How long Pharos would have kept me under his influence, had he possessed11 the power, I cannot say. I only know that on the morning of the sixth day I woke with a strange and confused feeling in my head. Though my eyes were open and I was to all outward appearances wide awake, I was like a man hovering12 on the borderland of sleep. My senses were gradually coming back to me; the strength of my brain was reasserting itself, and by some strange process, how arrived at it is impossible for me to say, the hold Pharos had obtained upon me was slowly weakening. Then it was as if I suddenly awoke to find myself standing13 fully14 dressed in my own room. My bed had been slept in, and one glance out of my window showed me that it was early morning. And yet I had not the least recollection of having been in bed or of having made my toilet. Then the scene with Pharos, and the awful knowledge if had given rise to, came back to me, and I remembered how he had pointed15 his hand at me, and how I had fallen asleep before him. Here was the logical explanation of the whole thing. It was plain that after I had become unconscious, Pharos had caused me to be carried to my room and put to bed. This, then, I argued, must be the morning following. Now that the effect he had produced had worn off, there was still time for me to do what I had originally intended. Having arrived at this decision I opened my door and went downstairs. A curious silence prevailed, not only in the house, but outside. I stopped on the first landing and looked out of the window. So far as I could see there were no cabs or carriages in the street, no riders in the Row, no children with their nurses upon the pavements, and yet the old Chippendale timepiece in the hall told me that the hour was considerably16 past nine o’clock. A curious feeling of drowsiness17 still possessed me, but it was fast leaving me, and, what was more, leaving me filled with but one purpose in life, which was to seek out the authorities and proclaim to them the devilry of Pharos and the part I had myself played in his abominable18 wickedness. After that I would wait for Fate to say what should become of me.
Putting on my hat I opened the front door and stepped out into the street. At any cost I would endeavour to reach the Home Office, and tell my story there, before Pharos could prevent me. With this end in view I hurried toward Piccadilly, intending to take a cab there and so save time. But when I set out I had not the least notion of the misery that had befallen London, nor of anything that had happened since Pharos had pointed his finger at me. In my wildest dreams I had never imagined such a picture of desolation as that which was now presented to me. It seemed impossible that so terrible a change should have come over a city in so short a time (I must remind you here that I still believed that only twenty hours had elapsed since I had had my fatal interview with Pharos). In all Park Lane not a house, save that occupied by Pharos, showed any sign of being inhabited. Without exception the blinds were down, and in most cases the shutters19 had been put up, while in numerous instances broad lines of red paint had been drawn20 across the pavement opposite them, but for what purpose, or their indication, I had not the remotest idea. In Piccadilly, from Apsley House to Berkeley Street, it was the same, though here a few solitary21 foot-passengers were to be seen. Thinking I must have mistaken the hour, and that it was earlier than I supposed, I looked at my watch, but it said a quarter to ten. In vain I searched for a cab of any sort. In the road, usually so crowded at that hour with vehicles of all descriptions, omnibuses, hansoms, private carriages, vans, and even costermongers’ barrows, two dogs were fighting over a piece of food. But the silence was the worst part of it all. Not a sound, save the chirruping of the sparrows in the trees of the park, was to be heard. Realising that it was useless waiting for a cab, I crossed the road and entered the Green Park, intending to make my way to St. James’s Park, and thence to the Home Office. With feverish22 haste I pushed on, walking as if every life in England depended on my speed.
Reaching the Mall, I crossed into St. James’s Park and passed over the bridge which spans the lake. Here the water-birds were swimming about as happily as if nothing out of the common were occurring in the great city around them. At last I reached the office for which I was making. The Home Secretary at the time was a man I had known all my life, an upright, honest Englishman in every sense of the word, beloved by everybody, and respected even by his political opponents. If any man would listen to my story, I felt convinced he would be that one. When, however, I reached the office, what a change was there! Only the day before, as I still imagined, the place had been teeming24 with life, every room filled with clerks, and exhibiting all the machinery25 of a great Government office. Now, at first glance, it appeared deserted26. I entered the hall in which I had been accustomed to inquire from the porter for my friend, only to find it occupied by a sergeant27 of the Guards, who rose on seeing me.
“What do you want?” he inquired brusquely.
“I desire to see the Home Secretary without loss of time,” I answered. “I am the bearer of very important information, and it is most imperative28 that I should see him at once.”
“What is the information?” the man inquired suspiciously. “The Home Secretary sees no one except on the most urgent business now.”
“My business is the most urgent possible,” I returned. “If you will take my name to him, I feel sure he will see me.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” replied the sergeant, “so you had better take yourself off. We don’t want any of your kind about here just now. There’s enough trouble without having you to look after.”
