Pharos the Egyptian | Page 4

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 uphill 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 three were
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 for ever.'

* * * * *
"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 chimney-piece 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 that one.
How strange--indeed, how most unbelievable--it is I do not think I even
realized 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,