CHAPTER XXII

AT BERWIN MANOR

The heritage of Diana lay some miles from Bath, in a pleasant wooded

valley, through which meandered a placid and slow-flowing stream. On

either side of this water stretched broad meadow lands, flat and

fertile, as well they might be, seeing they were of rich black loam, and

well drained, withal. To the right these meadows were bounded by forest

lands, the trees of which grew thickly up and over the ridge, and on the

space where wood met fields was placed the manor, a quaint square

building of Georgian architecture, and some two centuries old.

Against the green of the trees its warm walls of red brick and sloping

roof of bluish slate made a pleasant spot of colour. There stretched a

terrace before it; beneath the terrace a flower garden and orchard; and

below these the meadow lands, white with snow in winter, black in

spring, with ridgy furrows, and golden with grain in the hot days of

summer. Altogether a lovely and peaceful spot, where a man could pass

pleasant days in rural quiet, a hermitage of rest for the life-worn and

heart-weary.

Here, towards the end of summer, came Lucian, to rest his brain after

the turmoil of London, and to court his mistress under the most

favourable circumstances. Diana had established herself in her ancestral

home with a superannuated governess as a chaperon, for without such a

guardianship she could hardly have invited the barrister to visit her.

Miss Priscilla Barbar was a placid, silver-haired old dame, who, having

taught Diana for many years, had returned, now that the American Mrs.

Vrain had departed, to spend the rest of her days under the roof of her

dear pupil.

She took a great fancy to Lucian, which was just as well, seeing what

was the object of his visit, and complacently watched the growing

attachment between the handsome young couple, who seemed so suited to

one another. But her duties as chaperon were nominal, for when not

pottering about the garden she was knitting in a snug corner, and when

knitting failed to interest her she slumbered quietly, in defiance of

the etiquette which should have compelled her to make a third in the

conversation of her young friends.

As for Lucian and his charming hostess, they found that they had so many

tastes in common, and enjoyed each other's society so much, that they

were hardly ever apart. Diana saw with the keen eyes of a woman that

Lucian was in love with her, and let it be seen in a marvellously short

space of time, and without much difficulty, that she was in love with

him.

But even after Lucian had been at the manor a fortnight, and daily in

the society of Diana, he spoke no word of love. Seeing how beautiful she

was, and how dowered with lands and rents and horses, he began to ask

himself whether it was not rather a presumption on his part to ask her

to share his life. He had only three hundred a year--six pounds a

week--and a profession in which, as yet, he had not succeeded; so he

could offer her very little in exchange for her beauty, wealth, and

position.

The poor lover became quite pale with fruitless longing, and his spirits

fell so low that good Miss Priscilla one day drew him aside to ask about

his health.

"For," said she, "if you are ill in body, Mr. Denzil, I know of some

remedies--old woman's medicines you will call them, no doubt--which,

with the blessing of God, may do you good."

"Thank you, Miss Barbar, but I am not ill in body--worse luck!" and

Lucian sighed.

"Why worse luck, Mr. Denzil?" said the old lady severely. "That is an

ungrateful speech to Providence."

"I would rather be ill in body than ill in mind," explained Denzil,

blushing, for in some ways he was younger than his years.

"And are you ill in mind?" asked Miss Priscilla, with a twinkle in her

eyes.

"Alas! yes. Can you cure me?"

"No. For that cure I shall hand you over to Diana."

"Miss Priscilla!" And Lucian coloured again, this time with vexation.

"Oh, Mr. Denzil," laughed the governess, "because I am old you must not

imagine that I am blind. I see that you love Diana."

"Better than my life!" cried the devoted lover with much fervour.

"Of course! That is the usual romantic answer to make. Well, why do you

not tell Diana so, with any pretty additions your fancy suggests?"

"She might not listen to me," said this doubting lover dolefully.

"Very true," replied his consoler. "On the other hand, she might.

Besides, Mr. Denzil, however much the world may have altered since my

youth, I have yet to learn that it is the lady's part to propose to the

gentleman."

"But, Miss Barbar, I am poor!"

"What of that? Diana is rich."

"Don't I know it? For that very reason I hesitate to ask her."

"Because you are afraid of being called a fortune-hunter, I suppose,"

said the old lady drily. "That shows a lack of moral courage which is

not worthy of you, Mr. Denzil. Take an old woman's advice, young man,

and put your fortunes to the test. Remember Montrose's advice in the

song."

"You approve of my marrying Diana--I mean Miss Vrain?"

"From what I have seen of you, and from what Diana has told me about

you, I could wish her no better husband. Poor girl! After the tragical

death of her father, and her wretched life with that American woman, she

deserves a happy future."

"And do you think--do you really think that she--that she--would be

happy with--with me?" stammered Lucian, hardly daring to believe Miss

Priscilla, whose acquaintance with him seemed too recent to warrant such

trust.

The wise old woman laughed and nodded.

"Ask her yourself, my dear," she said, patting his hand. "She will be

able to answer that question better than I. Besides, girls like to say

'yea' or 'nay,' themselves."

This seemed to be good advice, and certainly none could have been more

grateful to the timid lover. That very night he made up his mind to risk

his fortunes by speaking to Diana. It was no easy matter for the young

man to bring himself to do so, for cool, bold, and fluent as he was on

ordinary occasions, the fever of love rendered him shy and nervous. The

looks of Diana acted on his spirits as the weather does on a barometer.

