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                         PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN

                              _A ROMANCE_

                            BY GUY BOOTHBY

               AUTHOR OF DOCTOR NIKOLA, THE LUST OF HATE,
                    THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL, ETC.


NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1899

Copyright, 1898, 1899,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

_All rights reserved._




PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN.




PREFACE.

BEING A LETTER FROM SIR WILLIAM BETFORD, OF BAMPTON ST. MARY, IN
DORSETSHIRE, TO GEORGE TREVELYAN, OF LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, LONDON.



"My dear Trevelyan: Never in my life have I been placed in such an
awkward, not to say invidious, position. I am, as you know, a plain man,
fond of a plain life and plain speaking, and yet I am about to imperil
that reputation by communicating to you what I fancy you will consider
the most extraordinary and unbelievable intelligence you have ever
received in your life. For my own part I do not know what to think. I
have puzzled over the matter until I am not in a position to judge
fairly. You must, therefore, weigh the evidence, first for us both. For
pity's sake, however, do not decide hastily. _In dubiis benigniora
semper sunt praeferenda_, as they used to say in our school days, must be
our motto, and by it we must abide at any hazards. As far as I can see,
we are confronted with one of the saddest and at the same time one of
the most inexplicable cases ever yet recorded on paper. Reduced to its
proper factors it stands as follows: Either Forrester has gone mad and
dreamed it all, or he is sane and has suffered as few others have done
in this world. In either case he is deserving of our deepest pity. In
one way only are we fortunate. Knowing the man as we do, we are in a
position to estimate the value of the accusations he brings against
himself. Of one thing I am convinced--a more honourable being does not
walk this earth. Our acquaintance with him is of equal length. We were
introduced to him, and to each other, on one and the same occasion,
upward of twelve years ago; and during that time I know I am right in
saying neither of us ever had reason to doubt his word or the honour of
a single action. Indeed, to my mind he had but one fault, a not uncommon
one in these latter days of the nineteenth century. I refer to his
somewhat morbid temperament and the consequent leaning toward the
supernatural it produced in him.

"As the world has good reason to remember, his father was perhaps the
most eminent Egyptologist our century has seen; a man whose whole mind
and being was impregnated with a love for that ancient country and its
mystic past. Small wonder, therefore, that the son should have inherited
his tastes and that his life should have been influenced by the same
peculiar partiality. While saying, however, that he had a weakness for
the supernatural, I am by no means admitting that he was what is
vulgarly termed a spiritualist. I do not believe for an instant that he
ever declared himself so openly. His mind was too evenly balanced, and
at the same time too healthy to permit such an enthusiastic declaration
of his interest. For my part, I believe he simply inquired into the
matter as he would have done into, shall we say, the Kinetic theory of
gases, or the history of the ruined cities of Mashonaland, for the
purpose of satisfying his curiosity and of perfecting his education on
the subject. Having thus made my own feelings known to you, I will leave
the matter in your hands, confident that you will do him justice, and
will proceed to describe how the pathetic record of our friend's
experiences came into my possession.

"I had been hunting all day and did not reach home until between
half-past six and seven o'clock. We had a house full of visitors at the
time, I remember, some of whom had been riding with me, and the
dressing-gong sounded as we dismounted from our horses at the steps. It
was plain that if we wished to change our attire and join the ladies in
the drawing-room before dinner was announced, we had no time to lose.
Accordingly we departed to our various rooms with all possible speed.

"There is nothing pleasanter or more refreshing after a long day in the
saddle than a warm bath. On this particular occasion I was in the full
enjoyment of this luxury when a knocking sounded at the door. I inquired
who was there.

"'Me, sir--Jenkins,' replied my servant. 'There is a person downstairs,
sir, who desires to see you.'

"'To see me at this hour,' I answered. 'What is his name, and what does
he want?'

"'His name is Silver, sir,' the man replied; and then, as if the
information might be put forward as some excuse for such a late visit,
he continued: 'I believe he is a kind of foreigner, sir. Leastways, he's
very dark, and don't speak the same, quite, as an Englishman might do.'

"I considered for a moment. I knew of no person named Silver who could
have any possible reason for desiring to see me at seven o'clock in the
evening.

