Читать книгу American Captain - Эдисон Маршалл - Страница 24

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My stay with Suliman, Sheik el Beni Kabir, was not long. If the English chased him here, I could do nothing to help him and I did not want to see him fall into their hands. If any of his shipmates or his rescuer had sudden business with him, my presence would complicate it, if not ruin it. So I shook hands with him in Yankee fashion—he touched his forehead and his heart in a stately gesture—then I took off through the water gate to the shore.

Wanting to share everything with Sophia, I could hardly wait to tell her of the adventure. But long before the day’s end, I perceived that I must not. My best hopes hung on our revisiting the cavern and succumbing to its strange charms. If she thought of it as a hiding place for fugitives, it would spoil her play. For me the game was in deadly earnest.

I returned to the cove soon after sunrise, stripped to my breeches, and began a cautious scouting of the cave. Just inside the entrance, lying on a white silk kerchief carefully spread on one of the ferrying boards, I found a curious little memento of Suliman’s visit. It was a plait of black horsehair, about ten inches long and an inch wide, each end of which was bent on a brass ring. I had told him I intended to return early this morning to continue my explorations and could not doubt that he meant it for me to keep as a souvenir. Handy enough for securing a pocketknife or a watch or some personal belonging, now it served to free my imagination for a long, pleasant leap. I believed it was from the mane of a great and famous horse. Perhaps he was Darley, whom Suliman called Sultan, forebear of Eclipse.

The money-worthless but meaningful gift convinced me beyond any doubt that Suliman had gone. Still, I searched the cave carefully and thoroughly, this time with the penetrating light of an oil torch. I found no one or anything more of interest; even the happy ghosts of yesterday would not walk, and the rock was cold, and my shadow lonely looking against the wall.

What did all that matter, when, having come out into the sunshine, wrung out my wet breeches and dressed, I caught sight of Sophia light-footed as a young nanny on the clifftop?

She made her way toward me slowly, as though half-inclined to turn back. A level rock about twenty feet above me gave her a good view of the water and a comfortable seat. Finding one beside her, I noticed that she wore a long-sleeved, high-necked, dark blue dress fit for an English governess and a blue bonnet over hair drawn back and fastened in a big roll on the nape of her neck. Still she could not look anything but beautiful, vital, and, in this setting at least, adventurous.

“I came in a carrozza, as a young lady ought—as far as the village,” she told me.

“I came on shank’s mare,” I answered.

“We say we go on the marrowbone stage or by Walker’s gig. I mean they’re folk sayings—I wouldn’t say them any more than I’d say ‘bloody.’ Well, I do say ‘bloody’ sometimes—it’s so patently low that it’s all right, but I never say the worse one—the adverb used as an adjective. And do you think I’d as much as mention its existence to any Englishman? I’d be strangled first.”

“My being an American——”

“Changes everything. But Papa would not be as shocked at either one—provided I’d pronounce it like a Cockney—as he would at my saying I came by Walker’s gig. Do you understand that?”

I shook my head.

“He’d think it was common, and he demands that I be absolutely apart from, and untouched by, commonness. Poor people who had no horses invented the expression—it still has a folksy sound Papa couldn’t stand. You see, common people don’t say or do vulgar things—things are vulgar because common people say or do them. I know what you’re thinking. High and low have to do a lot of the same things, but the great aristocrats get around this, somehow.”

“That looks as though a lot of it is put on.”

“No more than any cult is put on. Listen. As late as a quarter of a century ago there were lords in England who went to their chambers and changed their clothes if a common man touched them. Their feeling of being sullied was perfectly real.”

“It makes me awful mad.”

“You’d better know it, though, so you’ll leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone sounds like——”

“I am saying it just right. That’s what you’ll do. You’ll go away—and leave me—alone.”

“If I do, it will be because you’ve sent me.”

“No, because your ship will have come in.”

“Do you want to get close to me now?”

“Yes.”

My arms had been aching to hold her, but I had hardly hoped she was in the same boat. Now she did not try to hide the hunger of her mouth seeking mine, and she was neither ashamed nor afraid of her passion. It was a lovely flame that swept through us both, its like unknown to me before these meetings, as it was to her. I need never doubt it was her maiden passion. The wonder was that I had been its waker; only I, Homer Whitman, a seaman late before the mast, had received these gifts.

It was a long time before her first yearnings were satisfied, then I would not let her go. At last she drew away so she could speak.

“Homer, what were you doing in the cave before I came?” she asked.

“Making sure that everything was all right for us to go in. Are you ready?”

“No, we can’t go there any more. I’m afraid of being caught.”

I marked the last word and was made thoughtful by it.

“I know how that sounds,” she went on. “Maybe I should have said disturbed or—better yet—interrupted. But I mean caught. You see, I didn’t tell Papa after all. I intended to—but I couldn’t. And if we should get to the same point we did before—and he should happen to visit us at that moment—well, as you say, he’d have the advantage.”

“You don’t imagine he’d follow you——”

“It would be awfully infra dig. It would seem so, that is, until he did it; then his poise would be so perfect, his manner so flawless, his little smile so—but no one can describe that smile—that only you and I would be ashamed.”

“If you’ll promise to marry me——”

“Don’t mention that now. We’ll talk it over later.”

“I have to tell you that anybody looking for you—especially with a spyglass—could be watching us this minute——”

“That wouldn’t be quite so bad. We’re not hiding. It would be just bad enough. And who’s afraid of spyglasses? From long range, they don’t show too much. From a half-mile we’d still look a hundred yards away.”

“Not with a twelve-power glass.”

“He could tell we were sparking, but not distinguish the details. And that sounds pretty wanton, doesn’t it?”

“No.” It only reflected a reckless frankness.

“Anyway I don’t see any lookouts that near.”

