But it is not gone yet; and a guest admitted into the house of an English gentleman is not presupposed to be an adventurer, stranger though he be. His strolling out through the grounds, with a young lady for sole companion, even upon a starless night, is not considered outré—certainly not a thing for scandal.
Sir George Vernon’s guest, with Sir George’s daughter on his arm, was not thinking of scandal, as they threaded the mazes of the shrubbery that grew contiguous to the dwelling. No more, as they stopped under the shadow of gigantic deodara, whose broad, evergreen fronds extended far over the carefully kept turf.
There was neither moon nor stars in the sky; no light save that dimly reflected through the glass panelling of the conservatory.
They were alone, or appeared so—secure from being either observed or overheard, as if standing amidst the depths of some primeval forest, or the centre of an unpeopled desert. If there were others near, they were not seen; if speaking, it must have been in whispers.
Perhaps this feeling of security gave a tone to their conversation. At all events, it was carried on with a freedom from restraint, hitherto unused between them.
“You have travelled a great deal?” said the young girl, as the two came to a stand under the deodara.
“Not much more than yourself Miss Vernon. You have been a great traveller, if I mistake not?”
“I! oh, no! I’ve only been to one of the West India islands, where papa was Governor. Then to New York, on our way home. Since to some of the capital cities of Europe. That’s all.”
“A very fair itinerary for one of your age.”
“But you have visited many strange lands, and passed through strange scenes—scenes of danger, as I’ve been told.”