"'Go down and inquire his business,' I said, at length. 'Tell him I am
engaged to-night; but if he can make it convenient to call in the
morning, I will see him.'

"The man departed on his errand, and by the time he returned I had
reached my dressing-room once more.

"'He is very sorry, sir,' he began, as soon as he had closed the door,
'but he says he must get back to Bampton in time to catch the 8.15
express to London. He wouldn't tell me his business, but asked me to say
that it is most important, and he would be deeply grateful if you could
grant him an interview this evening.'

"'In that case,' I said, 'I suppose I _must_ see him. Did he tell you no
more?'

"'No, sir. Leastways, that wasn't exactly the way he put it. He said,
sir, "If the gentleman won't see me otherwise, tell him I come to him
from Mr. Cyril Forrester. Then I think he will change his mind."'

"As the man, whoever he was, had predicted, this _did_ make me change my
mind. I immediately bade Jenkins return and inform him that I would be
with him in a few moments. Accordingly, as soon as I had dressed, I left
my room and descended to the study. The fire was burning brightly, and a
reading-lamp stood upon the writing-table. The remainder of the room,
however, was in shadow, but not sufficiently so to prevent my
distinguishing a dark figure seated between the two bookcases. He rose
as I entered, and bowed before me with a servility that, thank God! is
scarcely English. When he spoke, though what he said was grammatically
correct, his accent revealed the fact that he was not a native of our
Isles.

"'Sir William Betford, I believe,' he began, as I entered the room.

"'That is my name,' I answered, at the same time turning up the lamp and
lighting the candles upon the mantelpiece in order that I might see him
better. 'My man tells me you desire an interview with me. He also
mentioned that you have come from my old friend, Mr. Cyril Forrester,
the artist, who is now abroad. Is this true?'

"'Quite true,' he replied. 'I do come from Mr. Forrester.'

"The candles were burning brightly by this time, and, as a result, I was
able to see him more distinctly. He was of medium height, very thin, and
wore a long overcoat of some dark material. His face was distinctly
Asiatic in type, though the exact nationality I could not determine.
Possibly he might have hailed from Siam.

"'Having come from Mr. Forrester,' I said, when I had seated myself,
'you will be able to tell me his address, I have neither seen nor heard
of or from him for more than a year past.'

"'I regret exceedingly that it is impossible for me to give you the
information you seek,' the man replied, civilly but firmly. 'My
instructions were most explicit upon that point.'

"'You come to me from him, and yet you are instructed not to tell me his
address?' I said, with natural surprise. 'That is rather extraordinary,
is it not? Remember, I am one of his oldest, and certainly one of his
firmest, friends.'

"'Nevertheless, I was instructed on no account to reveal his present
residence to you,' the man replied.

"'What, then, can your business be with me?' I asked, more nettled at
his words than I cared to show.

"'I have brought you a packet,' he said, 'which Mr. Forrester was most
anxious I should personally deliver to your hands. There is a letter
inside which he said would explain everything. I was also instructed to
obtain from you a receipt, which I am to convey to him again.'

"So saying, he dived his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, and
brought thence a roll, which he placed with some solemnity upon the
table.

"'There is the packet,' he said. 'Now if you will be kind enough to give
me a note stating that you have received it, I will take my departure.
It is most necessary that I should catch the express to London, and if I
desire to do so, I have a sharp walk in front of me.'

"'You shall have the receipt,' I answered; and, taking a sheet of
notepaper from a drawer, I wrote the following letter:--

    "'THE GRANGE, BAMPTON ST. MARY,
    "'_December 14, 18--._

     "'DEAR FORRESTER: This evening I have been surprised by a visit
     from a man named----'

"Here I paused and inquired the messenger's name, which I had, for the
moment, forgotten.

"'Honore de Silva,' he replied.

     "'----from a man named Honore de Silva, who has handed me a
     packet for which he desires this letter shall be a receipt. I
     have endeavoured to elicit your address from him, but on this
     point he is adamant. Is it kind to an old friend to let him
     hear from you, but at the same time to refuse to permit him to
     communicate with you? Why all this mystery? If you are in
     trouble, who would so gladly share it with you as your old
     friend? If you need help, who would so willingly give it? Are
     the years during which we have known each other to count for
     nothing? Trust me, and I think you are aware that I will not
     abuse your confidence.

