THE DUKE'S WEATHER.
That night Cheyne slept heavily. The journey and the change of air had
helped to deepen his slumbers. Then there had been the exhausting
excitement of the day he had just passed. It was near nine o'clock
when he opened his eyes. For awhile he lay awake, unable to recall the
events which had brought him to this strange place.
"The sea," he thought--"is that the rolling of the sea? Have I gone to
Brighton or to Margate in my sleep?"
He jumped out of bed, and approached the window. Before he had crossed
the floor he remembered all. This was Bankleigh, whither he had come
for the purpose of settling affairs with the Marquis of Southwold, and
this roaring sound abroad was not the beating of the sea upon the
shore, but the headlong flight of the wind across the land.
How did the wind blow?
He pulled up the blind, and looked out. The wind beat at an acute
angle against his window; but as he did not know how the house faced,
he could not tell from what quarter the wind blew. He rang the bell.
When the waiter entered, he asked abruptly:
"How's the wind?"
"Regular Duke's weather, sir. Your boots and the hot water, sir. It
has been blowing a gale all night, sir. A gale, sir, it would take
soda-water bottles to hold. You couldn't bottle a gale like that in
any of your flimsy fifteenpenny claret bottles. Schwepps himself might
be proud of a gale like that. Some of the early customers that came in
this morning says that the sea is awful, and that many's the tree
there's down here and there along the road. Duke's weather all out."
"And you think there is a likelihood the Duke's yacht will be in
soon."
"She will, sir, as sure as country eggs are eggs, which they mostly
are, sir. But town eggs, sir, especially them at thirteen for a
shilling, are very often not eggs at all, but young chickens which
hadn't the heart to face life. Talking about eggs, sir, reminds me to
ask what you would like for breakfast. I never could make out, sir,
why we should eat eggs more in the morning than any other time of the
day, unless it may be that we are vexed with the whole breed and
generation of fowl by being woke up at first light by cocks crowing,
and then, when we see an egg, we revenge ourselves."
Cheyne gave the necessary order for breakfast, and dismissed the
talkative waiter.
The wind had not fallen. It was blowing a full gale from the
north-east. The landscape, which yesterday had been flushed with the
mellow green of early summer, now looked cold and bleak and
dispiriting. The trees bent in the blast, and showed the dry faded
green of their underleaf to the ashen sky. The grass and corn lay flat
and quivering like a muddy green lake. The clouds were low and long,
stretching in great jagged strips up into the wind, down into the lee.
Birds were silent, and rarely left shelter. Everything was parched and
gritty. All the life had gone out of the scene, all Nature looked
barren, forlorn.
Cheyne dressed himself with deliberation and care. The yacht might
come in to-day, and she might not. It was well to be prepared. When
she did come in, he would lose no time in going aboard. He should go
aboard, ask for the Marquis of Southwold, tell the Marquis he had
something of importance to say which should be said to him alone.
When they were alone, he should lock the door, and say what he had to
say--do what he had to do. He should not be very long in coming to the
point, once he found himself face to face with this cowardly nobleman.
Nothing should move him from his resolution of wiping out, in blood,
the deadly insult of that letter. When the good name of a man's mother
was called in question, and when, at the same time, a man's own honour
had been assailed, no one but a mean dastard could for a moment
hesitate as to the course one ought to pursue.
No doubt Lord Southwold would refuse to fight. In all likelihood he
would refuse pistols or swords. Then he should tell this arrogant liar
that they should fight as they stood, armed with only manhood against
manhood.
If, again, this lying miscreant refused, he should strike him, with
his open hand, across the face. If this son of seven dukes did not
respond to this, he would tell him, in plain words, what he was going
to do. Then he should seize him and crush the vile breath out of his
body, as sure as that they both owed their breath and their bodies and
their manhood to the one great Maker.
They would call this murder. But was murder of the body of a living
man worse than--anything nearly so bad as--murder of a dead woman's
fair fame? Eternal curses attend this reprobate wretch!
He ate his breakfast, but what it consisted of he did not know. The
talkative waiter kept up a running fire of words; but what they meant,
or what his answers conveyed, he did not know.
He made up his mind to walk over to Silver Bay, and, as soon as
breakfast was over, he asked the way and set off.
The gale had not moderated; and although Cheyne was one of the
strongest men in England, he could not make rapid headway against it.
In ordinary weather he would have backed himself to walk the four
miles in less than three-quarters of an hour. This day, at the end of
three-quarters of an hour, he had got little more than halfway.
He was in no hurry, and he liked the wind. He liked to feel it beat
against his face and tug at his clothes. He exulted in the conflict,
for at every pace he was conquering the enemy. He was in an excited
angry humour--in a rage, the first rage he had ever known in all his
life--and he exulted in having some kind of foe in front of him.
Then again, if what that loquacious waiter had told him was true, the
wind against which he fought there was fighting for him out at sea,
was driving that yacht with its accursed passenger towards him. When
this thought crossed his mind, he reached out his arms to embrace the
wind. It was no longer a foe, but a loyal friend, doing his work with
all its might.
