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 enthusiasticallyof 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 MasterPunchsays, 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.
Bill Saunders followed the young couple at a little distance,carrying a basket, containing some light refreshment to be partaken of in the grotto. Bill had grown very philosophical; he found the life he led an easy one, rather too much so, for he would willingly have exerted his tongue more than he did, but he made poor progress in the language, though the females of the establishment, who liked the good-tempered and very good-looking seaman, took considerable pains to teach him. However, Bill smoked his pipe in the yard, helped the old gardener in his rough work, and as the old man had been deaf and dumb for the last two years of his life, they got on remarkably well; that is, they both made signs and nodded their heads, and remained quite satisfied as if they each understood the other. Bill had instructions from his master, as he would style Lieutenant Thornton, that if ever he came in the way of a stranger, to pretend that he was deaf and dumb, and hitherto he had managed to act his part well; but this day his discretion was to be put to a severer test.
Our hero and his fair companions rambled on through the very pretty country surrounding the château, conversing on various and numerous subjects. Sometimes he would climb a rock to gather some wild flower, to give to Mademoiselle de Tourville, and receive in return a smile and a glance of pleasure from her large dark eyes that strangely confused his brain.
“You remind me, in some respects,” he once remarked, “of little Mabel Coulancourt; so much so, that I get quite bewildered with the resemblance; it is in the eyes, I fancy.”
“But why, Monsieur Thornton,” said Julia Plessis, laughing, “do you always call Mademoiselle Coulancourt ‘little Mabel?’ surely she is not a dwarf.”
Marie de Tourville looked with a peculiar smile into the lieutenant’s eyes.
“Dwarf,” he repeated, “oh, no; I daresay she may be a tall elegant girl. But somehow she always appears before my eyes as the dear, engaging, tender-hearted child, with her thin, pale face, so expressive of all the sufferings she had gone through; and then the pleading look of her large lustrous eyes. I would have sacrificed my boyish life for her; and God knows I would do so now, as for a fondly loved sister.”
The lieutenant looked up as he spoke, and Marie de Tourville turned aside her head as if gazing round her; he fancied that her eyes filled with tears.
“This is very strange,” thought our hero, “I have observed this emotion before; indeed, it is always obvious whenever we speak of Mabel Coulancourt.”
“It is a great pity, Monsieur Thornton,” observed Julia Plessis, with a very demure and serious look, “that you have not been faithful to your fair protégée; instead of loving her asa sister, you ought to have given and kept for her your fondest affection—the affection of a lover.”
“You forget, fair Julia,” replied our hero, somewhat seriously, “that when we parted Mabel was but a child. What might have been my feelings in after years, had circumstances thrown us together, who can say? The human heart is a strange piece of mechanism; we can with difficulty control or command its impulses.”
“And yet,” said Marie de Tourville, in a low and somewhat agitated voice, “gratitude has a strange power over woman’s heart; who can say but that the child you describe as so precocious and sensitive, may not have grown into womanhood with a deep and overpowering feeling, gradually increasing with increased sensibility, till that one feeling has become the engrossing one of her whole heart, staking her happiness on earth on its being returned?”
William Thornton started, and a flush rose to his cheeks as he sought to gaze into the expressive features of his companion, whose eyes sought the ground. He felt uneasy, he knew not why, till Julia, with a light, merry laugh, said gaily—
“Come, we have had quite enough of Master Cupid, and his supposed capabilities of making people miserable or happy, as the case may be. I know for my part the little wretch shall take the bandage off his own eyes before he blinds mine, for I verily declare I consider all people in love nothing more than a set of poor deluded mortals—moths about a flame. Now turn, both of you and look at this view, there’s the grotto and the rocks of Menin; and there, about two miles off, on that high bank with the noble forest behind it, stands the château of the Monsieur or Captain Gramont my father was speaking about the other day.”