     "Your affectionate friend,

     "'WILLIAM BETFORD.'

"Having blotted it, I placed the letter in an envelope, directed it to
Cyril Forrester, Esq., and handed it to De Silva, who placed it
carefully in an inner pocket and rose to take leave of me.

"'Will nothing induce you to reveal your employer's present place of
residence?' I said. 'I assure you I am most anxious to prove his
friend.'

"'I can easily believe that,' he answered. 'He has often spoken of you
in terms of the warmest affection. If you could hear him, I am sure you
would have no doubt on that score.'

"I was much affected, as you may imagine, on hearing this, and his
assertion emboldened me to risk yet another question.

"'Upon one point, at least, you can set my mind at rest,' I said. 'Is
Mr. Forrester happy?'

"'He is a man who has done with happiness such as you mean, and will
never know it again,' he answered solemnly.

"'My poor old friend,' I said, half to myself and half to him. And then
added, 'Is there no way in which I can help him?'

"'None,' De Silva replied. 'But I can tell you no more, so I beg you
will not ask me.'

"'But you can surely answer one other question,' I continued, this time
with what was almost a note of supplication in my voice. 'You can tell
me whether, in your opinion, we, his friends, will see him again, or if
he intends to spend the remainder of his life in exile?'

"'That I can safely answer. No! You will never see him again. He will
not return to this country, or to the people who have known him here.'

"'Then may God help him and console him, for his trouble must be bitter
indeed!'

"'It is well-nigh insupportable,' said De Silva, with the same
solemnity; and then, picking up his hat, bowed, and moved toward the
door.

"'I must risk one last question. Tell me if he will communicate with me
again?'

"'Never,' the other replied. 'He bade me tell you, should you ask, that
you must henceforth consider him as one who is dead. You must not
attempt to seek for him, but consign him to that oblivion in which only
he can be at peace.'

"Before I could say more he had opened the door and passed into the
hall. A moment later I heard the front door close behind him, a step
sounded on the gravel before my window, and I was left standing upon the
hearthrug, staring at the packet upon the table. Then the gong sounded,
and I thrust the roll into a drawer. Having securely locked the latter,
I hastened to the drawing-room to meet my guests.

"Needless to say, my demeanour during dinner was not marked with any
great degree of gaiety. The interview with De Silva had upset me
completely; and though I endeavoured to play the part of an attentive
host, my attempt was far from being successful. I found my thoughts
continually reverting to that curious interview in the study, and to the
packet which had come into my possession in such a mysterious manner,
the secret contained in which I had still to learn.

"After dinner we adjourned to the billiard-room, where we spent the
evening; consequently it was not until my guests bade me 'Good night,'
and retired to their various rooms, by which time it was well after
eleven o'clock, that I found myself at liberty to return to the study.

"Once there, I made up the fire, wheeled an easy-chair to a position
before it, arranged the reading-lamp so that the light should fall upon
the paper over my left shoulder, and having made these preparations,
unlocked the drawer and took out the packet De Silva had handed to me.

"It was with a mixture of pain, a small measure of curiosity, but more
apprehension as to what I should find within, that I cut the string and
broke the seals. Inside I discovered a note and a roll of manuscript in
that fine and delicate handwriting we used to know so well. After a
hasty glance at it, I put the latter aside, and opened the envelope. The
note I found within was addressed to you, Trevelyan, as well as to
myself, and read as follows:--