“But I must see him!” I cried in despair. “You don’t know what you are doing when you try to stop me. I have a confession29 to make to him, and make it I will at any hazard. Take me to him at once, or I shall find him myself.”
The man was moving toward me with the evident intention of putting me into the street, when a door opened and the Home Secretary, Sir Edward Grangerfield, stood before me. When last I had seen him at the Duchess of Amersham’s ball — I remembered that he congratulated me on my engagement on that occasion — he had looked in the prime of life. Now he was an old man, borne down by the weight of sorrow and responsibility which the plague had placed upon his shoulders. From the way he looked at me it was plain he did not recognise me.
“Sir Edward,” I said, “is it possible I am so much changed that you do not know me? I am Cyril Forrester.”
“Cyril Forrester!” he cried in amazement30, coming a step closer to me as he spoke. “Surely not? But it is, I see. Why, man, how changed you are! What brings you here, and what is it you want with me? I have not much time to spare. I have an appointment with the Public Health Commission in a quarter of an hour.”
“So much the better,” I answered, “for you will then be able to acquaint them with the circumstances I am about to reveal to you. Sir Edward, I must have a few moments’ conversation with you alone. I have a confession to make to you — the most hideous31 tale to pour into your ears that ever man confided32 to another.” Then, recollecting33 myself, I continued, “But it must not be here. It must be in the open air, or I shall infect you.”
He looked at me in a curious fashion.
“You need have no fear on that score,” he said. “I have had the plague, and have recovered from it. So far it has not been known to attack anyone twice. But since you wish to speak to me alone, come with me.”
With this he led me down the long passage to an office at the further end. Like the others this one was also deserted. Once inside he closed the door.
“Be as brief as you can,” he said, “for during this terribly trying period my time is not my own. What is it you wish to say to me?”
“I wish to confess to you,” I said, and my voice rang in my ears like a death knell34, “that I am the cause of the misery under the weight of which England and Europe is groaning35 at the present time.”
Once more Sir Edward looked at me as he had done in the passage outside.
“I am afraid I do not quite understand,” he said, but this time in a somewhat different tone. “Do you mean that you wish me to believe that you, Cyril Forrester, are the cause of the plague which is decimating England in this terrible manner?”
“I do,” I answered, and then waited to hear what he would say.
In reply he inquired whether I had suffered from the disease myself.
“I was the first to have it,” I answered. “My story is an extraordinary one, but I assure you every particular of it is true. I was inoculated36 with the virus while I was in Egypt — that is to say, in the Queen’s Hall of the Great Pyramid of Gizeh. I afterward37 nearly died of it in an Arab tent out in the desert beyond Luxor. Later I was taken by a man, of whom I will tell you more presently, to Constantinople, thence through Austria and Germany, and finally was smuggled38 across the Channel into England.”
“And who was the man who inoculated you?” inquired the Home Secretary, still with the same peculiar intonation39. “Can you remember his name?”
“He is known in England as Pharos the Egyptian,” I replied —“the foulest40 fiend this world has ever seen. In reality he is Ptahmes the Magician, and he has sworn vengeance41 on the human race. Among other things he was the real murderer of Clausand, the curiosity dealer42, in Bonwell Street last June, and not the inoffensive German who shot himself after confessing to the crime at Bow Street. He smuggled me into England from Hamburg, and the night before last he took me all through London — to the Antiquarian Club, to the Duchess of Amersham’s ball, to the Fancy Dress ball that was held at Covent Garden the same night, and to many other places. Everyone I spoke to became infected, and that, I assure you, on my word of honour, was how the plague originated here. Oh, Sir Edward, you cannot realise what agonies I have suffered since I became possessed of this terrible knowledge!”
A short silence followed, during which I am convinced I heard my companion say very softly to himself, “That settles it.”
Then, turning to me, he continued, “You say you were at the Duchess of Amersham’s ball the night before last? Do you mean this?”
“Of course I do,” I replied. “Why, you spoke to me there yourself, and congratulated me upon my engagement. And, now I come to think of it, I saw you talking with Pharos there.”
“Quite right,” he said. “I did speak to Monsieur Pharos there. But are you sure it was the night before last? That is what I want to get at.”
“I am as sure of that as I am of anything in this world,” I replied.
“What you tell me is very interesting,” he said, rising from his chair —“very interesting indeed, and I am sincerely obliged to you for coming to me. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be going, for, as I told you, I have a meeting of the Health Commission to attend in a few minutes. If I were you I should go back to my house and keep quiet. There is nothing to be gained by worrying oneself, as you have evidently been doing.”
