Hornblower in the West Indies. C. S. Forester

It was later in the day that Barbara made her request to him.

“Dear, would you please give me some money?”

“Of course,” said Hornblower.

He felt a delicacy about this which most men would laugh at. Barbara had brought a good deal of money to their marriage, which, of course, was now his property, and he felt an absurd guilt that she should have to ask him for money. That feeling of guilt was perfectly ridiculous, of course. Women were not supposed to dispose of money in any way, except small sums for housekeeping. They could not legally sign a cheque, they could enter into no business transaction at all, which was perfectly right and proper seeing how incapable women were. Except perhaps Barbara. It was the husband’s business to keep all moneys under his own hand and dole out under his own supervision what was needed.

“How much would you like, dear?” he asked.

“Two hundred pounds,” said Barbara.

Two hundred pounds? Two hundred pounds! That was something entirely different. It was a fortune. What in the world would Barbara want two hundred pounds for here in Jamaica? There could not be one single gown or pair of gloves in the whole island that Barbara could possibly want to buy. A few souvenirs, perhaps. The most elaborate tortoiseshell toilet set in Jamaica would not cost five pounds. Two hundred pounds? There would be a few maids to whom she would have to give vails on leaving, but five shillings each, half a guinea at most, would settle those.

“Two hundred pounds?” he said it aloud this time.

“Yes, dear, if you please.”

“It will be my business to tip the butler and grooms, of course,” he said, still trying to find reasons why she should think she needed this stupendous sum.

“Yes, no doubt, dear,” said Barbara, patiently. “But I need some money for other purposes.”

“But it’s a lot of money.”

“I think we can afford it, though. Please, dear -”

“Of course, of course,” said Hornblower hastily. He could not bear it that Barbara should have to plead to him. All he had was hers. It was always a pleasure to him to anticipate her wants, to forestall any request so that it never need be uttered. He felt shame that Barbara, exquisite Barbara, should ever have to abase herself so low as to ask a favour of him, unworthy as he was.

“I’ll write an order on Summers,” he said. “He’s Coutts’s correspondent in Kingston.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Barbara.

Yet as he handed the order over he could not refrain from further speech.

“You’ll be careful, dear, won’t you?” he said. “Two hundred pounds, whether in notes or gold -”

His misgivings ceased to be voiced, died away in incoherent mumblings. He had no wish to pry. He had no wish to exert over Barbara the sort of parental authority that both law and custom gave a husband over his wife. And then he thought of a possible explanation. Lady Hooper was a keen and clever card player. Presumably Barbara had lost heavily to her. Well, in that case he need not worry. Barbara was a good player, too, and level headed, and cool. She would win it back. In any case she was no gambler. Perhaps on the voyage home they would have a few hands of piquet – if Barbara had any fault at all it was a tendency to discard a little thoughtlessly when playing the younger hand, and he could give a little unobtrusive advice. And there was a smug pleasure, and a tender pleasure, in the thought of Barbara not caring to admit, to a husband who notoriously won, that she had lost at cards. The deep respect that he felt for her was accompanied (as the flavour of a beef steak may be accompanied by that of mustard) by the knowledge that she was still human. Hornblower knew that there can be no love without respect – and no love without a twinkle of amusement as well.

“You are the dearest man in the world,” said Barbara, and he realised that her eyes had been fixed on his face for the last several seconds.