after that episode at the stile, which, as it happened, formed such a crisis in their destinies, barbara lexden and frank churchill did not move towards the house, but quietly turned into that fir plantation through which they had strolled some days previously on their return from the shooting party. at first neither spoke; barbara walked with her eyes downcast, and churchill strolled idly by her side; then, after a few paces, he took her unresisting hand and placed it in his arm. she looked, up into his face with calm, earnest, trustful eyes, and he bowed his head until, for the first time in his life, his lips touched hers, and as he withdrew them he murmured, "my darling! my own darling! thank god for this!" his arm stole round her waist, and for an instant he held her tightly clasped; then gently releasing her, he again passed her hand through his arm, covered it with his other hand, and walked on quietly by her side. there was no need of speech; it was all known, all settled, all arranged; that restored glove, that one fervent sentence, that one look in which each seemed to read the secrets of the other's soul, had done it all. this was first love, undisturbed by the fact that on either side there had probably been some half-dozen attacks of that spurious article, that saccharine bliss, that state of pleasant torture which reveals itself in sheep-like glances and deep-drawn sighs, in a tendency to wear tight boots and to increase the already over-swollen tailor's bill, to groan and be poetical, and to shrink from butchers' meat. although the existent state of barbara and churchill had none of these characteristics, it was still first love.

marvellous, marvellous time! so short in its duration, but leaving such an indelible impress on the memory! a charming period, a hasheesh-dream impossible ever to be renewed, a prolonged intoxication scarcely capable of realisation in one's sober moments. a thing of once, which gone never comes again, but leaves behind it remembrances which, while they cause the lips to curl at their past folly, yet give the heart a twinge in the reflection that the earnestness which outbalanced the folly, the power of entering into and being swayed by them, the youth--that is it, after all; confess it!--the youth is vanished for ever and aye. what and where was the glamour, the power of which you dimly remember but cannot recall? put aside the claret-jug, and, with your feet on the fender, as you sit alone, try and analyse that bygone time. the form comes clearly out of the mist: the dark-brown banded hair, the quiet earnest eyes the slight lissome figure and delicate hands; and with them a floating reminiscence of a violet perfume, a subtle, delicate essence, which made your heart beat with extra vigour even before your eyes rested on what they longed for. kisses and hand-clasps and ardent glances were the current coin of those days; one of either of the former missed, say at parting for the night, for instance, made you wretched; one of the latter shot in a different direction sent you to toss sleepless all night on your bed, and to rise with the face of a murderer, and with something not very different from the mind of one. there were heartaches in those days, real, dead, dull pains, sickening longings, spasms of hope and fear; dim dread of missing the prize on the attainment of which the whole of life was set, a psychical state which would be as impossible to your mind now as would the early infantile freshness to your lined cheek, or the curling locks of boyhood to your grizzled pate. it is gone, clean gone. perhaps it snapped off short with a wrench, leaving its victim with a gaping wound which the searing-iron of time has completely cicatrised; perhaps it mellowed down into calm, peaceful, conjugal, and subsequently paternal affection. but tell me not, o hard-hearted and worldly-minded bachelor, intent on the sublimation of self, and cynically enough disposed to all that is innocent and tender,--tell me not, o husband, however devoted to your wife, however proud of your offspring,--tell me not that a regret for that vanished time does not sometimes cross your mind, that the sense of having lost the power of enjoying such twopenny happiness, ay, and such petty misery, does not cost you an occasional pang. it still goes on, that tragi-comedy, the same as ever, though the actors be different, though our places are now in the cushioned gallery among the spectators instead of on the stage, and we witness the performance, not with envy, not with admiration, but with a strange feeling of bewilderment that such things once were with us,--that the dalliance of the puppets, and the liquid jargon which they speak, once were our delight, and that we once had the pass-key to that blissful world whose pleasures and whose sorrows now alike fail to interest us.