“I had no idea of seeing any spot half so picturesque and lovely,” cried Marie, rousing from the reverie she seemed plunged in; and gazing into the lieutenant’s face with such a look of confiding affection, that had they been alone he would have thrown himself at her feet, and avowed that love so plainly shown by every look and action; that devotion, which, no matter whether alone or in the presence of Madame Plessis and her daughter, he made no effort to conceal. He had been told she was an orphan, and going to England with the intention of trusting to her talents for support. Then what was to hinder him from loving her and throwing himself at her feet? his heart told him she would not scorn his affection, every difficulty therefore vanished. Where is the difficulty that will not disappear before a lover, satisfied of his fair one’s faith and truth?
The scenery would have been unnoticed but for Julia’s callon his attention. Politeness compelled him to rouse himself, and looking around he declared that Julia’s previous description—a description that had called up his wish to view the Hermit’s Grotto—was exceeded by the reality. It certainly was a glowing and charming picture. The path on which they were standing was apparently intercepted by a range of extremely picturesque rocks of immense size, looking like detached masses piled one upon another. The recesses were covered with an infinite variety of parasite plants, mosses, and flowering shrubs, and the summits covered with groups of stunted pines. Through the heart of this singular barrier of rocks, nearly half a mile in length, the trout stream rushed with considerable violence, falling a height of above thirty feet, in one broad sheet, into a beautiful pool of deep pellucid water, more than a thousand feet in circumference. The stream then fell over a low range of rock, and pursued its course, tumbling and foaming over detached rocks, till it reached a level track running through some rich pasture meadows.
Close beside the pool, and seemingly scooped out of the rock, was the grotto, its sides covered with the luxuriant foliage of the wild fig, whilst from the top hung festoons of the flowery jessamine, which grew in wild profusion over the rocks.
“I do not wonder,” said Lieutenant Thornton, “that the good hermit lived to a good old age in this charming spot.”
“Do you think you could live here a quarter that period, Monsieur de Tourville?” inquired Julia, laughing.
“Oh, yes, with a fair saint like yourself on the opposite side of the pool to give life and beauty to the scene.”
“And to help to fry the trout you would catch in the said pool,” returned the lively girl, trying to climb a rock for a beautiful wild rose.
Thornton and Marie de Tourville strolled into the grotto, leaving Julia collecting a wild nosegay, whilst Bill, having deposited the basket, scrambled up the rocks to see what was on the other side.
Marie de Tourville sat down on the stone bench hewn out of the rock, either by the pious hermit or some hermit-loving disciple, and her companion placed himself beside her.
“If ever a hermit lived here,” observed the young girl, looking around, “surely he must have had some other place of repose than this open grotto; you see it is of no extent, and in winter the blasts up the valley must have been piercing.”
“Depend on it, the holy father took care of himself,” returned our hero; “at all events, if he lived here a hundred years he was blessed with a most excellent constitution.”
“You seem to have no faith in the piety of monks and hermits,” observed Marie, with a smile.
“Not much, I confess,” said our hero; “it requires to be a good Catholic to hear, see, and believe all we are told of their self-denial.”
“Yet, you may be mistaken; you are aware I was reared a Protestant. Still I do not see that we have any right to doubt the piety of others, trusting chiefly to our biassed history of their lives and doings.”
“I would not argue the point with so dangerous and so fair an antagonist,” said the Lieutenant, “I would rather,” he added, with a look of devoted affection, “plead my own cause,” and he laid his hand gently upon the fair and beautiful fingers that trembled at his touch, but were not drawn away. “It is needless for me to say that with my whole heart and soul I love you, Marie, for you must have read my affection before now. A strange and incomprehensible feeling drew me towards you the very first moment that we met; I call it strange, because when I gaze into your features an inexplicable idea rushes through my brain, a confusion of thoughts impossible to disentangle. But one feeling, however, struggles through the mist, and that is, that I adore you, and that to remain longer silent is impossible.” The hand he held trembled exceedingly as he added, “Beloved, my heart has dared to whisper that I am not wholly indifferent to you. One word, Marie, from your lips decides my fate.”
He drew her gently towards him, and raising her eyes to his—they were full of tears—she said in a low sweet voice, and speaking, to his utter amazement, in English—
“Is it possible, William, you never recognised little Mabel?”