     "'MY DEAR OLD FRIENDS: In company with many other people, you
     must have wondered what the circumstances could have been that
     induced me to leave England so suddenly, to forfeit the success
     I had won for myself after so much up-hill work, and, above
     all, to bid farewell to a life and an art I loved so devotedly,
     and from which, I think I may be excused for saying, I had such
     brilliant expectations. I send you herewith, Betford, by a
     bearer I can trust, an answer to that question. I want you to
     read it, and, having done so, to forward it to George
     Trevelyan, with the request that he will do the same. When you
     have mastered the contents, you must unitedly arrange with some
     publishing house to put it before the world, omitting nothing,
     and in no way attempting to offer any extenuation for my
     conduct. We were three good friends once, in an age as dead to
     me now as the Neolithic. For the sake of that friendship,
     therefore, I implore this favour at your hands. As you hope for
     mercy on that Last Great Day when the sins of all men shall be
     judged, do as I entreat you now. How heavily I have sinned
     against my fellow-men--in ignorance, it is true--you will know
     when you have read what I have written. This much is
     certain--the effect of it weighs upon my soul like lead. If you
     have any desire to make that load lighter, carry out the wish I
     now express to you. Remember me also in your prayers, praying
     not as for a man still living, but as you would for one long
     since dead. That God may bless and keep you both will ever be
     the wish of your unhappy friend,

     "'CYRIL FORRESTER.

     "'P. S.--Matthew Simpford, in the Strand, is keeping two
     pictures for me. They were once considered among my best work.
     I ask you each to accept one, and when you look at them try to
     think as kindly as possible of the friend who is gone from you
     forever.'

"So much for the letter. It is possible there may be people who will
smile sarcastically when they read that, as I finished it, tears stood
in my eyes, so that I could scarcely see the characters upon the paper.

"You, Trevelyan, I know, will understand my emotion better. And why
should I not have been affected? Forrester and I had been good friends
in the old days, and it was only fit and proper I should mourn his loss.
Handsome, generous, clever, who could help loving him? I could not,
that's certain.

"The letter finished, I replaced it in its envelope and turned my
attention to the manuscript. When I began to read, the hands of the
clock upon the chimneypiece stood at twenty minutes to twelve, and they
had reached a quarter past five before I had completed my task. All that
time I read on without stopping, filled with amazement at the story my
poor friend had to tell, and consumed with a great sorrow that his
brilliant career should have terminated in such an untoward manner.

"Now, having completed my share of the task, as required of me in the
letter, I send the manuscript by special messenger to you. Read it as he
desires, and when you have done so let me have your opinion upon it.
Then I will come up to town, and we will arrange to carry out the last
portion of our poor friend's request together. In the meantime,

    "Believe me ever your friend,

    "WILLIAM BETFORD."

       *       *       *       *       *

_Six months later._

Trevelyan and I have completed the task allotted to us. We have read
Forrester's manuscript, and we have also discovered a publisher who will
place it before the world. What the result is to be it remains for time
to decide.




CHAPTER I.


If ever a man in this world had a terrible--I might almost go so far as
to add a shameful--story to relate, surely I, Cyril Forrester, am the
one. How strange--indeed, how most unbelievable--it is I do not think I
even realised myself until I sat down to write it. The question the
world will in all probability ask when it has read it is, why it should
have been told at all. It is possible it may be of opinion that I should
have served my generation just as well had I allowed it to remain locked
up in my own bosom for all time. This, however, my conscience would not
permit. There are numberless reasons, all of them important and some
imperative beyond all telling, why I should make my confession, though
God knows I am coward enough to shrink from the task. And if you
consider for a moment, I think you will understand why. In the first
place, the telling of the story can only have the effect of depriving me
of the affection of those I love, the respect of those whose good
opinion I have hitherto prized so highly, the sympathy of my most
faithful friends, and, what is an equal sacrifice as far as I am
personally concerned--though it is, perhaps, of less importance to
others--the fame I have won for myself after so hard a struggle. All
this is swept away like drift-wood before a rising tide, and as a result
I retire into voluntary exile, a man burdened with a life-long sorrow.
How I have suffered, both in body and mind, none will ever understand.
That I have been punished is also certain, how heavily you, my two old
friends, will be able to guess when you have read my story. With the
writing of it I have severed the last link that binds me to the
civilized world. Henceforth I shall be a wanderer and an outcast, and
but for one reason could wish myself dead. But that is enough of regret;
let me commence my story.

