"A MYSTERIOUS MEETING"
On the morrow my father, not a little to my surprise, appeared to be in
a particularly cheerful tome of mind. At breakfast time he remarked
that the day looked well for fishing, and asked me whether I would not
like to go. Of course I consented willingly, and William, our man, or
rather boy-of-all-work, was sent down to Mr. Cox, with whom I used
generally to read in the morning, with my father's compliments and my
excuses.
What sport we had all day long! We waded knee deep, sometimes waist
high, down the Badgeworthy stream, following its gleaming course past
Lorna's bower, past waterslide, which I never looked upon without
thinking of John Ridd's description, and round the green hills of the
Doone valley as far as the bend of the stream.
It was a long ride home, and across a desolate country. I think that I
should have gone to sleep in the saddle I was so tired, but for the
stern necessity of picking our way carefully along what was nothing
better than a sheep-walk. I remember that night-ride well.
Suddenly my father pulled his pony almost on its haunches, and
instinctively William and I did the same.
"Listen!" he cried.
I bent down and listened intently.
"I hear nothing," I remarked, gathering up my reins, for I was
desperately hungry and cold.
My father held up his hand to bid me stay, and then turning towards the
inland stretch of moor, shouted, "Hulloa there! Hulloa! Hulloa!" We
listened, and, to my surprise, we heard almost immediately an answering
shout, faint and evidently a long way off, but distinctly a man's hail.
It was scarcely safe to leave the track, so we stopped where we were,
and all three shouted. And, sure enough, in less than five minutes we
heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and a tall, stately-looking man
came riding out of the mist mounted on a fine bay horse which seemed to
have been up to its girths in a morass, and which was trembling in
every limb.
"I'm uncommonly glad to see you, gentlemen, whoever you are," he
exclaimed, riding up to us. "For close upon three hours have I been
trying to come upon a path, or a road, or a track, or something that
led somewhere, and have only succeeded in losing myself more
completely. Curse these mists! How far am I from Luccombe Hall?"
To my surprise my father made no answer, and when I looked towards him
he was sitting bolt upright in his saddle, with his eyes riveted upon
the stranger. So I answered his question.
"If you mean Sir Frederick Lawson's place, it's about nine miles off.
We are going that way."
The stranger thanked me heartily, and moved his horse to the side of
mine. And then happened the strangest thing which I had ever seen. My
father, who was the most courteous and gentlest-mannered man I ever
came near, rose suddenly in his stirrups, and, without a word, struck
the stranger full in the mouth with the back of his hand.
It seemed for a moment as though he must fall from his horse; but by a
great effort he recovered himself, and, with the blood streaming from
his mouth, grasped his riding-whip and dug spurs into his horse as
though to spring at my father. What followed was the strangest part of
all. Although his assailant was within a yard of him, with his heavy
riding-whip lifted high in the air to strike, my father never moved a
muscle, but simply sat still as a statue upon his pony. But at the
last moment, when the whip was quivering in the air, he quietly raised
his hand and lifted his hat from his head. There he sat motionless,
with the faint moon which had just struggled out from a bank of clouds
shining on his handsome, delicate face, and with his clear, firm eyes
fixed steadily upon the stranger. Like a _tableaux vivant_, burnt into
my memory, I shall carry that scene with me until I die.
The moment my father removed his hat his would-be assailant evidently
recognised him. His whip dropped heavily to the ground, and into his
ghastly face there leaped such an expression of horrified surprise as
my pen could never dissect and set down in words.
"My God! Herbert! Is this possible!"
"Keep back, keep away from me," muttered my father in a low suppressed
tone, as though he were striving to control some violent passion.
"Keep out of my reach lest I do you a mischief. Thank God, we are not
alone. Speak! What are you doing here?"
The fierce restraint which he seemed to be putting upon his words made
them come forth slowly with a monotonous sing-song which sounded more
terrible than the wildest outburst. I was shivering all over with
dread of what might come of this.
The stranger answered hoarsely, and I could tell that he, too, had felt
the peculiar effect of my father's strange tone.
"I am staying with Sir Frederick Lawson at Luccombe Hall for a few days
only. I had no----"
My father raised his hand.
"Swear on what remains of your honour--swear by anything that is
dearest to you--that you do not seek to discover my dwelling-place, or
the name under which I choose to live. Swear that you never mention
this meeting to living man or woman."
The stranger raised his hat.
"I swear," he said.
There was a dead silence for a full minute. Then my father gathered up
his reins, and motioned us to ride on.
"You are fortunate as ever, Rupert Devereux," were his last words as he
turned to follow us, "for, sure as there is a God above us, if I had
met you here alone to-night, nay, if any other had been with me than my
son, I should have killed you."
We rode home almost in silence, and, though I listened often, I never
once heard the sound of horse's hoofs behind us. Whoever this man
might be whom we had so strangely met, he evidently preferred to risk
losing his way again, rather than chance another meeting with us.
As we walked our ponies down Porlock Hill, and came in sight of
Bossington Headland, standing gloomily out into the sea, my father
called William to him.
"William," he said, shortly, "I desire that you keep strictly to
yourself what happened to us just now. If I hear of your mentioning so
much as a word of it, you will leave my service at once."
William touched his hat awkwardly, but sincerely.
"There bean't no fear of me, maester," he answered. "I bean't no
gossip, I bean't, and I never zeed no zense in talkin' 'bout other
folks' avvairs; zepecially yer betters. I'll no mention that ther'er
chap to no one."
My father nodded, and not another word was spoken until we had passed
through Porlock and our ponies had freshened up into the home canter.
Then he leaned over and spoke to me.
"I need say nothing to you, my boy; I know your mother must hear about
this from me, and from me only."
"I promise, father," I answered simply, having hard work to keep my
voice from trembling, for I was still excited and uneasy; and something
made me suddenly hold my hand out to him as a pledge of my silence.
Many a time since I have been glad that I did so, for he seemed to take
it kindly.
"God bless you, my boy!" he said, and I could almost have fancied that
there were tears in his eyes.