The blood rushed to William Thornton’s heart with overwhelming force, as with an uncontrollable emotion he caught her to his heart, exclaiming—
“My God! how grateful am I! The one painful feeling of my life is scattered to the winds. Oh, Mabel! Mabel! Can you still love me as I adore you?”
“Dear William, why doubt poor Mabel’s love? How it has grown with my growth! It has been my pride and my joy that my happiness was centred in you.”
“Ah! and yet,” uttered the Lieutenant, in a tone of bitter self-reproach, “I apparently loved another.”
“No, William, you loved Mabel. In the midst of your love for Marie, Mabel was flitting before your mind’s eye, the pale, thin, careworn face of the child you protected was still struggling for a place in your heart—confess it.”
“Mabel, you are an angel,” and pressing her to his heart he fondly kissed her cheek.
A shadow crossed the grotto’s mouth, and Julia Plessis entered laughing, saying—
“Well, upon my word, strange things do occur in this world. I left you, monsieur, with a woman, and lo! I hear you say she’s an angel; never after this doubt the holiness of the Hermit’s Grotto.”
Before another word could be said a darker shadow crossed the grotto’s mouth, and caused the three absorbed inmates to start to their feet. The tall form of a man, with a fishing rod in his hand and a basket at his back, stood before them, and at a glance Lieutenant Thornton recognised Captain Gramont.
Raising his hat from his head, the Frenchman bowed with the utmost courtesy, saying—
“Pardon me, ladies, and you Monsieur de Tourville, for this intrusion; it was quite unintentional. I was crossing the rocks towards the stream on the other side to try and tempt a large trout out of this famous pool, when I encountered a rather strange individual. I spoke to him, but he looked at me as if I were a wild beast, shook his head, and made a horrid noise in his throat.”
“Ah!” interrupted our hero, inclined to laugh, though exceedingly annoyed at the interruption, “you met my man, Pierre Bompart; he is deaf and dumb, but as faithful a fellow as ever lived.”
There was a curl on Monsieur Gramont’s lip as he bowed; and as all left the grotto, he observed—
“I have no doubt of his fidelity, for he seemed decidedly inclined to throw me over the rocks, and I really did not offend him. But I have to beg your pardon, Monsieur de Tourville, for not having called at Coulancourt. I have been absent. The Government has made me Maire of this arrondissement, and I had to proceed to Rouen; but I had intended doing myself that honour to-morrow.”
Our hero bowed, and as he could do no less, and politeness required it, he introduced the two ladies to the unwelcome intruder.
Monsieur Gramont could scarcely conceal his admiration as he acknowledged the introduction to Mademoiselle de Tourville, but to Mademoiselle Plessis he said in a gay tone—
“Though I have not had the pleasure of an introduction before, I have had the happiness of seeing Mademoiselle Plessis.”
“The happiness was entirely confined to yourself, monsieur,” said Julia, carelessly, “for I really never remember having anywhere seen you.”
“I could recall the period, nevertheless, mademoiselle, but it is a painful time to bring back to your memory; you were a very young girl.”
Julia did look surprised, and a little uneasy, and perhaps curious, for she said—
“Pray to what time do you refer, monsieur? You know our sex are always accounted curious, so I suppose I am like all the rest.”
“If all were like you, mademoiselle,” said Monsieur Gramont, with a flattering smile, “this would be a dangerous world for our sex; but the period I refer to was shortly after the taking of Lyons, when Collet d’Herbois, Fouché, and Montait had formed a military commission there.”
“Ah! mon Dieu!” exclaimed Julia Plessis, with a start of horror.
And Mabel’s cheek turned deadly pale, whilst Lieutenant Thornton gazed, with a frown on his brow, at the unconcerned features of the Frenchman.
“Mon Dieu! were you there with those wretches?”
“I was a lieutenant in the Chasseurs, mademoiselle, and doing my duty under the orders of General Ronsin. I had no share in the horrors there committed; those men have since received a merited doom for their atrocities; but I was struck at the time, mademoiselle, by the noble devotion of your father and family in the cause of the beautiful and then unfortunate Duchesse de Coulancourt.”