Two years ago, as you both have terrible reason to remember, there
occurred in Europe what may, perhaps, be justly termed the most
calamitous period in its history, a time so heart-breaking, that
scarcely a man or woman can look back upon it without experiencing the
keenest sorrow. Needless to say I refer to the outbreak of the plague
among us, that terrible pestilence which swept Europe from end to end,
depopulated its greatest cities, filled every burial-place to
overflowing, and caused such misery and desolation in all ranks of life
as has never before been known among us. Few homes were there, even in
this fair England of ours, but suffered some bereavement; few families
but mourn a loss the wound of which has even now barely healed. And it
is my part in this dreadful business that I have forced myself with so
much bitter humiliation to relate. Let me begin at the very beginning,
tell everything plainly and straightforwardly, offer nothing in
extenuation of my conduct, and trust only to the world to judge me, if
such a thing be possible, with an unbiassed mind.

I date my misery from a wet, miserable night in the last week of
March--a night without a glimpse of the moon, which, on that particular
evening, was almost at its full. There had been but one solitary hour of
painting-light all day; short as it was, however, it was sufficient for
my purpose. My picture for the Academy was finished, and now all that
remained was to pack it up and send it in. It was, as you remember, my
eighth, and in every way my most successful effort. The subject I had
chosen had enthralled me from the moment it had first entered my head,
and the hours of thought and preparation it had entailed will always
rank among the happiest of my life. It represented Merenptah, the
Pharaoh of the Exodus, learning from the magicians the effect of his
obstinacy in the death of his first-born son. The canvas showed him
seated on his throne, clad in his robes of state. His head was pushed a
little forward, his chin rested in his hand, while his eyes looked
straight before him as though he were endeavouring to peer into the
future in the hope of reading there the answer to the troubled thoughts
inside his brain. Behind him stood the sorcerers, one of whom had found
courage to announce the baneful tidings.

The land of Egypt has always possessed a singular attraction for me--a
taste which, doubtless, I inherit from my poor father, who, as you are
aware, was one of the greatest authorities upon the subject the world
has ever known.

As I have said, it was a miserable night, dark as the pit of Tophet. A
biting wind whistled through the streets, the pavements were dotted with
umbrella-laden figures, the kennels ran like mill-sluices, while the
roads were only a succession of lamp-lit puddles through which the
wheeled traffic splashed continuously. For some reason--perhaps because
the work upon which I had been so long and happily engaged was finished
and I felt lonely without it to occupy my mind--I was stricken with a
fit of the blues. Convinced that my own company would not take me out of
it, I left my studio in search of more congenial society. This was soon
forthcoming; and you will remember, Betford and Trevelyan, that we dined
together at a little restaurant in the neighbourhood of Leicester
Square, and followed the dinner up with a visit to a theatre. As
ill-luck would have it, I was in the minority in the choice of a place
of entertainment. The result was disastrous. Instead of ridding myself
of my melancholy, as I had hoped to do, I intensified it, and when, at
the end of the evening, I bade you farewell in the Strand, my spirits
had reached a lower level than they had attained all day. I remember
distinctly standing beneath a gas-lamp at the corner of Villiers Street,
as the clocks were striking midnight, feeling disinclined to return to
my abode and go to bed, and yet equally at a loss to know in what manner
I should employ myself until there was some likelihood of slumber
visiting my eyelids. To help me make up my mind I lit a fresh cigar and
strolled down toward the river. On the pavement, at the foot of the
steps leading to Hungerford Bridge, a poor tattered creature, yet still
possessing some pretensions to gentlemanly address, came from beneath
the archway and begged of me, assuring me most solemnly that, as far as
he was concerned, the game was played out, and if I did not comply with
his request, he would forthwith end his troubles in the river. I gave
him something--I can not now remember what--and then, crossing the road,
made my way along the Embankment toward Cleopatra's Needle. The rain had
ceased for the moment, and in the north a few stars were shining. The
myriad lights of the Embankment were reflected in the river like lines
of dancing fire, and I remember that behind me a train was rolling
across the bridge from Charing Cross with a noise like distant thunder.
I suppose I must have been thinking of my picture, and of the land and
period which had given me the idea. At any rate, I know that on this
occasion the ancient monument in front of which I soon found myself
affected me as it had never done before. I thought of the centuries that
had passed since those hieroglyphics were carved