"ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL."
The anchors were no sooner on the bottom than George found himself a
busy man. There were certain authorities to be communicated with as to
the disposal of the French prisoners, other authorities to be consulted
as to the disposal of the pirates, and still others, again, to be seen
and arranged with as to the disposal of the prizes. Then there were the
owners of the _Vulcan_ to be dealt with in the matter of the salvage of
that vessel, so that, altogether, he was kept going to and fro from
morning until night.
Then there was Lucy to be called upon. But knowing--or thinking he
knew--that the sad news he had to communicate would go far toward
breaking the heart of the poor girl, he eagerly availed himself of every
excuse which offered, to defer his visit; and so it happened that whilst
Lucy--who had heard, with astonishment and joy unspeakable, the news of
his strange reappearance and good fortune--waited impatiently for the
longed-for visit, George was postponing it day after day, until nearly a
fortnight had passed.
And in truth he was so worried and harassed with unexpected difficulties
that, even if he could have found the time, he lacked the heart for such
a call. To his intense surprise, he learned that, though he had arrived
at Spithead with three ships, neither of them belonged to him. To begin
with, the _Virginie_, having been captured whilst her captors were under
the protection of a convoying squadron, was claimed as being actually
the prize of that squadron, though not one of the ships belonging to it
had fired a shot or struck a blow to aid in the capture. Then, as to
the _Aurora_, having not only bought and paid, but _also fought_, for
her, George was strongly of opinion that _she_ at least was his. But,
here again, it appeared that he was mistaken. She had been taken from
him by pirates, and had been out of his possession more than twenty-four
hours: she was therefore, _de facto_, a pirate, and the lawful prize of
the _Virginie_, or rather, of the _Virginie's_ owners, namely, the
convoying fleet aforesaid. And the same reasoning applied with equal
effect to the _Cigne_. The naval authorities certainly were good enough
to admit that George and his crew were, in virtue of their having been
the actual captors of these vessels, entitled to a certain moderate
share of the prize-money accruing therefrom, but further than that they
would not go.
But if George found himself a busy man, he also found himself--outside
the circle ruled by official jealousy--famous. The story, not only of
his gallant achievements, but also of his misfortunes, leaked out, as
such stories will; and he soon found himself a much-sought-after man,
quite a lion, in fact. To such an extent, indeed, was this the case,
that even the curiosity of royalty itself was aroused, and in the very
midst of all his perplexities Leicester received a summons to present
himself at court. This summons George of course dutifully and promptly
obeyed, and whilst there not only told the whole story of his
adventures, but also laid before his most gracious Majesty the
grievances from which he considered himself to be suffering. He was
well rewarded for his pains; for, when the king came to be fully
informed of the details of the case, he took the matter in hand himself,
with the result that a speedy and, on the whole, fairly satisfactory
settlement was arrived at. He was also offered a commission in the
navy, his Majesty sagely remarking that so good a man ought to be
serving his country in some better way than by commanding a mere
merchant-ship, and this time George was sensible enough to accept the
offer. At his suggestion a commission was also offered to and accepted
by Bowen.
All this business being at length satisfactorily concluded, George had
no further excuse for shunning Sea View, and accordingly, on the first
opportunity, he set out with considerable perturbation of spirit for
Alverstoke.
It was about seven o'clock in the evening, and quite dark when George
reached the house, and, passing through the gate, strode up the
well-remembered pathway, and administered a sounding _rat-tat_ at the
door. A smart, fresh-looking maid-servant answered the summons, and, on
his inquiry for Miss Walford, showed him into the familiar parlour, and
asked for his name.
"Captain Leicester," answered George.
"Yes, sir, certainly, sir," said the girl, eyeing George with such
undisguised curiosity and admiration as showed that she had undoubtedly
heard some portion at least of his story. "Missus 'll be down in a
minute, sir. Please to take a seat, sir."
George settled himself comfortably in a chair near the fire, and,
looking round at the well-remembered pictures and "curios" which still
adorned the room, fell into a reverie in which his mind travelled
backward and took him again in imagination through all that had happened
to him since he last sat in that room. From this he was brought back
abruptly to the present by the opening of the door and the entrance of
Lucy.
Ah! how George's heart leapt within his bosom as he looked at her. She
was just the same charming girl as when he had seen her last, and yet
there was a subtle difference. She was a trifle more womanly, her form
was more fully developed, and if she was a shade paler, it only made her
loveliness more distractingly bewitching than ever.
"Lucky Ned!" thought George. "To have been the chosen lover of such a
woman as this--ay, though only for a few short hours, how willingly
would I change places with you!"
"So you have come at last, captain," said Lucy, offering her delicate
little hand. "I was beginning to think that, with all the honours which
have been showered upon you, you had quite forgotten your former
friends."
"No, Lucy, I have not," answered George; "I have not forgotten one of
them--least of all have I forgotten you. Forgotten! Why, I have never
ceased to remember you; I do not believe a single waking hour has passed
over my head since we last met, that I have not thought of you."
Lucy laughed blithely; she saw by the earnestness of his manner that he
was speaking the literal truth; he had _not_ forgotten her, and all
would yet be well.
"Fie, fie, captain," said she, "it is easily to be seen that you have
been to court; you have learned so thoroughly the art of flattery."
"Ha!" exclaimed George, "have you heard of my visit to his Majesty,
then?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Lucy, "I have heard not only that, but, I
believe, your whole story. Is it possible you are ignorant of the fact
that your name is in everybody's mouth, and that your story is public
property?"
