CHAPTER XXVIII.
On the day that Julian Arden landed from the Onyx, Lieutenant Thornton, Mademoiselle de Tourville, and her friend Julia Plessis having made arrangements for a day’s excursion, proceeded to visit a place long celebrated in that part of the country, and known as the Hermit’s Grotto.
This hermitage was not more than a couple of miles from the Château Coulancourt, and was reached by traversing a road leading through a picturesque country.
The tradition that rendered this grotto celebrated was that for nearly one hundred years it was the residence of a holy man, who had subsisted principally on the water from the well, that rose within the grotto, and said to possess peculiar properties. In fact, there is scarcely a rural village of France that has not its legend of a holy man, or hermit, dwelling in the neighbourhood; but one remaining in the same place a hundred years seemed marvellous; for, even allowing that he commenced his holy life at the age of twenty, the worthy recluse must have been of a very respectable age when he departed from earth, and a desire would have arisen in the minds of the young people to make a pilgrimage to such a hallowed spot had not Mademoiselle Plessis declared that the scenery in the vicinity of the grotto was exceedingly beautiful, and talked enthusiastically of the cascade, piles of curious rocks, and a spot like the Perte du Rhone, near Geneva, where the little river entirely disappeared, and then came sparkling and dashing out of the rocks, some hundred yards from where it had been lost to view.
Monsieur Plessis had gone to Havre, for Madame de Coulancourt’s letter had not yet arrived, though many days after the expected time, and Jean Plessis became uneasy. Our hero was not, because he was fairly, irrevocably in love, a love that absorbed his whole thoughts and actions, and he no longer talked of making his escape. The glory of naval achievements, once his pride and only thought, faded like rose leaves, and were wafted away, as Cupid shook his tiny pinions over his victim, encircling him with his invisible but most secure meshes.
Shall we attempt to probe the heart of the fascinating and lively Marie de Tourville? Had she become aware of her lover’s devotion? We only ask our fair readers, did they ever mistake a man’s love when declared by his eyes, his actions, by anything but words? Did they ever mistake that devotion for friendship?
All we can say is, Marie de Tourville was not blind; she knew that she was loved, and she gloried in it, though it seemed a strange contradiction for one so sweetly modest and retiring to declare to her friend, that the dearest object of her life was obtained when she gained the love of William Thornton. Neither did this declaration shock the pretty Julia, who laughed as she kissed the crimsoned cheek of the beautiful girl, saying—
“You see, dearest, that for once, your giddy friend prophesied rightly; and in overcoming your timid reluctance, she may have aided to ensure your future happiness.”
In this instance Cupid played no game of cross purposes. If Lieutenant Thornton fondly loved, he was no lover in vain, for the gentle heart of Marie de Tourville beat in unison with his.
It was a lovely day in June, the one chosen for the excursion; and, though it is hotter in Normandy during that month than with us, who are sometimes content to warm ourselves with a good fire, when June, as Master Punch says, sets in with its usual severity, yet the heat was tempered by a delicious fresh westerly wind, and a succession of light gossamer clouds, that somewhat softened the glowing hue of a Norman sky, which, though not of the glorious colour of the Italian firmament, is yet intensely blue when compared with the canopy heaven spreads over the bright green fields of merry England.