Читать книгу False Evidence - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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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.