so in the thorough enjoyment of this new-found happiness, in all tranquillity and repose, as in a calm haven after tempest, three or four days passed over barbara and churchill. their secret was their own, and was doubly dear for being known but to themselves. no one suspected it. churchill joined the shooting-party on two occasions; but as he had previously been in the habit of detaching himself after luncheon, no one remarked his doing so now, and no one knew that the remainder of the day until dinner-time was spent with barbara alone. after dinner barbara would sometimes sing, and then churchill would hover round the piano, perhaps with more empressement than he had previously shown (because, though fond, as every man of any sensitiveness must be, of music, he was by no means an enthusiast, and was racked wofully with smothered yawns during the performance of any elaborate piece), yet by no means noticeably. and during all the time each had the inward satisfaction of knowing that their words and actions were appreciated by the other, and that the "little look across the crowd," as owen meredith says, was full of meaning to and thoroughly understood by the person it was intended to reach. at length, about the fourth day after the proceedings at the stile, their conversation took a more practical turn. they had been wandering slowly along, and had at length stopped to rest on a grass-covered bank which was screened from the sight of the distant house by a thick belt of evergreens, while far away in front of them stretched a glorious prospect of field and woodland. as sometimes happens in october, the sun seemed to have recovered his old july force, and blazed so fiercely that they were glad to sit under the friendly shade. barbara had removed the glove from her right hand, and sat looking down at her lover, who lay by her side, idly tracing the course of one of the violet veins in the little hand which rested in his own broad palm. suddenly he looked up and said:

"darling, this lotus-eating is rapidly coming to an end. it would be sweet enough, thus 'propped on beds of amaranth and moly,' to remain and dream away the time together; but there's the big world before us, and my holiday is nearly finished."

"and you must go back to town?" and the little fingers tightened round his, and the shapely head was bent towards his face.

"yes, pet; must. but what of that? when i go, it is but to prepare for thee, my heart's darling; but to set things straight for your reception. you're determined, child, to share my lot at once? you've reflected on what i said the other night, about waiting a year to see whether--"

"no, frank, no! those long engagements are utterly hateful. there will you be, i suppose" (and she glanced slyly at him), "moping by yourself, and there shall i be with another round of that horrible season before me, thinking of you, longing for you, and yet having to undergo all the detestable nonsense of balls and parties and fêtes, which i so thoroughly despise--for what? at the end to find ourselves a year older, and you perhaps a few pounds richer. as though riches made happiness!" said poor barbara, who, since she had come to what are called years of discretion, had never known what it was to have a whim unindulged.

churchill raised himself on his elbow, and smiled as he smoothed her glossy hair.

"my child," said he, "have you never heard of the philosopher who, when told that poverty was no crime, rejoined, 'no; no crime; but it's deuced inconvenient'? recollect, furnished lodgings in mesopotamia, hack cabs to ride in, no parker to dress your hair, no rotten row--by jove, when i think of it, i feel almost inclined to rush off and never see you again, so horrible is the change to which holding to me must lead you!" and a dark shadow passed across his face.

"do you?" asked barbara, bending so closely over him that he felt her warm breath on his cheek; "do you?" she repeated with such a dash of earnest in her jesting tone that churchill thought it necessary to slip his arm round her, and press his lips to her forehead in reassurance. "why, you silly boy, you forget that when i was a child at home with papa, i knew what poverty was; such poverty as would make what you speak of wealth by comparison. besides, shall we not be together to share it? and you'll buy me a--what do they call it?--a cookery book, and i'll learn all kinds of housekeeping ways. i can do some things already; guérin, the morrisons' chef--who was a little struck with me, i think, sir--showed clara morrison and me how to make an omelette; and maurice gladstone--my cousin maurice, you know; when we were staying at sandgate, he was quartered at shorncliffe--taught me to do bashawed lobster, and he says my bashawed lobster is as good as sergeant pheeny's. and you know all the guards are mad to get asked to sup with sergeant pheeny, who's a lawyer, you know, and not a soldier-sergeant."

and she stopped quite out of breath.

"'you know' and 'you know,'" said churchill, mocking her; "i do know sergeant pheeny, as it happens, and his bashawed lobster, and that dish and omelettes will doubtless be our staple food; and you shall cook it, and clean the saucepans afterwards, you little goose. however, i tell you candidly, darling, though it sounds selfish, i dare not run the risk of losing you, even with all these difficulties before us. as you say, we shall share them together, and--"

"now, not another word!" said barbara, placing her hand upon his lips; "there are to be no difficulties, and all is to be arranged at once. and i think the first thing to be done is for me to speak to my aunt."