Lying in my arms, she was gazing over my shoulder. Suddenly she leaned back and fixed her eyes on mine.

“Homer?”

“Yes?”

“Are you truly brave?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.”

“Then will you hold me this way until I move to get up? When I do, rise politely and give me your hand? We’re going to have a visitor. Will you keep from showing any embarrassment—or any shame or fear?”

“Of course. You should have more faith in me. Is it your father?”

“No. I might have known he wouldn’t come. He sent Harvey, the man I’m intending to marry.”

“I love you, Sophia. I want you to marry me.”

“I don’t think it’s possible. Now hold me close.”

Sophia did not look again over my shoulder, and I was careful not to turn my head. A minute or more passed in silence. Since the emissary had not called Sophia’s name, it seemed certain that he hoped to take us by surprise; and happiness welled through me that thus the advantage lay with us after all. His approach from that direction would not have been visible as much as a furlong away, so he was surely close upon us now, and soon I believed that he had stopped on the path above and behind us hardly twenty paces off. I bent my head and gave Sophia a passionate kiss.

Then his voice rose, not loud, simulating surprise and lofty nonchalance, but roughened by emotion. This last was partly jealous fury, partly malicious triumph at what he thought was our predicament.

“Oh, there you are.”

But he had pulled his trigger without even a flash in the pan. He had expected to give us a great shock—he himself had braced against its recoil to his own nerves as might a gunner bringing match to touchhole—but his words died away in silence. I did not stir. Sophia raised her head, as though in moderate curiosity, until she could look over my shoulder, then spoke in a tone of friendly, cheerful surprise.

“Harvey! What are you doing here?”

“I came to bring you a message from Sir Godwine. It was a pity to interrupt such a pretty scene——”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t have unless the message was important.” Sophia sat up and made to rise: I sprang to my feet and gave her my hand. The new event had a different mood and meaning. Sophia’s brave defense of me and her own independence would thrill me when I grew old, but this simple issue had begun to be obscured by some sort of personal duel between Harvey and her. She was too well in command of the situation for my best hopes. High color ringed her cheekbones, and her eyes glimmered as she began to bait him in games and for gains not of my sharing.

“I want to introduce you two gentlemen, and you’ll have to excuse me for not knowing which of you to ask for permission,” she said gaily, yet with a touch of histrionics. “Harvey, your ‘honorable’ is a courtesy title and doesn’t count, but does a sublieutenant in the Royal Navy outrank a second officer of an American merchantman? Anyway, Harvey, this is Homer Whitman, from Massachusetts. Homer—Harvey Alford, my father’s aide.”

I bowed properly; he gave a curt nod. But I did not blame him, considering his anger and jealousy. That Sophia was not in love with him was a sure thing. Either a real presentiment or a wild surmise told me she might never be, with great passion. Certainly he took her too much for granted. That was more than a Sunday obstacle to get over on Monday, because it reflected deep conceit. But I warned myself against wish-thinking. Conceit is no proof of weakness and often a sign of strength. The character that she took lightly might have a tough core.

Quite possibly his studied elegance of dress had been copied from Sir Godwine Tarlton. I was greatly impressed by it at the same time that I perceived, very deep and faint, a feeling of advantage. His figure was too fine to need careful adorning: taller than me by two inches, he had big shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and hips with long, clean-cut legs. Most tall, flat-muscled men with extremely handsome faces are occasionally called Greek gods. She knew, if I did not, that the comparison here was better-warranted than usual. His hair was truly golden and had an attractive wave. His head set proudly on the tomcat neck seen in Greek and Roman statuary and no doubt doted upon by sensuous women. The lack of a deep indentation between the eyes gave his nose a Greek sweep, and the eyes were deeply set, deeply blue. Just now he had been taken aback—a good seafaring phrase—but doubtless his mien was somewhat godlike in smooth sailing.

“May I give my message now?” he asked stiffly.

“If you please.”

“Sir Godwine wants you to come home at once. Captain Ball is having tiffin with him, and he wants you to grace the table.”

The word tiffin had a trivial sound. The whole message seemed unequal to the occasion. But the high color dimmed in Sophia’s face, and I thought her games were through.

“In case you don’t know,” she said to me, “tiffin means ‘lunch.’ The word’s become fashionable lately in military circles—I think Lord Cornwallis brought it back from India.” Then to Harvey: “Is that all?”

“Not quite. Sir Godwine was reluctant to break into your engagement—perhaps I should say rendezvous——”

“Assignation?” Sophia proposed.

“I dislike the word as applied to a lady.”

“How did Papa know where to send you?”

“How should I know? I assumed you’d told him.”

“Well, I didn’t. I sneaked off, as you damn well know.”

“That’s not my affair. To continue—Sir Godwine regretted interrupting it, and wishes to make amends by inviting Mr. Whitman to dinner tonight.”

And now he need only look into Sophia’s face to feel his hurts balmed and his losses recouped. It had turned white, and her eyes were big and dark, and a strained smile drew her mouth. He loved her, he thought, but she needed a lesson badly, and Sir Godwine was the one to give it to her. Master of the situation now, he turned to me and spoke formally.

“Sir, I’ve been instructed to convey to you that invitation. Since the company will be small and you no doubt travel light, full-dress is not obligatory. Eight o’clock is the hour set. Sir Godwine Tarlton requests that you answer at once, so I may bring him word how many covers to have laid.”

He stopped. A second before I had had no notion what to say. Now the answer came easy enough. I need only speak truth.

“I’ve not had the honor of meeting Sir Godwine. I can accept only if his daughter will add her invitation to his.”

I turned and looked her in the face. You could hardly believe how wonderfully it changed.

“Homer, I want you to come,” she said.

“Then I’ll be pleased to come.”