“Nay, Lucy,” said her sanguine brother, “why this grief? are you not glad that The Pride is returned?”
“Oh, Reginald!” said Lucy, looking on him reproachfully through the tears which now streamed from her eyes. “Think you that if he had been alive and well, he would have allowed another to come here before him! Go and speak to the man—I cannot see him—you will return and tell me all.”
Reginald felt the reproof, and, kissing her affectionately, hastened from the room.
Who shall attempt to lift the veil from Lucy’s heart during the suspense of the succeeding minutes? It is fortunate for human nature, that at such a moment the mind is too confused to be conscious of its own sufferings: the mingled emotions of hope and fear, the half–breathed prayer, the irresistible desire to learn, contending with the dread of more assured misery,—all these unite in producing that agony of suspense which it is impossible to describe in words, and of which the mind of the sufferer can scarcely realise afterwards a distinct impression.
After a short absence, Reginald returned, and said to his sister, “Lucy, Ethelston is not here, but he is alive and safe.”
She hid her face in her brother’s breast, and found relief in a flood of grateful tears. As soon as Lucy had recovered her composure, her brother informed her of Ethelston’s captivity, and of the serious, though not dangerous, wounds that he had received; but he mingled with the narration such warm praises of his friend’s heroic defence of the brig, and so many sanguine assurances of his speedy release and return, that her fears and her anxiety were for a time absorbed in the glow of pride with which she listened to the praises of her lover’s conduct, and in the anticipation of soon having his adventures from his own lips. The faithful mate received a kind welcome from the Colonel, and though the latter had sustained a severe loss in the brig, he viewed it as a misfortune for which no one could be blamed; and directed all his anxiety and his inquiries to the condition of Ethelston, whom he loved as his own son.
“Depend on’t, Colonel,” said Gregson, “he’ll come to no harm where is he; for L’Estrange is a fine old fellow, and Master Ethelston saved his son’s neck from my cutlass. I was cuttin’ at him in downright airnest, for my dander was up; and you know, Colonel, a man a’nt particular nice in a deck scurry like that!”
“And what made him so anxious to save the youngster?” inquired the Colonel.
“Why I s’pose he thought the day was our own, and the lieutenant too smart a lad to be roughly handled for naught; but the young mad–cap put a pistol–ball into his arm by way of thanks.”
“Well, and did Ethelston still protect him?”