“I can see that you do not believe what I have told you,” I cried with great bitterness. “Sir Edward, I implore43 you to do so. I assure you on my honour as a gentleman, I will swear, by any oath you care to name, that what I say is true in every particular. Pharos is still in London, in Park Lane, and if you are quick you can capture him. But there is not a moment to lose. For God’s sake believe me before it is too late!”
“I have listened to all you have said, my dear Cyril,” he answered soothingly44, “and I can quite understand that you believe it to be true. You have been ill, and it is plain your always excitable imagination has not yet recovered its equilibrium45. Go home, as I say, and rest. Trust me, you will soon be yourself once more. Now I must go.”
“Oh, heavens! how can I convince you?” I groaned46, wringing47 my hands. “Is there nothing I can say or do that will make you believe my story? You will find out when it is too late that I have told you the truth. Men and women are dying like sheep to right and left of us, and yet the vile48 author of all this sorrow and suffering will escape unpunished. Is it any use, Sir Edward, for me to address one last appeal to you?”
Then a notion struck me. I thrust my hand into my coat pocket and produced the prescription49 which Pharos had given me for Valerie in Hamburg, and which, since it had done her so much good, I had been careful not to let out of my possession.
“Take that, Sir Edward,” I said. “I came to make my confession to you because I deemed it my duty, and because of the load upon my brain, which I thought it might help to lighten. You will not believe me, so what can I do? This paper contains the only prescription which has yet been effectual in checking the disease. It saved the life of Valerie de Vocxqal, and I can vouch50 for its efficacy. Show it to the medical authorities. It is possible it may convince them that I am not as mad as you think me.”
He took it from me, but it was plain to me, from the look upon his face, that he believed it to be only another part of my delusion51.
“If it will make your mind any easier,” he said, “I will give you my word that it shall be placed before the members of the Commission. If they deem it likely that any good can result from it, you may be sure it will be used.”
He then wished me good-bye, and, with a feeling of unavailing rage and disappointment in my heart, I left the Offices and passed out into Whitehall. Once more I made my way into St. James’s Park, and reaching a secluded52 spot, threw myself down upon the turf and buried my face in my arms. At first I could think of nothing but my own shame; then my thoughts turned to Valerie. In my trouble I had for the moment forgotten her. Coward that I was, I had considered my own safety before hers. If anything happened to me, who would protect her? I was still debating this with myself when my ears caught the sound of a footstep on the hard ground, and then the rustle53 of a dress. A moment later a voice sounded in my ears like the sweetest music. “Thank God!” it said, “Oh! thank God! I have found you.”
Her cry of happiness ended in a little choking sob54, and I turned and looked up to discover Valerie, her beautiful eyes streaming with tears, bending over me.
“How did you find me?” I inquired, in a voice that my love and longing55 for her rendered almost inaudible. “How did you know that I was here?”
“Love told me,” she answered softly. “My heart led me to you. You forget the strange power with which I am gifted. Though I did not see you leave the house, I knew that you were gone, and my instinct warned me not only where you were going, but what you were going to do. Cyril, it was brave of you to go.”
“It was useless,” I cried. “I have failed. He would not believe me, Valerie, and I am lost eternally!”
“Hush!” she said. “Dear love, you must not say such things. They are not true. But rise. You must come to him. All this morning he has not been at all the same. I do not know what to think, but something is going to happen, I am certain.”
There was no need for her to say to whom she referred.
I did as she commanded me, and side by side we crossed the park.
“He has made arrangements to leave England this afternoon,” she continued, as we passed into Piccadilly. “The yacht is in the Thames, and orders have been sent to hold her in readiness for a long voyage.”
“And what does he intend doing with us?”
“I know nothing of that,” she answered. “But there is something very strange about him to-day. When he sent for me this morning I scarcely knew him, he was so changed.”
We made our way along the deserted streets and presently reached Park Lane. As soon as we were inside the house I ascended56 the stairs beside her, and it was not until we had reached the top floor, on which Pharos’s room was situated57, that we paused before a door. Listening before it, we could plainly hear someone moving about inside. When we knocked, a voice I failed to recognise called upon us to enter. It was a strange picture we saw when we did so. In a large armchair before a roaring fire, though it was the middle of summer, sat Pharos, but so changed that I hardly knew him. He looked half his usual size; his skin hung loose about his face, as if the bones had shrunken underneath58 it; his eyes, always so deep-set in his head, were now so much sunken that they could scarcely be seen, while his hands were shrivelled until they resembled those of a mummy more than a man. The monkey also, which was huddled59 beside him in the chair, looked smaller than I had ever seen it. As if this were not enough, the room was filled with Egyptian curios from floor to ceiling. So many were there, indeed, that there barely remained room for Pharos’s chair. How he had obtained possession of them I did not understand; but since Sir George Legrath’s confession, written shortly before his tragic60 death by his own hand, the mystery has been solved, and Pharos confronts us in an even more unenviable light than before. Hating, loathing61, and yet fearing the man as I did, there was something in his look now that roused an emotion in me that was almost akin23 to pity.
