“Now or never, then,” said he, finishing a second liqueur-glass of brandy, and descending the steps into the garden.
Though within a few days of Christmas, the evening was mild and even genial, for Chiavari is one of those sheltered nooks where the oranges live out of doors through the winter, and enjoy a climate like that of Naples. It was some time before he could detect her he was in search of, and at last came suddenly to where she was gathering some fresh violets for a bouquet.
“What a climate—what a heavenly climate this is, Miss Courtenay!” said he, in a tone purposely softened and subdued for the occasion; and she started and exclaimed:
“Oh! how you frightened me, my dear Mr. M’Kinlay. I never heard you coming. I am in search of violets; come and help me, but only take the deep blue ones.”
Now, if Mr. M’Kinlay had been perfectly sure—which he was not—that her eyes were blue, he would have adventured on a pretty compliment, but, as a lawyer, he knew the consequences of “misdescription,” and he contented himself with expressing all the happiness he felt at being associated with her in any pursuit.
“Has my sister told you what Gervais has gone about?” asked she, still stooping to cull the flowers.
“Not a word of it.”
“Then I will, though certainly you scarcely deserve such a proof of my confidence, seeing how very guarded you are as to your own secrets.”
“I, my dear Miss Courtenay? I guarded! and towards you! I pray you tell me what you allude to.”
“By-and-by, perhaps; for the present, I want to speak of our own mysteries. Know, then, that my brother has gone to Genoa to bring back with him the young gentleman through whose means much of our late discovery has been made, and who turns out to be Mr. Luttrell. He was here for a couple of days already, but so overwhelmed by the news of his father’s death, that we scarcely saw anything of him. He then left us to go back and nurse his wounded friend the captain, who insists, it seems, on being treated in the public hospital.”