lady Braydon readily excused his
gloom, understanding his disappointment, and Clarice no longer desired
his conversation. That night he did not see Betty. She was confined to
her cabin and would see no one but Clarice. On the following day
Bellairs went very early to the dahabeeyah and asked for her. Abdul took
his message, and, after an interval, returned to him with the following
note:--
"DEAR MR BELLAIRS,--I am very sorry I cannot see you this
morning, but I am still very unwell. I think the mental agony
I have been and am undergoing accounts for my condition. I
must tell you the truth. I cannot marry you. I mistook my
feeling for you. I honestly thought it love. I find it is only
friendship. Can you ever forgive me the pain I am causing you?
I cannot forgive myself. But I should do you a much greater
wrong by marrying you than by giving you up. I have told my
father and mother. See them if you like. We sail to-morrow
morning for Assouan.
"BETTY."
Bellairs, crumpling this note in his hand, would have burst forth into a
passion of useless rage and despair, but Abdul's lustrous eyes were
fixed upon him. Abdul's dignified form calmly waited his pleasure.
"Where is Lord Braydon?" said Bellairs, "I must see him."
"His lordship is on the second deck, sir."
"Take me to him."
The interview that followed only increased the despair of Bellairs. Lord
Braydon was most sympathetic, most courteously sorry, but he said that
his daughter's decision was absolutely irrevocable, and he could not
attempt to coerce her in such an important matter.
"At any rate, I must see her before you sail," said Bellairs at last. "I
think she owes me at least that one last debt."
"I think so too," said Lord Braydon. "Come at six. I will undertake that
you shall see her."
How Bellairs spent the intervening hours he could never remember. He did
not go back to the hotel; he must have wandered all day along the river
bank. Yet he felt neither the heat, nor any fatigue, nor any hunger. At
six o'clock he reached the dahabeeyah. Lady Betty was sitting alone on
the deck. She looked very pale and grave.
"My father and mother and Clarice have gone up to the hotel," she said.
"That Austrian is playing again this evening."
"Is he?" Bellairs answered. He sat down beside her and tried to take her
hand. But she would not let him.
"No," she said. "No, it's no use. I have made a ghastly mistake, but I
will not make another. Oh, forgive me, do forgive me!"
"How can I? If you will not try to love me my life is ruined."
"Don't say that. It's no use to try to love. You know that. We must just
let ourselves alone. Love comes, or hate, just as God wills it. We can
only accept our fate."
"As God wills," Bellairs said passionately; "why do you say that, when
you know it is not true?"
"Not true--Mr Bellairs!"
"Yes. If you echoed the will of God how could I blame you? We must all
do that--at least, when we are good. And those of us who are wicked I
suppose echo the Devil. But you--what do you echo?"
"I--I echo no one. I don't understand you."
"But you shall, before it is too late. Betty, be yourself. Emancipate
your soul. You are the echo of that woman, of Clarice. Don't you see it?
Don't you know it? You are her echo--and she hates me!"
Betty drew back from him--she was evidently alarmed.
"Are you mad?" she said. "Why do you say such things to me? Clarice and
I love each other, it is true, but our real natures are totally
different. She does not hate you, nor do I. She has never said one word
against you to me. She has always told me how much she liked you. What
are you saying?"
"The truth!"
"I--her echo! Why, then--then if that were the case she must have loved
you, or thought she loved you. Do you dare to tell me that?"
"I do not say that," Bellairs answered hopelessly.
"Of course not. The idea is so absurd. Clarice--oh! how can you talk
like this? And if I am only an echo, as you call it, how can you say you
care for me, care for another woman's shadow? You do not love me."
"I do--with all my heart."
"And yet you say I am nothing, that I have not even a heart of my own,
that I love or hate at the will of another."
"Forgive me, forgive me! I don't know what I say. I only know I love
you."
Her face softened.
"And you deserve to be loved," she said; "but I--it is so horrible--I
cannot!"
Suddenly Bellairs caught her in his arms.
"You shall," he exclaimed, "you shall. I will make you." But she pushed
him back with a strange strength, and her face hardened till he scarcely
recognised it.
"Don't do that--don't touch me--or you'll make me hate you," she said
vehemently.
Bellairs let her go. At that moment there was a step on the deck.
Clarice appeared. She did not seem to notice that anything was wrong.
She smiled.
"Isn't it sad, Mr Bellairs," she said, "we sail to-morrow. I love Luxor.
I can't bear to leave it."
Bellairs suddenly turned and hurried away. He could no longer trust
himself. There was blood before his eyes.
* * * * *
It was dawn. The Nile was smooth as a river of oil. Light mists rolled
upwards gently, discovering the rosy flanks of the Libyan mountains to
the sun. The sky began to glimmer with a dancing golden heat. On the
brown bank where the boats lie in the shadow a man stood alone. His
hands were tightly clenched. His lips worked silently. His eyes were
fixed in a stare. And away in the distance up river, a tiny trail of
smoke floated towards Luxor. It came from a steam tug that drew a
following dahabeeyah.
The _Queen Hatasoo_ was on her voyage to Assouan.