Mabel felt intensely uneasy, for as she raised her eyes, she thought, or she fancied, the eyes of Monsieur Gramont rested upon her with a peculiar look. In a low voice she said to Lieutenant Thornton—
“Let us go back to the château.”
“Well, Monsieur Gramont,” cried our hero, “we will not interrupt you in your sport; there are some clouds overhead, and a fine breeze curls the surface of yonder deep pool, both prognostics in your favour.”
The two maidens saluted the Frenchman, who remained uncovered until they turned to depart, and then he said—
“Since I have been so fortunate in making such agreeable and charming acquaintance, I will eagerly avail myself of my good fortune.”
The party then began retracing their steps, and Bill, from his station, seeing them retiring, rose up; he was quietly smoking his pipe, eyeing all the movements of Monsieur Gramont, for whom he had imbibed a most inconceivable dislike from the very first day of their meeting, and hearing his master say he did not like that Monsieur Gramont, Bill doubly disliked him. He, however, had no dislike for the Frenchwomen; the men, he declared, were born his natural enemies, and the only one he was likely to be reconciled to was the old deaf gardener; but Monsieur Gramont was a tall, handsomeman, with whom he felt a monstrous desire to pick a quarrel. The party going away without refreshment, and in which he considered he would have shared after they had finished, was caused by Monsieur Gramont’s intrusion, and this made Bill grumble.
He was descending the rocks, and was passing the Frenchman to get his basket, when Monsieur Gramont, unfolding his rod and landing net, turned suddenly round, and looking into Bill’s honest face, said, pointing to the net—
“Hold this a moment, my man, and I’ll thank you.”
Bill started back as if a thirty-two pound shot had made an attempt to pass between his legs, for the Frenchman spoke in unmistakable English. Bill was taken aback, and he at once replied—
“I’ll see you——first.”
But immediately recollecting his dumb character, and seeing his master waving his hand for him to come on, he glared at the cool, and collected, and smiling Frenchman, and uttered such a succession of unearthly sounds, that any one else would have been confounded; and then, with a look of unmistakable rage at Monsieur Gramont, he seized his basket, clenched his huge fist, and departed, whilst the Frenchman kept quietly putting his rod together, singing “Malbrook,” and other French airs.
“Well, blow me,” muttered Bill, “if I wouldn’t give twelve months’ pay to thrust my fist into that crapaud’s mouth! I’d spoil the beauty of his Moll Brook, the cursed frog-eating lubber! speaking English too, thinking to take me in. Ay, ay; sink me if it is not enough to capsise a fellow under bare poles.”
Thus grumbling and growling, and rather afraid his master would think he had not acted his part well, and, on reflecting, deeply regretting that he had not thrown Frenchman, rod, and all into the pool, he hurried on after the party.
As our hero and his fair companions proceeded towards the château, the conversation naturally turned upon the discovery which had just been made of Marie de Tourville being no other than Mabel Arden.
“And is it possible, monsieur,” said Julia Plessis, “that your heart never suggested the idea that Marie and Mabel were one and the same person? Was there no trace of the thin, pale girl left in the sweet face of my beloved friend to recall the past?”
“Yes,” replied the young man, gazing with fond delight upon the beautiful and happy girl who leaned upon his arm so confidingly. “Yes, the child’s image constantly haunted me; sleeping or waking the two faces appeared before me. It seemedto me as if I was loving both; I was most completely bewildered. Still, I really never for a moment thought it possible they could be one and the same; that idea never entered my head at all. It is true, Marie’s eyes always reminded me of Mabel’s; and I often in fancy pictured to myself my little protégée grown into just such another lovable being as Marie, and I continually tormented myself as to whether Mabel would ever remember me as anything but a brother, if I had kept my affections free.”
“Ah, the fact is, I was always quite right,” said Julia, laughing; “love is blind, and lovers infatuated.”
“But your time will come, fair Julia,” suggested the lieutenant.