“Thou hast come in time,” he said to Valerie, but in a different voice and without that harshness to which we had so long grown accustomed. “I have been anxiously awaiting thee.”
He signed to her to approach him.
“Give me your hand,” he whispered faintly. “Through you it is decreed that I must learn my fate. Courage, courage — there is naught62 for thee to fear!”
Taking her hand, he bade her close her eyes and describe to him what she saw. She did as she was ordered, and for upward of a minute perfect silence reigned63 in the room. The picture they made — the worn-out, shrivelled body of the man and the lovely woman — I cannot hope to make you understand.
“I see a great hall, supported by pillars,” she said at last, speaking in that hard, measured voice I remembered to have heard on board the yacht. “The walls are covered with paintings, and two sphinxes guard the door. In the centre is an old man with a long white beard, who holds his arms above his head.”
“It is Paduamen, the mouthpiece of the Gods,” moaned Pharos, with a look of terror in his face that there was no disguising. “I am lost for ever — for ever; not for to-day, not for to-morrow, but for all time! Tell me, woman, what judgment64 the Mighty65 Ones pronounce against me?”
“Hush — he speaks!” Valerie continued slowly; and then a wonderful thing happened.
Whether it was the first warning of the illness that was presently to fall upon me, or whether I was so much in sympathy with Valerie that I saw what she and Pharos saw, I cannot say; at any rate, I suddenly found myself transported from Park Lane away to that mysterious hall below the Temple of Ammon, of which I retained so vivid a recollection. The place was in semi-darkness, and in the centre, as Valerie had described, stood the old man who had acted as my guide on the other occasion that I had been there. His arms were raised above his head, and his voice when he spoke was stern yet full of sadness.
“Ptahmes, son of Netruh?tep,” he was saying, “across the seas I speak to thee. For the second time thou hast been found wanting in the trust reposed66 in thee. Thou hast used the power vouchsafed67 thee by the Gods for thine own purposes and to enrich thyself in the goods of the earth. Therefore thy doom68 is decreed, and in the Valley of Amenti thy punishment awaits thee. Prepare, for that time is even now upon thee.”
Then the hall grew dark, there was a rushing sound as of a great wind, and once more I was back in Park Lane. Pharos was crouching69 in his chair, moaning feebly, and evidently beside himself with terror.
“What more dost thou see?” he said at length, and his voice was growing perceptibly weaker. “Tell me all.”
There was another pause, and then Valerie spoke again.
“I see a rocky hillside and a newly-opened tomb. I see three white men and five Arabs who surround it. They are lifting a mummy from the vault70 below with cords.”
On hearing this Pharos sprang to his feet with a loud cry, and for a moment fought wildly with the air. Meanwhile the monkey clung tenaciously71 to him, uttering strange cries, which grew feebler every moment. Valerie, released from her trance, if by such a name I may describe it, and unable to bear more, fled the room, while I stood rooted to the spot, powerless to move hand or foot, watching Pharos with fascinated eyes.
As if he were choking, he tore at his throat with his skeleton fingers till the blood spurted72 out on either side. Little by little, however, his struggles grew weaker, until they ceased altogether, and he fell back into his chair, to all intents and purposes a dead man, with the dying monkey still clinging to his coat.
After all I had lately gone through, the strain this terrible scene put upon my mind was too great for me to bear, and I fell back against the wall in a dead faint.
When I recovered from the attack of brain fever which followed the ghastly event I have just described, I found myself lying in my bunk73 in my old cabin on board the yacht. Valerie was sitting beside me holding my hand in hers and gazing lovingly into my face. Surprised at finding myself where I was, I endeavoured to obtain an explanation from her.
“Hush,” she said, “you must not talk! Let it suffice that I have saved you, and now we are away from England and at sea together. Pharos is dead, and the past is only a bitter memory.”
As she spoke, as if to bear out what she had said, a ray of sunshine streamed in through the porthole and fell upon us both.
The End
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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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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loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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52
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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53
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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68
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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72
spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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73
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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