“What do you propose doing when you get ashore4?” I inquired of my companion, more for the sake of breaking the silence than for any desire I had for the information.
“That will very much depend upon circumstances,” he replied, still without looking at me. “Our main object must be to reach London as quickly as possible.” Then, changing his tone, he turned to me. “Forrester, my dear fellow,” he said, almost sorrowfully, “you cannot think how I regret our little disagreement of this morning. I am afraid, while I am touchy5, you are headstrong; and, in consequence, we misunderstand each other. I cannot, of course, tell what you think of me in your heart, but I venture to believe that if you knew everything, you would be the first to own that you have wronged me. Bad as I may be, I am not quite what you would make me out. If I were, do you think, knowing your antagonism6 as I do, I should have kept you so long with me? You have doubted me from the beginning; in fact, as you will remember, you once went so far as to accuse me of the crime of murder. You afterwards acknowledged your mistake — in handsome terms, I will own; but to counterbalance such frankness, you later on accused me of drugging you in Cairo. This was another fallacy, as you yourself will, I am sure, admit. In Prague you ran away from me, taking my ward7 with you, a very curious proceeding8, regarded in whatever light you choose to look at it. What was your object? Why, to reach England. Well, as soon as I knew that, I again showed my desire to help you. As a proof of that, are we not now on board this ship, and is not that the coast of England over yonder?”
I admitted that it was. But I was not at all prepared to subscribe9 to his generous suggestion that he had only undertaken the voyage for my sake.
“That, however, is not all,” he continued, still in the same tone. “As I think I told you in Prague, I am aware that you entertain a sincere affection for my ward. Many men in my position would doubtless have refused their consent to your betrothal10, if for no other reason, because of your behaviour to myself. I am, however, cast in a different mould. If you will only play fair by me, you will find that I will do so to you. I like you, as I have so often said, and, though I am doubtless a little hasty in my temper, there is nothing I would not do to help you, either in your heart, your ambition, or your love. And I can assure you my help is not to be despised. If it is fame you seek, you have surely seen enough of me to know that I can give it to you. If it is domestic happiness, who can do so much for you as I?”
“I hope, Monsieur Pharos,” I answered, in as dignified11 a manner as I could assume, “that I appreciate your very kind remarks at their proper value, and also the generous manner in which you have offered to forget and forgive such offences as I have committed against yourself. You must, however, pardon me if I fail to realise the drift of your remarks. There have been times during the last six weeks when you have uttered the most extraordinary threats against myself. Naturally, I have no desire to quarrel with you; but, remembering what has passed between us, I am compelled to show myself a little sceptical of your promises.”
He glanced sharply at me, but was wise enough to say nothing. A moment later, making the excuse that he must discover where the mate intended to bring up, he left me and went forward to the bridge.
I was still thinking of my conversation with Pharos, and considering whether I had been wise in letting him see my cards, when a little hand stole into mine, and I found Valerie beside me.
“I could not remain below,” she said, “when we were nearing England. I knew the effect the land would have upon you, and I wanted to be with you.”
I then gave her an account of the interview I had had with Pharos, and of all he had said to me and I to him. She listened attentively12 enough, but I could see that she was far from being impressed.
“Do not trust him,” she said. “Surely you know him well enough by this time not to do so. You may be very sure he has some reason for saying this, otherwise he would not trouble himself to speak about it.”
“I shall not trust him,” I replied. “You need have no fear of that. My experience of him has taught me that it is in such moments as these that he is most dangerous. When he is in one of his bad humours, one is on the alert and prepared for anything he may do or say; but when he repents13 and appears so anxious to be friendly, one scarcely knows how to take him. Suspicion is lulled14 to sleep for the moment, there is a feeling of security, and it is then the mischief15 is accomplished16.”
“We will watch him together,” she continued; “but, whether he is friendly or otherwise, we will not trust him even for a moment.”
So close were we by this time to the shore, and so still was the night, that we could even hear the wavelets breaking upon the beach. Then the screw of the steamer ceased to revolve17, and when it was quite still Pharos and the second mate descended18 from the bridge and joined us.
“This has been a bad business, a very bad business,” the mate was saying. “The skipper, the chief engineer, the steward19, and three of the hands all dead, and no port to put into for assistance. I wish I was going ashore like you.”
We shook hands with him in turn, and then descended the ladder to the boat alongside. The thought of the mate’s position on board that plague-stricken vessel20 may possibly have accounted for the silence in which we pushed off and headed for the shore; at any rate, not a word was spoken. The sea was as calm as a mill-pond, and for the reason that the night was dark, and we were all dressed in sombre colours, while the boat chosen for the work of landing us was painted a deep black, it was scarcely likely our presence would be detected. Be that as it may, no coastguard greeted us on our arrival. Therefore, as soon as the boat was aground, we made our way into the bows, and with the assistance of the sailors reached the beach. Pharos rewarded the men, and remained standing beside the water until he had seen them safely embarked21 on their return journey to the steamer. Then, without a word to us, he turned himself about, crossed the beach, and carrying his beloved monkey in his arms, began slowly to ascend22 the steep path which led to the high land on which the village was situated23. We did not, however, venture to approach the place itself.