"ay," said churchill, with rather a dolorous expression of face; "i am afraid that will be what your friend captain lyster would call a 'teaser.' talking about no difficulties--we shall find one there!"

"i do not think so. i am sure, frank, my aunt has shown special politeness to you."

"yes, darling, politeness of a certain kind to people in my position. don't frown; i have long since dropped that distinction as between ourselves. but i mean so far as the outer world is concerned, to people in my position--authors, artists, and 'professional people' of all kinds--mixing in society, there are always two distinct varieties of politeness. one, which seems to say, 'you are not belonging to nous autres; you are not a man of family and position; but you bring something which is a distinction in its way, and which, so far as this kind of acquaintance goes, entitles you to a proper reception at our hands.' the other, which says as plainly, 'you don't eat peas with your knife, or wipe your lips with the back of your hand; you're decently dressed, and will pass muster; while at the same time you're odd, quaint, amusing, out of the common run, and you present at my house a sort of appanage to my position.' i think miss lexden belongs to the latter class, barbara."

"i am afraid that old feeling of class-prejudice is a monomania with you," said barbara, a little coldly: "however, i will see my aunt, and bring matters to an issue there at once."

"all luck go with you, child! there is one chance for us. the old proverb says, 'femme savante est toujours galante.' miss lexden is a clever woman; perhaps has had her own love-affairs, and will feel pity for ours. but, barbara, in case she should be antagonistic--violently, i mean--you will not--"

"monsieur," said barbara, with a little inflated moue, "la garde meurt, mais ne se rend pas, as cambronne did not say. no, no; trust in me. and now give me your arm, and let us go home."

it was a point of honour with old miss lexden to have the best room in every house where she visited; and so good was her system of tactics, that she generally succeeded. far away in northern castles, where accommodation was by no means on a par with the rank of their owners, duchesses had been worse lodged and infinitely worse attended to than this old commoner, whose bitter tongue and incapacity for reticence did her yeoman's service on all possible occasions; not that she was ever rude, or even impolite, or said any thing approaching to actual savagery; but she had a knack of dropping hints, of firing from behind a masked battery of complacency, and of roughly rubbing "raws," which was more effective than the most studied attacks. as spent balls, when rolling calmly along, as innocuous, apparently, as those "twisters" of hillyer's, which evade the dexterous "dip" of the longstop on the smooth short sward of the oval, have been known, when attempted to be stopped, to take off a foot, so did old miss lexden's apparently casual remarks, after to all appearance missing their aim, tear and wound and send limping to the rear any one who rashly chanced to answer or gainsay her. women, with that strange blundering upon the right so often seen among them, seemed to guess the diabolical power of the old lady's missiles, and avoided them with graceful ease, making gentle détours, which led them out of harm's way, or cowering for shelter in elegant attitudes under projecting platitudes; but men, in their conscious self-strength, would often stand up to bear the brunt of an argument, and always came away worsted from the fight. so that old miss lexden generally had her own way amongst her acquaintance, and one important part of her own way was the acquisition of the greatest comfort wherever she stayed.

of course, in an easy, regulated household like that of sir marmaduke wentworth, there was no need of special strategy. years ago, on her first visit, she had selected her apartments, and had had them reserved for her ever since. pleasant apartments they were, large, airy, and with a glorious look-out across the garden over the surrounding downs. when the windows were open, as they always were when practicable during miss lexden's tenancy,--for the old lady was a great lover of fresh air,--the rooms were filled with the perfume of the flowers, occasionally mixed with fresh, healthy sea-smell. these had been the state-rooms in the grange, in bygone times; and when miss lexden first came there, there was a huge bed, with nodding plumes at the foot, and a great canopy, and high-backed solemn chairs, and a big wardrobe like a family mausoleum but the old lady had all these cleared away, and persuaded sir marmaduke to refurnish the rooms with a suite of light maple and moss-rosebud chintz, with looking-glass let into the panels of the wardrobe, and snug little low chairs scattered about; and then with a chintz paper, and water-colour drawings in light frames, the place was so changed that the old housekeeper, who had been in the family for years, scarcely knew it again, and was loud in her lamentations over the desecration.

