Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“Nothing shall keep me from you, dear,” he said.

He clapped his hands on her shoulders and gave her a smacking kiss that drew applause from the others; that was the way to reintroduce a note of comedy into the proceedings, and, under cover of the laughter, he made his exit. As he hastened down to the Hard two subjects for thought intertwined in his mind, like the serpents of the medical caduceus — the tender love that Maria wished to lavish upon him, and the fact that the day after tomorrow he would be at sea, in command.

Chapter 2

Someone must have been knocking at the bedroom door for some time; Hornblower had been conscious of it but was too stupid with sleep to think more about it. But now the door opened with a clank of the latch, and Maria, awakening with a start, clutched at him in sudden fright, and he was now fully awake. There was the faintest gleam of light through the thick bed curtains, a shuffling step on the oak floor of the bedroom, and a high‑pitched female voice.

“Eight bells, sir. Eight bells.”

The curtains opened an inch to let in a ray of brighter light still, and Maria’s grip tightened, but they came together again as Hornblower found his voice.

“Very well. I’m awake.”

“I’ll light your candles for you,” piped the voice, and the shuffling step went round the room and the light through the curtains grew brighter.

“Where’s the wind? What way’s the wind?” asked Hornblower, now so far awake as to feel the quickening of his heart beat and the tensing of his muscles as he realized what this morning meant to him.

“Now that I can’t tell you, sir,” piped the voice. “I’m not one who can box the compass, and there’s no one else awake as yet.”

Hornblower snorted with annoyance at being kept in ignorance of this vital information, and without a thought reached to fling off the bedclothes so as to get up and find out for himself. But there was Maria clasping him, and he knew that he could not leap out of bed in such a cavalier fashion. He had to go through the proper ritual and put up with the delay. He turned and kissed her, and she returned his kisses, eagerly and yet differently from on other occasions. He felt something wet on his cheek; it was a tear, but there was only that one single tear as Maria forced herself to exert self control. His rather perfunctory embrace changed in character.

“Darling, we’re being parted,” whispered Maria. “Darling, I know you must go. But — but — I can’t think how I’m going to live without you. You’re my whole life. You’re . . .”

A great gust of tenderness welled up in Hornblower’s breast, and there was compunction too, a pricking of conscience. Not the most perfect man on earth could merit this devotion. If Maria knew the truth about him she would turn away from him, her whole world shattered. The cruellest thing he could do would be to let her find him out; he must never do that. Yet the thought of being loved so dearly set flowing deeper and deeper wells of tenderness in his breast and he kissed her cheeks and sought out the soft eager lips. Then the soft lips hardened, withdrew.

“No, angel, darling. No, I mustn’t keep you. You would be angry with me — afterwards. Oh, my dear life, say goodbye to me now. Say that you love me — say that you’ll always love me. Then say good‑bye, and say that you’ll think of me sometimes as I shall always think of you.”

Hornblower said the words, the right words, and in his tenderness he used the right tone. Maria kissed him once more, and then tore herself free and flung herself on to the far side of the bed face downward. Hornblower lay still, trying to harden his heart to rise, and Maria spoke again; her voice was half muffled by the pillow, but her forced change of mood was apparent even so.

“Your clean shirt’s on the chair, dear, and your second‑best shoes are beside the fireplace.”

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