"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."
Sophia and Harvey took up the goat path while I slung my haversack. When I looked again at them, they were walking side by side on the crest of the cliff—a fine-looking couple, surely, their tallness and easy stride taking the eye.
Before going to my quarters, I visited the Valletta waterfront, and my eyes could not help leaping from ship to ship throughout the teeming harbor, in search of one I could recognize two miles at sea in one flash of lightning, and whose every spar I knew. She had not come in. No news of her had reached me by the pinnaces from Gibraltar. What did I want of her anyway, for she would not loiter here—a night's shore leave for the land-sick crew likely her only detainment—and I needed more time than that to settle my affairs.
To answer truly, I wanted her Yankee deck beneath my feet before they took me through the door of Sir Godwine's palace. The essence of the New England oak would stouten my knees. I wished to see the faces that I need never search for hidden malice or veiled mockery. I needed their rough hands clasping mine or whacking my back. If I could have all that, I could settle my affairs before daybreak.