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.