miss lexden was a lazy old lady, who always breakfasted in bed, and when staying on a visit at a country house generally remained the greater portion of the day in her room. she was accustomed to say with great freedom that she did not amuse the young people and they certainly did not amuse her, and that she hated all old people except herself. she was a great correspondent of all kinds of people, wrote lengthy epistles in very excellent french to all kinds of refugees, who were perpetually turning up in different parts of europe, and working the oracle for their own purposes; wrote lengthy epistles to american statesmen on the slavery question, to english lecturers on subjects of political economy, and to her special friends on all points of domestic scandal. i fear that, with the exception of the last, her correspondence was not much regarded, as she never sent to refugees any thing but her blessing and her prayers; and these, even though coming from an english miladi, were not discountable at any geld-wechsel comptoir on the continent. but her chronique scandaleuse was delicious; it was bold in invention, full in detail, and always written in the most pointed and epigrammatic style. there were people who obtained autumn invitations, on the sheer strength of their being recipients of miss lexden's correspondence. extracts from her letters were read publicly at the breakfast-table, and created the greatest delight. "good as a book, by jove!" was a frequent comment on them; "full of humour, and that kind of thing; sort of thing that fellow writes and people pay money for, by jove! ought to send it to punch, that she ought." (for it is a thing to be noted, that if the aristocracy of this great country ever permit themselves to be amused, they invariably think that the thing which amused them, no matter of what kind it be, ought to be sent to punch.) miss lexden also was a great reader of french novels; she subscribed regularly to rolandi's, and devoured all that sound sense, morality, philosophy, and extensive knowledge of the world, which yearly issued from the parisian publishers. in bygone times she had laughed heartily over the farcical humour of m. paul de kock; now that her palate had somewhat dulled. fortune had sent her the titillating works of m. gustave flaubert, m. xavier de montepin, m. ernest feydeau, and others of that modern school which delights in calling a spade a spade, with the broad theories of m. proudhon to be her political guide, and the casuistries of m. renan for her sunday reading. she read all, but liked the novels best; and had been seen to weep over a yellow-covered volume in which an elegant marquis, all soul and black eyes, a membre du jockei-club, and altogether an adorable person, had to give satisfaction to a brute of a husband who objected to being dishonoured.

with one of these yellow-covered volumes on her lap, miss lexden was sitting placidly in the easiest of chairs at the open window on the afternoon when barbara and churchill held the conversation just narrated. she was a pleasant-looking old lady, with a fat, wrinkleless, full face, like an old child, with a shiny pink-and-white complexion, and with hair which defied you to tell whether it had been wonderfully well preserved, or admirably dyed, arranged under a becoming cap. she was dressed in a rich brown moiré-antique silk, and with a black-lace shawl thrown over her ample shoulders; her fat, pudgy little hands, covered with valuable rings, were crossed over the book on her lap; and she was just on the point of dropping off into a placid slumber, when there came a knock at the door, immediately upon which barbara entered the room.

"well, barbara," said the old lady, stifling a yawn; "is it time to dress? i've done nothing since luncheon but read this ridiculous book, and i was very nearly dropping asleep, and i've no notion of the time; and withers is always gadding about in this house with that steward, and never comes near me till the last moment."

"it is quite early, aunt; scarcely six o'clock yet; and i came up to you on purpose to have a quiet cause with you before you dressed. i think i have news which will keep you awake. you've not asked me of my flirtations lately."

"my dear child, why should i ask? i interested myself about lord hinchenbrook because he was the parti of the season, and because to have carried him off from that odious doll, that miss musters, as you could easily, would have been a triumph to us both; but you refused. i interested myself about young chaldecott because our families had long been intimate, and the largest property in yorkshire is worth interesting oneself about; but you refused. you know your own mind best, barbara, and i know that you have too much good sense and real notion of what is right to do a foolish thing; so i leave you to yourself, and don't worry you with any questions."

"thanks, aunt, for your good opinion," said barbara, playing with a sprig of scarlet geranium which she had taken from a vase on the table; "but i shall give you no further trouble. i am going to be married."

"sir charles chaldecott has written?" said the old lady, putting aside the book, and sitting upright in her chair; "has written; and you--?" and in her anxiety miss lexden smiled so unguardedly that, for the first time in her life, the gold-settings of her false teeth were seen by a looker-on.

