Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“Where’s yours?” he asked, temporizing.

“Oh, I shan’t be having any steak,” replied Maria. The tone of her voice proved that it was quite inconceivable to her that a wife should eat equally well as her husband. Hornblower raised his voice and turned his head.

“Hey, there!” he called. “In the kitchen! Bring another plate — a hot one.”

“Oh, no, darling,” said Maria, all fluttered, but Hornblower was by now out of his chair and seating her at her own place.

“Now, sit there,” said Hornblower. “No more words. I’ll have no mutineers in my family. Ah!”

Here came the other plate. Hornblower cut the steak in two, and helped Maria to the larger half.

“But darling —”

“I said I’ll have no truck with mutiny,” growled Hornblower parodying his own quarter‑deck rasp.

“Oh, Horry, darling. You’re good to me, far too good to me.” Momentarily Maria clapped hands and handkerchief to her face, and Hornblower feared she would break down finally, but then she put her hands in her lap and straightened her back, controlling her emotions in an act of the purest heroism. Hornblower felt his heart go out to her. He reached out and pressed the hand she gladly proffered him.

“Now let me see you eat a hearty breakfast,” he said; he was still using his mock‑bullying tone, but the tenderness he felt was still evident. Maria took up her knife and fork and Hornblower did the same. He forced himself to eat a few mouthfuls, and so mangled the rest of his steak that it did not appear as if he had left too much. He took a pull at his pot of beer — he did not like drinking beer for breakfast, not even beer as small as this, but he realized that the old woman could not be expected to have access to the tea‑caddy.

A rattling at the window attracted their attention. The ostler was opening the shutters, and they could dimly see his face for a moment, but it was still quite dark outside. Hornblower looked at his watch; ten minutes to five, and he had ordered his boat to be at the Sally Port at five. Maria saw the gesture and looked over at him. There was a slight trembling of her lips, a slight moisture in her eyes, but she kept herself under control.

“I’ll get my cloak,” she said quietly, and fled from the room. She was back in no time, her grey cloak round her, and her face shadowed in her hood; in her arms was Hornblower’s heavy coat.

“You’re leaving us now, sir?” piped the old woman coming into the coffee‑room.

“Yes. Madam will settle the score when she returns,” said Hornblower; he fumbled out half a crown from his pocket and put it on the table.

“Thank you kindly, sir. And a good voyage, and prize money galore.” The sing‑song tone reminded Hornblower that she must have seen naval officers by the hundreds leaving the George to go to sea — her memories must go back to Hawke and Boscawen.

He buttoned up his coat and took up his bag.

“I’ll have the ostler come with us with a lantern to escort you back,” he said, consideringly.

“Oh, no please, darling. It’s so short a way, and I know every step,” pleaded Maria, and there was enough truth in what she said for him not to insist.

They walked out into the keen cold air, having to adjust their eyes to the darkness even after the miserable light of the coffee-room. Hornblower realized that if he had been an Admiral or even a distinguished Captain, he would never have been allowed to leave with so little ceremony; the innkeeper and his wife would certainly have risen and dressed to see him on his way. They turned the corner and started on the steep slope down to the Sally Port, and it was borne in anew on Hornblower that he was about to start out for the wars. His concern for Maria had actually distracted him from this thought, but now he found himself gulping with excitement.

“Dear,” said Maria. “I have a little present for you.”

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