Cecil Forester: Hornblower in the West Indies

She was advancing no excuse for herself; she would not plead; she would face the consequences of her act. And there in the deckhouse she had told him she loved him, that she had never loved any other man. The last realisation came upon him. Now he could shake off the astonishment, the bewilderment, that had held him helpless up to that moment. Nothing counted in the world except Barbara. Now he could move. Two steps forward and she was in his arms. Her tears wetted his lips.

“My love! My darling!” he said, for, unbelieving and blinded she had not responded.

And then she knew, in the darkness that surrounded her, and her arms went about him, and there was no such happiness in all the world. There had never been such perfection of harmony. Hornblower found himself smiling. He could laugh out loud out of sheer happiness. That was an old weakness of his, to laugh—to giggle—in moments of crisis. He could laugh now, if he allowed himself—he could laugh at the whole ridiculous incident; he could laugh and laugh. But his judgement told him that laughter might be misunderstood at this moment. He could not help smiling, though, smiling as he kissed.

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