He wondered, Would the yacht come in to-day? Almost certainly not. She
had, according to the man at the Shropshire Arms, gone to sea two or
three days ago. This gale had been blowing only twelve hours, and it
was not likely she had been last night within twenty-four hours' sail
of this bay. But then one should remember that twenty-four hours of
such a gale would do more than three days of light winds. That was so
if the light winds had been fair winds, and the gale was a fair wind.
But if the light winds had been fair, and this was foul, how would
that be? To answer this question, one should know particulars as to
the course the yacht had sailed, and where she was when the gale had
struck her first. He knew none of these particulars, and therefore he
had no choice but to give up trying to solve the problem.
Thanks to this wind, his victim would soon be in his hands.
Unless--what an intolerable disappointment that would be!--unless the
waves swallowed his victim up, that victim would soon be in his hands.
It would be too bad if the sea robbed him of his revenge. Vengeance
for an insult to a mother was the inalienable right of a son, and it
would be monstrous to take it from him.
He pressed onward through the rain and blinding dust.
What should he do if this man refused to see him? Suppose, when he
tried to get aboard that yacht, they would not let him, what should he
do? He had never thought of that before. In case they refused to let
him go on board, he should have to go on board by force. He should
have the strength of ten. Ay, but he should have more than ten against
him. He could not hope to fight his way on board, across the deck,
down the companion, and into the cabin, against such odds as would be
opposed to him.
What should he do? What could he do?
Ah, that was a good thought! He should send in the name of Baker and
Tranter, and make no other use of the name of the firm or of the
information he had got through Freemantle. What an excellent thought
that was! With the proceeds of the book, "The Duke of Fenwick," he had
been able to undertake this journey, and face any reasonable delay.
With the name of the firm to which this man had written the libel on
himself and his mother, he should gain admittance to the loathsome
detractor. Here was a complete circle of poetic justice!
When asked for his name, he should say:
"A gentleman on business. Kindly mention the name of Messrs. Baker and
Tranter. I do not happen to have a card of the firm by me."
When he found himself in the presence of the Marquis, he should
announce his own name, and say that he had written that book.
But suppose, when all this had happened, the Marquis said nothing,
made no accusations, no admissions, what then?
Oh, confound it, Southwold would say something. Surely the Marquis
would betray his opinions in some way or another, and then----
"Ah, is this the bay? Silver Bay? And here is the Castle--Silverview
Castle."
The gale struck him with all its force; for he now stood on top of the
high land by which the bay was surrounded. On his right rose the
favourite home of the great Duke of Shropshire. He was in the ducal
grounds, opposite the vast castellated pile of buildings, where the
Duke lived when on shore; and before him lay the unquiet green waters
of the bay, bounded on the seaward side by the reef of grey rocks and
the narrow opening through which the heavy waters wallowed in huge
uncouth billows towards the shore at his feet; while all along the
reef, and high above the summit of its rock, rose and fell at regular
intervals a slow-moving irregular wall of dingy white spray. Beyond
the reef lay the German Ocean, heaving and tumbling beneath the
impetuous blast.
On the left or northern shore of the bay the water was comparatively
smooth, and here a few fishing-boats lay moored. Somewhat south-west
of the fishing-boats rose and fell the buoy at which the yacht
_Seabird_ swung when in port. At the northern corner of the bay lay
the only strip of level ground on the shores of the bay, and there
stood a few fishermen's cottages; and from this rose a long private
road of gradual ascent to the level of the Castle, reaching the upper
land a little to the north-east of the Castle.
Except at that one strip of land at the north-east corner of the bay,
at the right angle formed where the reef joined the mainland, the
water of the bay was unapproachable by cart or carriage. There were
three precipitous paths leading, at different points, from the top of
the cliffs to three small sandy coves below. The road and the cottages
had been the work of the present Duke. He had made the road, that he
might have easy access to the water; and he had built the few
cottages, that he might have at hand a few seafaring young men, from
whom he might fill up vacancies in the yacht's crew, for neither he
nor his son liked strangers. While the wild north-east wind swept over
the sea and the downs, the cottages lay in secure shelter under the
shadow of the high cliff and gaunt rocks, while the huge Castle stood
up white against the withering gale.
The road to the little jetty was visible the whole way from the Castle
to the water. That cluster of cottages was the only one within three
miles of the Castle.
For awhile Cheyne stood leaning forward against the wind contemplating
the scene. He looked out under the low clouds streaming up towards
him, and could see no craft of any kind. He looked into the bay, and
saw a few fishing-boats rolling slowly in the comparatively smooth
water between him and the reef. He looked at the reef itself, and the
cataracts of white foam and waving haloes of dun spray. He heard the
thunder of the ocean billows on the reef, and swash of lesser waves
upon the shore.
"What a storm!" he thought. "And that yacht is out there--out there
where the long waves, each with the weight of thousands of tons, press
onward ceaselessly to the shore. It is wonderful to think man can
build anything which can withstand the onslaught of such mighty waves,
the fury of such relentless wind! It is almost incredible that any
structure of wood could live afloat under conditions such as these!"
He pressed his hand firmly over his eyes, drew his coat tightly round
him, and, leaning still more forward into the wind, pushed resolutely
down the road leading to the jetty.