“Eh, bien!” returned the lovely girl. “I will then beseech the saints to grant me patience, strengthen my digestion, and make me love a rational creature. But, badinage apart, I can’t endure that Monsieur Gramont; he says he had no share in the horrors committed at Lyons. I do not believe him; he belonged to the army of the ferocious Ronsin, and that’s enough to stamp his character in my mind. I wonder he had the face to acknowledge he was one of the monsters that so disgraced God’s own image.”
“Like you, Julia,” said Mabel, with a shudder, “I feel a kind of apprehension steal over me when I think of that man; indeed, I thought he looked at me with a strange inquiring expression. However, after all, it was perhaps mere fancy on my part.”
“Now, dearest,” interrupted our hero, addressing Mabel, “pray explain to me the singular and extraordinary circumstance of your being here, when I thought you were far away in Old England. It appears so unaccountable.”
“And yet,” returned Mabel, “most easily explained, and will appear very simple and natural, when you hear my explanation. From the moment I became aware that my beloved mother was alive and well and residing in Paris, an overpowering desire to fly to her arms took possession of me; I could not rest night or day—I could think of nothing else. Amongst the French refugees, acquaintances of Madame Volney’s, was a Madame de Tourville, whose family consisted of a son and daughter; their resources were very limited, and just at this time they received letters from an uncle, who was in power, and high in the French Directory. He urged their return to France,viâHamburg, with every hope of some of their estates being restored, on their taking the oath not to emigrate.
“They immediately resolved to return to their country. Madame Volney, knowing my intense desire to rejoin my parents, and participating in the feeling, and also knowing how necessary it was that I should procure proofs of my birth andmy mother’s marriage, easily prevailed on Madame de Tourville to take me with her, as her daughter’s French attendant—her late one had refused to go back to France. Accordingly, we embarked for Hamburg, and the necessary papers being sent us by Madame de Tourville’s uncle, we travelled safely to Paris.
“Need I describe the joy and rapture of my beloved mother? I will pass over many things now for the sake of brevity. It was necessary that I should continue to represent Janette Brusset, the attendant of Madame Tourville; so I remained with Madame Plessis and my dear Julia, the beloved companion of my childhood, visiting my dear and still beautiful mother daily, and occasionally staying several days and nights as if in attendance on her. My mother’s ardent, burning desire is to get from France, and return to her own country.
“When I explained to her that my uncle had left me so noble a fortune, and that you were her brother’s son, she told me she had heard all that, and that Jean Plessis was even then seeking the necessary documents to establish her marriage and my poor lamented brother Julian’s birth. Afterwards came your letter, inclosed in one from good Dame Moret’s son to Jean Plessis, who had just returned. Imagine our joy, though still our anxiety.
“Then it was that Julia proposed that I should accompany her and her father and mother to Coulancourt, as Mademoiselle de Tourville. Ah, William—I still call you William”—our hero pressed the little hand resting on his arm—“I was easily persuaded to practise this ruse upon you, to see if you still remembered the ‘little pale, thin child’ that clung to you years back, as her only hope; and so good Monsieur Plessis, who had an eye to your escape out of France, and to guard you from imprisonment, whilst in it, by bribery, procured papers for Monsieur Philip and Mademoiselle Marie de Tourville, so that if you attracted notice you might pass for my brother; after arranging this plan, it struck my mother that she might also get out of France, but Jean Plessis over-persuaded her for the present, as it might prove our destruction, and at one sweep confiscate all her property. My dear mother cared not for the estates, she so longed to quit France; but then she knew she might involve good Monsieur Plessis, whose attachment and noble generosity had caused him so often to risk his life for her and her late husband, so she consented to my coming here. ‘And perhaps,’ suggested Monsieur Plessis, ‘by a little manœuvring you may, madame, be able to visit Coulancourt yourself.’ This idea delighted my mother, for she longs to see and embrace you.
“So now, dear William, it is I that have to ask your pardon for thinking to steal your heart from little Mabel.”
Young hearts—young hearts—how few and simple are the words from the lips beloved that constitute the felicity! We know not the delights in the years that follow.
As they approached the château, walking up from the bottom of the lawn, they beheld Rose Moret running from the front door to meet them.