"So you have heard _all_ about me?" remarked George. "Then I hope to
Heaven that you have also already heard the sad news which I came over
to break to you this evening. I see you are in black."
"Yes," said Lucy, growing very grave at once, "I am in mourning for poor
mother; she died nearly a year ago. But what is the sad news of which
you have to speak to me?"
"You have _not_ heard, then?" said George. "Well, it is about your
cousin Edward. I regret to say that I bring you bad news of him."
"Are you referring to his death?" asked Lucy with just the faintest
suspicion of a tremor in her voice. "Because, if so, I have already
heard of it, and of all your noble, self-sacrificing behaviour on his
behalf. And as a relative, as indeed his _only_ surviving relative, let
me here and now thank you, George, in all earnestness and sincerity, for
your devotion to my unfortunate cousin."
"By Jove, she bears it well; she can't have cared so _very_ much for
him, after all," thought George.
"No thanks are necessary, I assure you," was the reply. "I only did for
him what I would have done with equal readiness for a stranger. But I
had vowed that I would be a protector to him, and that I would--if God
willed it--restore him to your arms; and I am grieved that I failed to
keep my vow. Believe me, it was through no fault of mine that I failed,
Lucy; I did the best I could, but God willed it otherwise."
"Yes--yes," answered Lucy in a dazed sort of way; "yes, God willed it
otherwise. But--whatever do you mean, George, by talking about
restoring him to my arms? Any one would think, to hear you speak, that
I was married to him."
"Well," said George, "betrothal _is_ a sort of marriage, is it not?"
"Betrothal!" exclaimed Lucy, looking more bewildered than ever. "Pray
explain yourself, Captain Leicester; I assure you I have not the
_slightest_ idea of what you mean."
It was now George's turn to look mystified.
"No idea of what I mean?" he stammered. "Why--why--you were engaged to
your cousin, Edward Walford, _were you_ not?"
A new light suddenly flashed into Lucy's mind. All along she had been
convinced that there was some reason for George's failure to visit her
on the occasion of his previous arrival in port, and now the matter was
assuredly on the eve of explanation. So she looked up into George's
face, and said quietly--
"No, George, I never was engaged to my cousin. He proposed to me, but I
refused him, explicitly and in most unmistakable terms."
"You did?" panted George, his heart throbbing tumultuously. "When was
that?"
"On the evening of the day when you last arrived in Portsmouth harbour
in the _Industry_."
Then, all in a moment, a suspicion of the truth dawned upon George.
"And it was on that same evening that I met him out there, close to the
church, and he confided to me, as a great secret, the circumstance that
you had just accepted him."
"You were so near as that, and yet you never called? For shame,
George!" exclaimed Lucy.
"Well, you see--I--that is--in fact I could not. The--the plain truth
is that I--I was on my way to you at the time, to try my own fortune
with you, and when I was told that you had accepted your cousin, I--
well, I felt that I couldn't meet you just then," stammered George with
desperate energy.
"Poor George!" murmured Lucy. "How well my cousin understood your
unsuspicious character! He _knew_ it would never occur to you to doubt
his word, and he told you that tale to keep you away from--from--"
"From what? from whom?" asked George. "Oh Lucy! is it possible that, if
I had carried out my original resolution that night, you would have
accepted me?"
"Yes, George, I would indeed," was the murmured reply. "I have loved
you, and you only, for a long time. But not longer than you have loved
me," she added roguishly, as George took her in his arms and--
But, avast there! whither are we running? It is high time that we
should 'bout ship and haul off on the opposite tack, if we would not be
regarded as impertinent intruders. Love-making is a most delightful
pastime, particularly when it comes in at the end of a long period of
suffering, hardship, and misunderstanding; but it loses all its piquant
charm if it has to be performed in the presence of strangers, no matter
how sympathetic. So we will leave it to the lively imagination of the
intelligent reader to picture for him, or herself, according to his, or
her, particular fancy, the way in which the remainder of the evening was
spent, merely mentioning that the lovers found time to come to a
thoroughly and mutually satisfactory understanding, and that, when
George left Sea View that evening, he was--to make use of a somewhat
hackneyed expression--"the happiest of men."
My story is now ended, or nearly so, the intelligent reader aforesaid
having doubtless already anticipated the little that remains to be told.
The pirates were tried, found guilty, and executed, as a matter of
course; the evidence of the crew of the _Virginie_ alone being
sufficient to insure their conviction. Captain Bowen went, at
considerable personal inconvenience, to witness the execution, being
desirous, as he said, of assuring himself with his own eyes that the
wretches were so effectually dealt with as to render any further trouble
from them an absolute impossibility.
George Leicester did not accompany his friend, being, in fact, more
agreeably engaged at the time in spending with Mrs Leicester--_nee_;
Walford--a brief honeymoon in London, prior to taking command of the
frigate _Cigne_, which had been purchased into the navy, and was then
undergoing the process of refitting at Portsmouth.
In this ship, and in others, George afterwards fought many gallant
actions, greatly distinguishing himself, and eventually retiring from
the service, at an advanced age, with a wooden leg, a baronetcy, and the
title of rear-admiral. His wife Lucy, with most commendable liberality,
presented him with no fewer than seven sons, all of whom grew up to be
fine stalwart fellows, and, entering the navy one after the other,
followed worthily in the footsteps of their gallant father.