The remembrance of that strange night often returns to me now. In my mind’s eye I can see the squat24 figure of Pharos tramping on ahead, Valerie following a few steps behind him, and myself bringing up the rear, and all this with the brilliant stars overhead, the lights of the village showing dimly across the sandhills to our right, and the continuous murmur25 of the sea behind us.
For upwards26 of an hour we tramped on in this fashion, and in that time scarcely covered a distance of four miles. Had it occurred at the commencement of our acquaintance I should not have been able to understand how Pharos, considering his age and infirm appearance, could have accomplished even so much. Since then, however, I had been permitted so many opportunities of noting the enormous strength and vitality27 contained in his meagre frame that I was past any feeling of wonderment. Valerie it was who caused me most anxiety. Only two days before she had been stricken by the plague; yesterday she was still confined to her cabin. Now here she was, subjected to intense excitement and no small amount of physical exertion28. Pharos must have had the same thought in his mind, for more than once he stopped and inquired if she felt capable of proceeding, and on one occasion he poured out for her from a flask29 he carried in his pocket a small cupful of some fluid he had doubtless brought with him for that purpose. At last the welcome sight of a railway line came into view. It crossed the road, and as soon as we saw it we stopped and took counsel together. The question for us to consider was whether it would be wiser to continue our walk along the high road, on the chance of its bringing us to a station, or whether we should clamber up the embankment to the railway line itself, and follow that along in the hope of achieving the same result. On the one side there was the likelihood of our having to go a long way round, and on the other the suspicion that might possibly be aroused in the minds of the railway officials should we make an appearance at the station in such an unorthodox fashion. Eventually, however, we decided30 for the railway line. Accordingly we mounted the stile beside the arch, and having clambered up the embankment to the footpath31 beside the permanent way, resumed our march, one behind the other as before. We had not, however, as it turned out, very much further to go, for on emerging from the cutting, which began at a short distance from the arch just referred to, we saw before us a glimmering32 light, emanating33, so we discovered later, from the signal-box on the further side of the station. I could not help wondering how Pharos would explain our presence at such an hour, but I knew him well enough by this time to feel sure that he would be able to do so, not only to his own, but to everybody else’s satisfaction. The place itself proved to be a primitive34 roadside affair, with a small galvanised shelter for passengers, and a cottage at the further end, which we set down rightly enough as the residence of the stationmaster. The only lights to be seen were an oil-lamp above the cottage door, and another in the waiting-room. No sign of any official could be discovered.
“We must now find out,” said Pharos, “at what time the next train leaves for civilisation35. Even in such a hole as this they must surely have a time-table.”
So saying, he went into the shelter before described and turned up the lamp. His guess proved to be correct, for a number of notices were pasted upon the wall.
“Did you happen to see the name of the station as you came along the platform?” he inquired of me as he knelt upon the seat and ran his eye along the printed sheets.
“I did not,” I replied; “but I will very soon find out.”
Leaving them, I made my way along the platform toward the cottage. Here on a board suspended upon the fence was the name “Tebworth” in large letters. I returned and informed Pharos, who immediately placed his skinny finger upon the placard before him.
“Tebworth,” he said. “Here it is. The next train for Norwich leaves at 2.48. What is the time now?”
I consulted my watch.
“Ten minutes to two,” I replied. “Roughly speaking, we have an hour to wait.”
“We are lucky in not having longer,” Pharos replied. “It is a piece of good fortune to get a train at all at such an early hour.”
With that he seated himself in a corner and closed his eyes as if preparatory to slumber36. I suppose I must have dozed37 off after a while, for I have no remembrance of anything further until I was awakened38 by hearing the steps of a man on the platform outside, and his voice calling to a certain Joel, whoever he might be, to know if there were any news of the train for which we were waiting.
Before the other had time to answer Pharos had risen and gone out. The exclamation39 of surprise, to say nothing of the look of astonishment40 upon the stationmaster’s face — for the badge upon his cap told me it was he — when he found Pharos standing before him, was comical in the extreme.
“Good evening,” said the latter in his most urbane41 manner, “or rather, since it is getting on for three o’clock, I suppose I should say ‘Good morning.’ Is you train likely to be late, do you think?”
“I don’t fancy so, sir,” the man replied. “She always runs up to time.”
Then, unable to contain the curiosity our presence on his platform at such an hour occasioned him, he continued, “No offence, I hope, sir, but we don’t have many passengers of your kind by it as a general rule. It’s full early for ladies and gentlemen Tebworth way to be travelling about the country.”
“Very likely,” said Pharos, with more than his usual sweetness; “but you see, my friend, our case is peculiar42. We have a poor lady with us whom we are anxious to get up to London as quickly as possible. The excitement of travelling by day would be too much for her, so we choose the quiet of the early morning. Of course you understand.”
Pharos tapped his forehead in a significant manner, and his intelligence being thus complimented, the man glanced into the shelter, and seeing Valerie seated there with a sad expression upon her face, turned to Pharos and said —
“When the train comes in, sir, you leave it to me, and I’ll see if I can’t find you a carriage which you can have to yourselves right through. You’ll be in Norwich at three-twenty.”
