"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together. . . ."
Sophia's eyes fixed on his face. Her cold hand opened and shut in mine. I heard what he said only in my outer ear—a prayer—a moralism—soon the famed injunctive.
"If anyone knows ... let him speak now . . . forever hold his peace."
As the words came forth, Sophia put her head on one side as though listening to some very distant voice. I saw a change in her countenance, but I did not know yet what it meant; her eyes grew narrow and wildly bright. Then as Preacher Morgan paused, waiting a polite second as though for someone to burst in the door, Sophia herself spoke.
"There's no use of him asking that," she said to me.
"Be still."
"No, because I'm not going through with it. I'm backing out."
I said something, but it made no sense. "You shouldn't treat me so."
"I know it. I'm just as sorry as I can be. There's no use of my trying to explain—"
I turned to the minister. "Excuse us a moment, please." Then I took Sophia's hand and led her to the window.
"What are you going to say to me?" she asked, such dread and shame in her face that I could hardly bear to fix my eyes upon it.
"I was going to say it might be a kind of hysteria. I want you to steady yourself and consider everything. You're not a slave. You're a free human being. If you love me—"
"Loving you only makes it worse."
"You know what's between us— "
"There's a joke that answers that. It was popular last year in Bath -our Bath, not yours—all the toffs told it. A countess went there for the season and spent the night with a handsome coachman. Later he wanted to call on her in London. She sent him word that sexual intercourse and social intercourse were two different things."
This was not Sophia, or else she had put on a mask. Her face was drawn with mockery, but not of me—she would not look at me. Suddenly I knew it was mockery of herself.
She became grave, as though looking into a mirror. "Now watch this," she told me. "Have you ever seen this before?"
One corner of her lip curled up.
"I know what you mean, but it isn't like that at all."
"I dare say no one else can do it. It's completely unique. Now go back to your ship, will you? I don't ask you to forgive me—I know that's impossible—but maybe you can forget me. Do it if you can, I beg you. I don't want you ever to think of me again. I want to hide from you—my very existence. Every time I imagine you thinking of me, I'll want to die. I love you, Homer, I'll always love you. I want to be your wife more than anything in the world, but it's against orders. Do you believe me?"
"Yes, I believe you."
"Now will you get me out of your sight?"
"I'm going to put you in a carriage and take you to someone you know— "
"All right. And don't wait any more. . . ."
I spoke to Preacher Morgan and, beside myself over my loss, offered him a fee. He refused it gravely; in a moment we were in the street. Up the street from the wine shop where Farmer had waited for me, stood another of a better sort: from one of the tables under the balcony, a small man rose and came toward us. I knew he was not Sir Godwine by the way he walked. As he came under the street light, I recognized him as Dick Tarlton. He gave me a brief bow, then spoke to Sophia.
"You didn't stay very long."
"No, I didn't."
"Papa laid me a bet you wouldn't go through with it, and I dare say he won."
"Yes, he did."
"Well, I'm out ten pounds, and if you were any kind of a sport, you'd come down with half—"
"I certainly shan't. You should've learned your lesson by now."
"You may wonder what I'm doing here. Old Poison, Mrs. Dawson, found out you'd taken your passport. This looked pretty serious to me, so I searched for you at the carnival and then dashed out to the Zealous, where Papa was dining with Captain Hood. He was a bit irked by my disturbing him and said you'd probably gone either to the mission or out to your friend's ship. I could look for you hereafter he'd finished his brandy he'd go there—anyhow he wanted to pay respects to the Yankee skipper—and if he found you, he'd escort you home. I soon found out that the wedding party had gone in, so I sat down to wait. It wasn't to let you stew in your own juice—I wanted to win that bet. But I didn't have much hopes I would-and I was right."
"Yes, you were right. It's all very logical. Now what?"
But logical was one thing it was not, nor was it truthful. I smelled lies as strong as the taint of a slaver upwind. Sophia was caught in a cobweb of lies, evil and strange, but I could not set her free.
"I've got a carriage and we can go home," Dick said.
"What about Papa?"
"He's either at Mr. Whitman's ship, or on the way there—or has left there. Mr. Whitman, if you see him, kindly tell him we've both gone home."
I nodded my head.
"Then let's start at once," Sophia pleaded. "Good night, Homer, and a happy voyage." Her eyes were dry and burning.
I could not look at her or speak.
"You're a victim of circumstances, Mr. Whitman," Dick said. "Damned rotten luck, I tell you."
"Good night to you too, Farmer," Sophia said. "Thank you for wanting to help us. Homer, what I told you the last thing was true. And I'll always be glad you took me to your ship."
I nodded and had a hard job raising my head. When I did, she and Dick were walking off. One shadow after another obscured them until, thick and dark, the night lay over them.
I still stood under the street light, but the night was in my heart.
When a shore gig brought Farmer and me out to the Vindictive, a very fine craft, bearing a pennant and maimed by blue-jackets, lay beside her. As we swung aboard, we came full upon a small man with beautifully carved features and powdered hair, carrying a stick. Behind him, looming over him and around him, stood Captain Phillips. Plainly the noble knight was just leaving.
"Why, bless me, if it ain't young Whitman," Sir Godwine burst out at sight of me. "I was hoping you'd come aboard before I must end my pleasant visit with your cap'n."
Meanwhile Farmer saluted and withdrew. Sir Godwine spoke on in an anxious tone. "How have things gone with you?"
"Not well, sir."
"Is that so? Then I take it your hopes of winning Sophia have failed."
"Aye, sir."
"I thought they would. Twas one reason I regretted your harboring 'em. It was partly her fault for leading you on."
"No, sir, I wooed her with all my might and main."
"Yet she encouraged you, as I know right well. To tell you the truth, she doesn't know her own mind, and like many young girls, she's prey to her whims." He turned to Captain Phillips. "One day she wants this, the next day that."
Captain Phillips nodded, but did not speak.
" 'Tis my fault, too, that she's caused you pain," the knight went on. "You see, she's a dutiful girl at heart, and perhaps I sway her more than a father's right, more than I wish, for she must live her own life in the end. I'm used to command. Cap'n Phillips knows what I mean. I've a commanding way about me that I can't leave on the quarterdeck where it belongs. I never told her to refuse you, and that's my word on it. But she knew I disapproved you two making a match— for reasons that I told you—and it moved her in the end."
"Something moved her, sir," I said.
"I believe it's for the best." He turned again to Captain Phillips. "When will you sail, Cap'n? I'd hoped to send you a few flagons of my ancient Spanish brandy."
"They'd be welcome, Sir Godwine, if there's time. I've got to clear with the harbor master, and I reckon 'twill be about noon."
"Where are you bound? I'd be carrying out Cap'n Ball's wishes if I'd tell you the safest lanes."