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.