"i--we shall not hear any more of sir charles chaldecott, aunt," said barbara hesitatingly; "no; i am going to be married to a gentleman now staying in this house."

miss lexden's face fell; the gold teeth-settings disappeared from view entirely; and she shrugged her shoulders as she said, "very well, my dear; i feared something of the sort. if you like to settle on three thousand a year, and to take a man whose constitution is ruined by the indian climate, i can only say--it is your affair."

barbara bit her lips to avoid betraying a smile as she replied, "you are wrong again, aunt. captain lyster has never done me the honour of an offer." then seriously, "i am going to be married to mr. churchill."

"what?" shrieked the old lady, surprised out of all decorum; "what?" then, after an instant's pause, "i beg your pardon, barbara; did i not understand you to say that you were going to be married to mr. churchill, the--the gentleman now staying in this house?"

"you did so understand me, aunt, and it is the fact."

"then," said miss lexden, in rather a low, flat key, "i'll trouble you to ring the bell for withers. it must be time for me to dress for dinner."

barbara looked astonished, and would have spoken; but her aunt had risen from her chair and turned her back on her, moving towards the dressing-table. so she mechanically rang the bell, and left the room.

with the result of this conversation churchill was made acquainted as he and barbara bent together over a large stereoscope in the drawing-room before dinner. in a few hurried words, interspersed with ejaculations of admiration at the views, uttered in a much louder tone, barbara conveyed to her lover that their project would meet with no assistance from her aunt, even if that old lady did not actively and violently oppose it. churchill shrugged his shoulders on hearing this, and looked somewhat serious and annoyed; but as she rose to go in to dinner, barbara pressed his hand, and looking into her face, he saw her eyes brighten and her lip curl with an expression of triumph, and he recognised in an instant that her energy had risen at the prospect of opposition, and that her determination to have her own way had strengthened rather than lessened from her aunt's treatment.

there was an accession to the dinner-table that day in the person of mr. schr?der, a german long resident in england, and partner in the great house of schr?der, stutterheim, hinterhaus, and company, bankers and brokers, which had branches and ramifications in all the principal cities of the world. no one would have judged gustav schr?der to have been a keen financier and a consummate master of his business from his personal appearance. he was between fifty-five and sixty years old, heavy and dull-looking, with short, stubbly, iron-gray hair, dull boiled eyes, and thin dry lips, which he was constantly sucking. he was clumsy in his movements, and very taciturn; but though he spoke little, even to miss townshend, by whom he was seated, he seemed to derive intense satisfaction in gazing at her with a proprietorial kind of air, which nearly goaded lyster, sitting directly opposite to them, to desperation. upon his evidently uncomfortable state captain lyster was rallied with great humour by old miss lexden, who, however much she may have been inwardly annoyed, showed no signs of trouble. she opined that captain lyster must be in love; that some shepherdess on the neighbouring downs, some brighton poissarde, must have captivated him, and she was delighted at it, and it would do him good; and in spite of lyster's protestations--which, however, he soon gave up when he found he had the trouble of repeating them--the old lady launched out into a very unusual tirade on her part in favour of early marriages, of love-matches made for love's sake alone, which frequently turned out the happiest, "didn't they, mr. churchill?" at which question, churchill, who was dreamily looking across the table, and thinking how artistically barbara's head was posed on her neck, and what a lovely ear she had, stammered an inarticulate and inappropriate reply.

but when dinner was over, and the post-prandial drink finished, and the coffee consumed in the drawing-room, and the "little music" played, and the ladies had retired to rest (barbara, in her good night to churchill, giving one reassuring hand-pressure, and looking as saucily triumphant as before), and the men had exchanged their dress coats for comfortable velvet lounging-jackets, and had, in most cases, dispensed with their white cravats; when sir marmaduke had nodded his farewell for the night, churchill, instead of joining the party in the smoke-room, made his way to the old gentleman's quarters, and knocked at the dressing-room door. bidden to come in, he found sir marmaduke in his dressing-gown and slippers, seated before a fire (for the evenings were beginning to be chilly), with a glass of cold brandy-and-water on a little table at his right hand, and the evening paper on his knee.

"holloa!" was the old gentleman's salutation; "what's in the wind now? there must be something the matter when a young fellow like you, instead of joining in the nonsense downstairs, comes to hunt out an old fogey like me. what is it?"

