Chapter Twenty Two.

“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—née; 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.

The End.