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 pr?ferenda, 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.

“‘Honoré de Silva,’ he replied.

“’—— from a man named Honoré 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.