"business, sir marmaduke," commenced churchill; "i want five minutes' business talk with you."

"god bless my soul!" growled sir marmaduke; "business at this time of night, and with me! you can't talk without something to drink, you know. here, gumble; another tumbler and the brandy for mr. churchill. why don't you talk to stone, my dear fellow? he manages all my business, you know."

"yes, yes, sir marmaduke; but this is for you, and you alone. i came to tell you that i am going to be married."

"ay, ay! no news to me, though you think it is. what's his name, beresford, told us all about it. well, well, deuced risky business; wish you well through it, and all that kind of thing. don't congratulate you, because that's all humbug. but why specially announce it to me?"

"simply because it is your due. i met the lady in this house, and the first introduction was through you. i don't know what nonsense mr. beresford may have been spreading, but the real fact is that i am going to be married to barbara lexden. now you see my motive."

"i'm obliged to you, sir," said the old man, rising from his chair, and extending his hand; "you've acted like a gentleman, by jove! like a gentleman and a man of honour. god bless my soul! how i recollect your father, frank, and how like you are to him! and so you're going to marry little barbara! not little barbara now, though. how time flies! a good girl, sir; and a deuced fine girl, too, for the matter of that. what does her aunt say to that? she meant her for much higher game than you, young fellow. what does her aunt say? does she know of it?--does miss lexden know of it? i'll wager there'll be 'wigs upon the green,' as poor dick burke used to say, when she hears of it."

"miss lexden has heard of it, sir," said churchill, smiling; "and i'm afraid she did not receive the news very auspiciously; but we shall endeavour to gain her consent, and if we fail--well, we must do without it. and now i won't keep you from your paper any longer. i thought it my duty to tell you, and having done so, i'll say good night."

"one minute, frank churchill; wait one minute. i'm a queer, useless old fellow--an old brute, i often think, for i'm not unconscious of the strange life i lead, and the odd--but, however, that's neither here nor there. your father and i were boon companions--a wild, harum-scarum chap he was--and such company--and i've a regard for you, which is strengthened by your conduct to-night. my old cousin, miss lexden--well, she's an old lady, you know, and she meant barbara for a marquis, at least; and then old women hate to be disappointed, you know, and she'll be savage, i've no doubt. but when you're once married, she won't be difficult to deal with, and so far as i can help you, i will. and now, god bless you, and good night; and--give barbara a kiss for me in the morning."

about the same time, another conversation on the same great topic was going on under the same roof. barbara had scarcely been five minutes in her room, and had been leaning thoughtfully, with her arms upon the window-sill, gazing out into the moonlit park, and utterly oblivious of parker, who was preparing the instrument of torture for her mistress's hair, when withers arrived with a message that miss lexden wished to speak to her niece. obedient to the summons, barbara crossed the landing, and found the old lady, resplendent in a dark-blue cashmere dressing-gown, seated before her fire. withers dismissed pro tem., miss lexden said:

"i'll not detain you long, barbara. i merely wished to know whether what you said this evening about your intended marriage with mr. churchill was jest or earnest."

"thorough earnest," replied barbara, regarding her stedfastly.

"as to marriage, i mean?" asked the old lady; "not as to a temporary flirtation, which, faute de mieux, with a pleasant man in a dull country house, is well enough, and not likely to tell against one's interests. but as to marriage?"

"what i said before, aunt," said barbara slowly, never dropping her eyes, "i repeat. mr. churchill has done me the honour to ask me to become his wife. i have consented, and i mean to keep my word."

"very well," said miss lexden, drawing a long breath; "i only wished to know. you are your own mistress, and control your own actions, of course. you have made your choice, and will abide by it. i don't seek to influence you one jot. but, recollect one thing: if i were to see you with broken health, with broken spirits, ill-used, deserted, starving--as is likely enough, for i know these people--i would not lift one finger to help you, after your degradation of me. i have said it, and you know i keep my word. that is all; we will have no quarrel, and give no occasion for shoulder-shrugs and scandal. the sooner your arrangements permit of your quitting my house, the better pleased i shall be. now, good night. withers, i am ready now. see miss lexden to her room. good night, dear."

the old lady proffered her enamelled cheek, against which barbara laid the tip of her nose. and so the aunt and niece separated for the night.