We followed him along the platform to the booking-office, and Pharos had scarcely taken the tickets before the whistle of the train, sounding as it entered the cutting by which we had reached the station, warned us to prepare for departure.
“Ah, here she is, running well up to time!” said the stationmaster. “Now, sir, you come with me.”
Pharos beckoned43 us to follow; the other opened the door of a first-class coach. We all got in. Pharos slipped a sovereign into the man’s hand; the train started, and a minute later we were safely out of Tebworth and on the road once more. Our arrival in Norwich was punctual almost to the moment, and within twenty minutes of our arrival there we had changed trains and were speeding toward London at a rate of fifty miles an hour.
From Norwich, as from Tebworth, we were fortunate enough to have a carriage to ourselves, and during the journey I found occasion to discuss with Pharos the question as to what he thought of doing when we reached town. In my own mind I had made sure that as soon as we got there he would take Valerie away to the house he had occupied on the occasion of his last visit, while I should return to my own studio. This, however, I discovered was by no means what he intended.
“I could not hear of it, my dear Forrester,” he said emphatically. “Is it possible that you can imagine, after all we have been through together, I should permit you to leave me? No! no! Such a thing is not to be thought of for an instant. I appreciate your company, even though you told me so plainly last evening that you do not believe it. You are also about to become the husband of my ward, and for that reason alone I have no desire to lose sight of you in the short time that is left me. I arranged with my agents before I left London in June, and I heard from them in Cairo that they had found a suitable residence for me in a fashionable locality. Valerie and I do not require very much room, and if you will take up your abode44 with us — that is to say, of course, until you are married — I assure you we shall both be delighted. What do you say, my dear?”
I saw Valerie’s face brighten on hearing that we were not destined45 to be separated, and that decided me. However, for the reason that I did not for an instant believe in his expressions of friendship, I was not going to appear too anxious to accept his proposal. There was something behind it all that I did not know, and before I pledged myself I desired to find out what that something was.
“I do not know what to say,” I answered, as soon as I had come to the conclusion that for the moment it would be better to appear to have forgotten and forgiven the past. “I have trespassed46 too much upon your hospitality already.”
“You have not trespassed upon it at all,” he answered. “I have derived47 great pleasure from your society, and I shall be still more pleased if you can see your way to fall in with my plan.”
Thereupon I withdrew my refusal, and promised to take up my residence with him at least until the arrangements should be made for our wedding.
As it turned out, my astonishment on hearing that he had taken a London house was not the only surprise in store for me, for on reaching Liverpool Street, who should come forward to meet us but the same peculiar footman who had ridden beside the coachman on that memorable48 return journey from Pompeii. He was dressed in the same dark and unpretentious livery he had worn then, and while he greeted his master, mistress, and myself with the most obsequious49 respect, did not betray the least sign of either pleasure or astonishment. Having ascertained50 that we had brought no luggage with us, he led us from the platform to the yard outside, where we found a fine landau awaiting us, drawn51 by a pair of jet-black horses, and driven by the same coachman I had seen in Naples on the occasion referred to above. Having helped Valerie to enter, and as soon as I had installed myself with my back to the horses, Pharos said something in an undertone to the footman, and then took his place opposite me. The door was immediately closed and we drove out of the yard.
We soon left the City behind and proceeded along Victoria Street, and so by way of Grosvenor Place to Park Lane, where we drew up before a house at which, in the days when it had been the residence of the famous Lord Tollingtower, I had been a constant visitor.
“I presume, since we have stopped here, that this must be the place,” said Pharos, gazing up at it.
“Do you mean that this is the house you have taken?” I asked in astonishment, for it was one of the finest residences in London.
“I mean that this is the house that my agents have taken for me,” Pharos replied. “Personally I know nothing whatsoever52 about it.”
“But surely you do not take a place without making some inquiries53 about it?” I continued.
“Why not?” he inquired. “I have servants whom I can trust, and they know that it is more than their lives are worth to deceive me. Strangely enough, however, it is recalled to my mind that this house and I do happen to be acquainted. The late owner was a personal friend. As a matter of fact, I stayed with him throughout his last illness and was with him when he died.”
You may be sure I pricked54 up my ears on hearing this, for, as everyone knew, the later Lord Tollingtower had reached the end of his extraordinary career under circumstances that had created rather a sensation at the time. Something, however, warned me to ask no questions.
“Let us alight,” said Pharos, and when the footman had opened the door we accordingly did so.
On entering the house I was surprised to find that considerable architectural changes had been made in it. Nor was my wonderment destined to cease there, for when I was shown to the bedroom which had been prepared for me, there, awaiting me at the foot of the bed, was the luggage I had left at the hotel in Prague, and which I had made up my mind I had lost sight of for ever. Here, at least, was evidence to prove that Pharos had never intended that I should leave him.
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1
bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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8
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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13
repents
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的第三人称单数 ) | |
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14
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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15
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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16
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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22
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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24
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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25
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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30
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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32
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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33
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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34
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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39
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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40
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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41
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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43
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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45
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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46
trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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47
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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48
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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49
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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50
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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52
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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53
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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54
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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