Kitabı oku: «The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance», sayfa 7

CHAPTER XI.
AT BANKLEIGH

When Cheyne had packed his portmanteau he took it and a hatbox down the steep staircase, carrying at the same time his letters in his teeth. He wore a low-crowned soft hat, instead of his ordinary silk one. He jumped into the street, and having thrust his letters into a pillar-post, hailed the first empty hansom and drove away to the railway-station.

Either his watch must have been slow or he must have looked at the wrong line of figures in the time-table, for when he got to the station they told him the train was on the point of starting, instead of having, as he had calculated, a good ten minutes to spare.

He took a first-class single ticket to Bankleigh, the nearest railway-station to Silver Bay. Then, with his portmanteau in one hand and his hatbox in the other, he dashed along the way leading to the platform from which the train for Bankleigh starts. The door was shut against him. The train had not yet started, but the time was up. The next train did not go till evening, which meant getting into a small unknown town long past midnight, a thing no one cares to do, particularly when he does not know even the name of a hotel or the hotel in it.

The gate was closed against him. The man refused to open the gate. The gate was five feet high, and Cheyne about six. Cheyne raised his hatbox and portmanteau over the barrier and let them fall. The man inside thought the traveller merely wished to get rid of the trouble of carrying his luggage any longer. Instantly Cheyne stepped on the lowest cross-rail of the gate, bent his chest over the top-rail of the gate, seized the ticket-taker by the leather waist-belt, and lifted him slowly over the gate. When he had deposited the ticket-taker safely on the ground he thrust half-a-crown into the man's hand, vaulted the gate, and taking up his portmanteau and hatbox, ran for a seat, and succeeded in scrambling into a carriage just as the train was in motion, and before the astonished but grateful ticket-taker could climb over the gate and regain the platform. Two or three of the porters had seen the feat, but it was not their duty to interfere. One of the guards saw it also; but having been, when younger, something of an athlete, and admiring the way in which the thing had been done, affected not to have seen it, and absolutely held the carriage-door open for Cheyne when he was getting in.

At the first station where the train stopped, the guard who had seen Cheyne lift the man over the gate, thrust his head into Cheyne's compartment, there being no one else in it, and said:

"That was a very neat trick sir, very. It isn't often we see a thing like that nowadays, sir."

"Confound it!" thought Cheyne, "this fellow must have his tip too."

He put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket and drew out a coin.

The guard saw what the passenger was doing, drew back, and said:

"No, sir; nothing for me, sir, thank you. It's not often nowadays we see a trick like that done, and I'd give a trifle myself to see it done again. But 'tisn't everyone, or half everyone, could do it."

And he moved along the platform, shaking his head to himself with the intelligent approval of one who knows a good deal of the difficulties in the performance of the feat which he applauded.

The train took eight hours to get to Bankleigh, but at last it drew up at that station, and Cheyne alighted.

It was then dusk, and the traveller having learned there was only one place in the town or village which accommodated strangers, and that it was only a few hundred yards away, gave his portmanteau to a porter, and bade the man lead him to the Shropshire Arms.

Now on the local London lines of railway, where there was a chance of meeting a friend or acquaintance, Cheyne always travelled first class, the difference in the fares of the first and third being only a few pence. But when he went farther into the open country, where there was practically no chance of meeting anyone who would know him, and where the difference came to many shillings, he always travelled third class. This was the most important journey of his life. He, a gentleman, was about to call upon another gentleman, and demand satisfaction, and it would not do to travel in any way that did not befit the station of men of their class.

All the way down in the train the deadliness of his design had not been lessened. He would meet this man, he would tell this man who he was, and then he would challenge him. There should be no seconds and no doctor. If the Marquis declined pistols and swords, then Cheyne would try to kill him with his hands, his fists, his thumbs dug into his throat. It was not every man, it was not one in ten thousand, could have lifted that burly ticket-collector over that gate with the neat precision he had shown. He could have thrown that man headforemost twenty feet, and broken his neck against a wall.

Cheyne engaged the best room at The Shropshire Arms, and ordered supper. It was only meet that a man come upon such a mission should be housed and fed as became a man of blood.

It would have been quite impossible for Cheyne to indulge in the luxuries of first-class travelling and first-class hotel accommodation, only he was one who always lived within his means, and had by him, when starting from London, all the money he had got for the right of re-publication in three volumes of his novel "The Duke of Fenwick." The money would not last for ever, but it would keep him going comfortably for a month or six weeks.