A smile made him jocund and hilarious, a frown abashed him almost to

gloom. And in the April weather of her presence he was as variable as a

weather-cock. It is, therefore, little to be wondered at that one

ordinarily daring should tremble to ask a question which might be

answered in the negative. True, Miss Barbar's partisanship heartened him

a trifle, but he still feared for the result. Cupid, as well as

conscience, makes cowards of us all--and Lucian was a doubting lover.

Towards the end of his stay Miss Priscilla--as usual--fell asleep one

evening after dinner, and Diana, feeling the house too warm, stepped out

into the garden, followed by Lucian. The sun had just set behind the

undulating hills, and the clear sky, to the zenith, was of a pale rose

colour, striped towards the western horizon with lines of golden cloud.

In the east a cold blue prevailed, and here and there a star sparkled in

the arch of the sky.

The garden was filled with floating shadows, which seemed to glide into

it from the dark recesses of the near woods, and in a copse some

distance away a nightingale was singing to his mate, and filling the

silence with melody. The notes fluted sweetly through the still air,

mingling with the sigh of the rising wind and the musical splashing of

the fountain. This shot up a pillar of silvery water to a great height,

and in descending sprinkled the near flower beds with its cold spray.

All was inexpressibly beautiful to the eye and soothing to the ear--a

scene and an hour for love. It might have been the garden of the

Capulets, and those who moved in it--the immortal lovers, as yet

uncursed by Fate.

"Only three more days," sighed Lucian as he walked slowly down the path

beside Diana, "and then that noisy London again."

"Perhaps it is as well," said Diana, in her practical way. "You would

rust here. But is there any need for you to go back so soon?"

"I must--for my own peace of mind."

Diana started and blushed at the meaning of his tone and words.

Then she recovered her serenity and sat down on an old stone seat, near

which stood a weather-beaten statue of Venus. Seeing that she kept

silent in spite of his broad hint, Lucian--to bring matters to a

crisis--resolved to approach the subject in a mythological way through

the image of the goddess.

"I am sorry I am not a Greek, Miss Vrain," he said abruptly.

"Why?" asked Diana, secretly astonished by the irrelevancy of the

remark.

Lucian plucked a red rose from the bush which grew near the statue and

placed it on the pedestal.

"Because I would lay my offering at the feet of the goddess, and touch

her knees to demand a boon."

"What boon would you ask?" said Diana in a low voice.

"I would beseech that in return for my rose of flowers she would give me

the rose of womanhood."

"A modest request. Do you think it would be granted?"

"Do you?" asked Lucian, picking up the rose again.

"How can I reply to your parables, or read your dark sayings?" said

Diana, half in earnest, half in mirth.

"I can speak plainer if you permit it."

"If--if you like!"

The young man laid the rose on Diana's lap. "Then in return for my rose

give me--yourself!"

"Mr. Denzil!" cried Diana, starting up, whereby the flower fell to the

ground. "You--you surprise me!"

"Indeed, I surprise myself," said Lucian sadly. "That I should dare to

raise my eyes to you is no doubt surprising."

"I don't see that at all," exclaimed Diana coldly. "I like to be woo'd

like a woman, not honoured like a goddess."

"You are both woman and goddess! But--you are not angry?"

"Why should I be angry?"

"Because I--I love you!"

"I cannot be angry with--with--shall we say a compliment."

"Oh, Diana!"

"Wait! wait!" cried Miss Vrain, waving back this too eager lover. "You

cannot love me! You have known me only a month or two."

"Love can be born in an hour," cried Lucian eagerly. "I loved you on the

first day I saw you! I love you now--I shall love you ever!"

"Will you truly love me ever, Lucian?"

"Oh, my darling! Can you doubt it? And you?" He looked at her hopefully.

"And I?" she repeated in a pretty mocking tone, "and I?" With a laugh,

she bent and picked up the flower. "I take the rose and I give you--"

"Yourself!" cried the enraptured lover, and the next moment he was

clasping her to his breast. "Oh, Diana, dearest! Will you really be my

wife?"

"Yes," she said softly, and kissed him.

For a few moments the emotions of both overcame them too much to permit

further speech; then Diana sat down and made Lucian sit beside her.

"Lucian," she said in a firm voice, "I love you, and I shall be your

wife--when you find out who killed my poor father!"

"It is impossible!" he cried in dismay.

"No. We must prosecute the search. I have no right to be happy while the

wretch who killed him is still at large. We have failed hitherto, but we

may succeed yet! and when we succeed I shall marry you."

"My darling!" cried Lucian in ecstasy; and then in a more subdued tone:

"I'll do all I can to find out the truth. But, after all, from what

point can I begin afresh?"

"From the point of Mrs. Vrain," said Diana unexpectedly.

"Mrs. Vrain!" cried the startled Lucian. "Do you still suspect her?"

"Yes, I do!"

"But she has cleared herself on the most undeniable evidence."

"Not in my eyes," said Diana obstinately. "If Mrs. Vrain is innocent,

how did she find out that the unknown man murdered in Geneva Square was

my father?"

"By his assumption of the name of Berwin, which was mentioned in the

advertisement; also from the description of the body, and particularly

by the mention of the cicatrice on the right cheek, and of the loss of

the little finger of the left hand."

Diana started. "I never heard that about the little finger," she said

hurriedly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I saw myself when I knew your father as Berwin, that he had lost

that little finger."

"Then, Lucian, you did _not_ see my father!"

"What!" cried Denzil, hardly able to credit her words.

"My father never lost a finger!" cried Diana, starting to her feet. "Ah,

Lucian, I now begin to see light. That man who called himself Berwin,

who was murdered, was not my father. No, I believe--on my soul, I

believe that my father, Mark Vrain, is alive!"