“What can cause Rose to hurry so?” exclaimed Mabel—we will drop her assumed name; but Rose was up with them before they could surmise, or utter a conjecture. She looked like a full-blown peony, her cheeks were so flushed.
“Why, Rose, you are out of breath,” said Julia; “anything wrong?”
“Well, indeed, mademoiselle, perhaps what I have to tell you may not be pleasant; but mother told me to run and take the short cut, and to tell you that Sergeant François Perrin and another gendarme are coming to the château on a visit of inspection; but do not be alarmed, for it is only a matter of form.”
Mabel at first turned pale, and clung with a feeling of alarm to her companion, but Julia Plessis re-assured her by saying—
“Do not trouble about Sergeant Perrin; we are old acquaintances. I can very easily manage him, so trust to me.”
Rose then turned to Lieutenant Thornton, saying—
“Monsieur, there is a young man, a sailor, apparently—he says his name is Louis Lebeau—waiting for you under the great chestnut tree at the back of the garden.”
“Louis Lebeau,” repeated our hero, “I never heard the name before, to the best of my recollection; but pray, Rose, say I will join him there in a few minutes. I wish to speak to Saunders, for he had better keep out of the way, provided the sergeant does not inquire after him.”
“Do you think there is anything to fear from this visit, William?” asked Mabel, anxiously, looking into her lover’s face.
“No, Mabel, I do not think there is the slightest cause for apprehension; these kind of visits are common in France; a mere ceremony that must be gone through. Monsieur Plessis has had our papers so carefully prepared, that suspicion cannot be excited.”
By this time they had reached the house, and whilst the females went in, the young man turned back to have a word with Bill.
“I trust, Bill, you did not utter a syllable when that Frenchman spoke to you on the rocks.”
“Not one,” replied Bill; “I gave a kind of grunt, like a well-bred porker, when he feels the knife in him, and then Mounseer stared at me, as if I was a whale or a porpoise sportingover land, and says he, ‘Parley voo, garron;’ by my conscience, I had a mind to give him a flip in the head, for calling me a garron.”
“He did not call you a garron; he, no doubt, said garçon.”
“Well, sir, they are much the same, seeing I don’t know what that word is.”
Then Bill hesitated a little; then looking up and rubbing the back of his head, he continued—
“He speaks English, your honour.”
“Speaks English!” repeated our hero, with a start. “How can you know that? you surely must have spoken to him.”
Bill looked puzzled? he, however, said—
“No, your honour, I didn’t speak to him. I was passing him by, you see, when he turns round, and says he, curse his impudence, ‘Hold that, my man, and I’ll thank you.’ ‘See you——first,’ says I.”
“What!” exclaimed the Lieutenant, angrily, “you said that!”
“Not exactly,” said Bill, fidgeting; “in course I meant it. I turns round, fills, and goes ahead; the Mounseer begins singing about some Moll Brook, and some other gibberish, and says I, ‘I’d Moll Brook you, if I had ten minutes’ play with you,’ and so, your honour, I left him.”
“Well,” said Lieutenant Thornton, thoughtfully, “this is serious. However, what’s done cannot be undone! you acted as well as I could expect: but now hear me, you had better keep out of the way: there are two gendarmes coming here, to make the usual examination of the papers of all strangers; so keep to your room unless I send for you.”
Thus speaking, the lieutenant walked on, making a circuit of the house to enable him to reach the great chestnut tree at the back.
“Well, blow me, if this ain’t a nice country to live in. Coming to look at our papers!” muttered Bill, “I wish we had the two lubbers on board the little Onyx—my eyes! wouldn’t I paper them; howsomever, I will take this basket to my room, I suppose I’m not expected to fast because those beggars are coming.”
Bill very quietly made his way to his room, shut the door, bolted it, and then began to examine the contents of the basket. In the meantime, our hero was by no means easy in his mind respecting Bill’s rencontre with Monsieur Gramont; for on reflection it convinced him of two things—first, that the Frenchman doubted Bill’s being deaf and dumb; and secondly, he must have suspected him to be an Englishman. This train of reflection made him exceedingly uncomfortable; he had now not only hisown safety to attend to, but the safety of one dearer to him than life.