Cheyne was not in the least superstitious; but he did look on it as an extraordinary coincidence that the money he had got for the book which had exasperated Lord Southwold, now enabled him to come down from London, and seek satisfaction for the affront which had been put upon his mother and himself.

He asked the waiter who served the supper, if his Grace the Duke of Southwold was at home.

"No, sir, I think not. His Grace the Duke and Lord Southwold-that is, you know, sir, his lordship's only son and heir-"

"Yes, yes, I know."

"Well, sir, the two of them are gone to sea in his Grace's yacht, the Seabird, a couple, ay, or maybe three, days ago."

"And where have they sailed for?"

"Nowhere, sir."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"They never sails for nowhere, sir, great folks like them; and they never go nowhere, just as a man might walk out into the middle of a grass field and come back whistling no tune, nor bringing no daisy nor buttercup, nor as much as cutting a switch for himself in the hedge. I have never been to sea, sir, never. Where's the good of going to sea? But I've seen my share of salt water in my time, and all I ever saw of it was as like as two pea's, ay, liker; for some of the green peas is yellow, and some of the yellow peas is green. But all the sea-water I ever saw was the same in colour and smell and beastliness of taste and disposition, only fit for sharks and alligators and sorts like them. And not a single useful fish would be in the sea but would be poisoned by the beastly sea-water, only for the sweet waters of the rivers running into the sea and cheering up the fishes, poor souls, like a pint of cold bitter after a long walk of a hot day."

"And when do you think the yacht will come back?"

"There's no telling that, not unless you was a prophet. Even the sporting prophets knows nothing about it; for his grace has no dealings with dogs or horses, no more than the miller's wife that's been dead this five year."

"Are they often long away-months?"

"No, sir, not often months. But they are often away a tidy bit. It's like hanging a leg of mutton Christmas-time; it mostly depends on the weather whether the leg will ripen by Christmas-day, or will ripen too soon, or won't be ripe enough."

"And is it the bad or the good weather that brings them home?"

"Well, sir, seeing that this house is built on the Duke's property and called after the Duke, and that the landlord, sir, holds it by lease under the Duke, it wouldn't be becoming in me or anyone else of us to call it bad weather that brings the Duke back to us; but I'm free to say it isn't the kind of weather that everybody would order if he was going on a desolate island and wanted to enjoy himself on the sly away from the old woman. We call it the Duke's wind here; for if he's afloat it brings him home, and that's the only good it ever brings, but the doctors and the coffin-makers and grave-diggers. Most people call it the nor'-east wind. You see his grace is over sixty now, and has got all his joints pretty well blocked up with rheumatism; and the minute the nor'-east sets in it screws him up, and they have to run for home. His lordship stops aboard the Seabird in the shelter of the bay, and his grace goes up to the Castle, and never goes out of his warm rooms at the back of the Castle, farthest away from the nor'-east, until the wind changes."

"And how far is the castle from here?"

"About four mile, or maybe a trifle less. We like to think we're a trifle nearer to it than four miles. Anyway, we're sure of one thing-we're the nearest public-house or inn by a mile."

"There is no railway, I suppose, from here to Silverview?"

"Railway! Railway! Why, it's my belief his grace would rather have a row of public-houses opposite the Castle gate, and the courtyard made into a bowling-green with green wooden boxes all round for refreshments, rather than see the snout of a railway-engine within a mile of his place."

"Then I shall walk over to the place and have a look at to-morrow morning," thought Cheyne, as he strolled out into the porch to smoke a couple of cigars before going to bed.

But he did not smoke even half one of his cigars there. The air had grown suddenly chilly, nay, downright cold. So he left the porch and went into the cosy little bar, where there was a fire for boiling water for those who liked a drop of something hot.

Here were half-a-dozen men smoking and chatting and drinking. As he entered, all were silent.

"Turned quite cold, sir," said the host, who was sitting at a table with the rest.

"Yes, indeed," said Cheyne, taking a chair. "I thought I would smoke in the porch, but it was too cold to sit there."

"Ah," said the landlord, "I think we're in for a stinging nor'-easter-the Duke's weather, as we call it hereabouts, sir."

"Do you think so?" said Cheyne.

"Ay, no doubt of it."

"Then," thought Cheyne, "I shall not have long to wait."

CHAPTER XII.
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.