"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!