He was roused from his uncomfortable thoughts by seeing the great chestnut tree before him, a tree considered almost sacred by the peasantry, from its great age, and several remarkable historical events connected with it; but as those events belong to the traditionary history of Normandy, we will not interrupt the thread of our story by reciting them.
On looking under the spreading branches, he perceived a young man in a sailor’s dress leaning against the huge trunk, but who immediately advanced towards him. Our hero looked at him with some surprise, for although vested in the attire of the French common sailor, there was an air of easy grace, and a gentlemanly bearing, that was noticeable at first sight. As the stranger halted close beside the lieutenant, there was a visible flush on his cheek as he said—
“It will not do to waste words—Sir Oscar de Bracy.”
The lieutenant started and gazed somewhat curiously into the features of the stranger, which appeared almost familiar to him, and being addressed in English, his surprise was the greater.
“No doubt you are astonished,” continued the false Lebeau, “but I had better inform you who I am at once—I am Julian Arden.”
“Heavens! is this possible?” exclaimed the astonished listener, grasping the speaker’s hand. “You Julian Arden, the lost and deeply-lamented brother of Mabel!”
“Such in truth is the case,” returned Julian, warmly pressing the hand that held his.
“I have no doubt of it,” interrupted the amazed lieutenant, “your features so resemble your sister’s; but, in the name of fate, how knew you me, or that I was here? There is joyful news in store for you—your mother and sister both live.”
“Yes, yes,” returned the young man, “I know all that, and more than you imagine; perhaps, I have news also for you.”
“Still, Julian,” said Lieutenant Thornton, addressing him as he would a brother, “you cannot surely know that Mabel is here, in the old château.”
“Ah, that is news, indeed,” joyfully exclaimed Julian Arden, “and amply repays the years of privation, and at times suffering, that I have endured. I was aware of my beloved mother being alive and well, and in Paris; but Mabel I thought was in England—her being here amazes me. Aware that she owes her preservation and future happiness to your care and noble generosity, I longed to see you before I proceeded to seek my mother.”
“Had we not better proceed to the house?” said William Thornton; “we have so much to explain and to say; but I will first break this joyful intelligence to Mabel.”
“No,” said Julian, “I dare not venture there till night, after the visit of François Perrin, and the inspecting gendarmes. In my joy at meeting you, I have delayed speaking of him; I was with Dame Moret when he came to her house, stating that he was going to visit the château, and as she had informed me that you were here, she wished you to be put upon your guard. Rose Moret went on before me, so now you had better go back to the house. I will return to Dame Moret till dark, and then come here, and you can hide me for a few days, till we are enabled to talk over our position and future proceedings; after which I intend journeying to Paris. I have papers as Louis Lebeau, of Rouen, and can more readily than any Englishman pass for a French sailor, as you will be able to judge when you hear my story.”
Rose Moret interrupted their further conversation, by hurrying towards them. “The gendarmes are come, monsieur, and Mademoiselle Plessis is anxious you should see them; it will remove all suspicion, though she does not think they have any.”
“Very good,” said Lieutenant Thornton, “I will see them; but, Rose, you must contrive to keep Pierre Bompart out of the way.”
“There’s no fear of him, monsieur,” returned Rose, laughing. “He has taken the basket with the lunch to his room, and locked himself in, grumbling a good deal, but really I have no idea about what, as there is enough in the basket to keep him a week.”
“He is only lamenting, Rose, that he cannot knock the heads of the two gendarmes together; an amusement that would please him amazingly. Farewell, Julian; I shall most anxiously expect you, and you may be sure there is one that will be in a state of intense anxiety till she sees you.”
“Farewell till to-night,” replied Julian, “but for heaven’s sake be cautious with those men, though Dame Moret said you spoke French very nearly like a native of the country, but of another province; and as the De Tourvilles were from Picardy, mind that, you will do very well.”
So shaking hands, the young men, who already felt highly pleased with each other, parted.