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WHAT 'TIS TO LOVE 
 
 Vol. III. 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREEt" SQUARK 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
WHAT 'TIS TO LOVE 
 
 By a. M. Don elan 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'flora ADAIR ' 
 ETC. 
 
 Good shepherd, tell this youth what 't is to love ' 
 
 Shakespeare, As Yoh Like It, v. 2 
 
 Vol. III. 
 
 Henry S. King & Co. 
 
 65 CoRNHiLL & 12 Paternoster Row London 
 
 1873 
 
{Ail )i gilts reserved) 
 
%-13 
 
 V, 3 
 
 'WHAT 'TIS TO love; 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The heavens admit but one sun, and high places but one 
 commander.— Wit's ' Commonwealth.' 
 
 Charles owed Alfred much, and was his 
 junior by some years, yet his affection towards 
 him was Hke the protecting love of an elder 
 brother, who possessed a source of consolation 
 and support still hidden from the younger 
 and which he had not energy enough to seek. 
 Charles was therefore doubly pained at the 
 thought of separating from him without being 
 able even to share, if not to lighten, the 
 weight of Alfred's trouble whatever it might 
 
 VOL. HL B 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 be, but he could not force his confidence, and 
 they parted simply with a promise to write 
 regularly to each other. 
 
 About Christmas Charles mentioned casu- 
 ally that he was again suffering from the ague 
 
 which that unintentional cold bath at C 
 
 had brought upon him, but which rest, and 
 the unusually warm season afterwards at 
 Maurpton Castle had appeared to cure effec- 
 tually. Charles did not tell his friends 
 that as spring advanced the attacks became 
 more severe, and that he grew thinner and 
 weaker ; this information he gave only to the 
 doctor. Sir James Hall said he must not 
 expect to get well until the summer-time, 
 when he should go to some of the Brunnen 
 of Germany. 
 
 In the Easter-week, however, he became 
 subject to spasms of pain in the left side, 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 accompanied by a sensation of Icy coldness 
 which somewhat alarmed him about himself, 
 and he took advantage of the first opportunity 
 to speak privately to his medical friend. 
 
 * I can bear the truth about my own con- 
 dition,' he said, looking earnestly at the 
 doctor, ' but my sister must, as far as possible, 
 be spared all anxiety. I am always afraid 
 that she may have inherited our mother's 
 delicate constitution. It will be better then 
 for her and for me that I should be the first 
 to know If my life is seriously threatened. I 
 count upon your good faith to answer me 
 with perfect candour.' 
 
 ' These spasms from which you have lately 
 begun to suffer are always more or less 
 dangerous,' replied Sir James ; * as yet I can- 
 not tell whether they proceed from any or- 
 ganic affection, or merely from nervousness 
 
 B 2 
 
'WHAT *TIS TO LOVE.' 
 
 produced by the shock of your accident. If 
 the remedy that I am about to try has any 
 effect upon them, and you regain even a Httle 
 strength, all may yet be well ; but if after 
 another month the spasms have increased in 
 frequency or violence, and no marked im- 
 provement has taken place in your general 
 health, I could not conscientiously encourage 
 you to hope.' 
 
 Charles thanked Sir James for his sincerity 
 and accompanied him to the door with ap- 
 apparently undisturbed courtesy, but on re- 
 turning to his study he sank back in the arm- 
 chair exhausted by the great effort which he 
 had made to sustain that outward calm. The 
 doctor's words had sounded to him like a 
 death-knell, the slight hopefulness implied in 
 them carried none to his heart, and it seemed 
 terribly hard to be called away then, in the 
 
' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 5 
 
 hey-day of youth, when he had just won the 
 material battle of life, when his path no 
 longer led him through rough and thorny 
 places, but over rich pastures covered with 
 the sweet flowers of home, affection, and 
 friendship ; his rare and unusual success had 
 even appeared as if it were granted to him in 
 order that he might return to be a protector to 
 his fair young sister ; and now, to leave her 
 in greater loneliness than before — she would 
 not have even the hope of his return — and 
 with none to whose loving yet prudent care 
 he could confide her ! . . . 
 
 The anguish of the thought overwhelmed 
 him, and from his heart went up the cry 
 which his firmly-closed lips refused to utter : 
 * Not yet, O God ! — not yet !' 
 
 Soon after the departure of Sir James Hall 
 someone knocked at the door, and Charles 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 went to unfasten it, aware that his servant 
 would not unnecessarily have disturbed him, 
 against his express orders. A card of Lord 
 Waters's was handed to him, upon which 
 there were a few hastily-pencilled words, 
 asking to see him for a few moments only. 
 
 Charles begged that Lord Waters would 
 wait in the drawing-room, and crushing 
 down the bitter pain that was burning within 
 him, he followed the servant after a short 
 delay. 
 
 Firmness of will was, perhaps, his most 
 marked characteristic, and the instinct of 
 command was so strong in him that he knew 
 not what it was to contemplate failure in 
 anything that he really desired to achieve, or 
 to shrink from any difficulty. It was that 
 Instinct of command that, in his early youth 
 had caused him to reject the bondage of 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 religious opinio7i and believe In nothing 
 beyond what his own reason could infer — in 
 nothing save a creative power. 
 
 Like that great French orator, however, 
 who began his career as an unbeliever and 
 ended it in the white raiment of a son of St. 
 Dominic, Charles found that ' there are 
 wants for which this earth is sterile.' His 
 heart was as ardent as his w41l was strong, 
 and it had craved for something higher than 
 the creature, something Immortal yet visible 
 in the midst of creation, and bearing no mark 
 of contradiction : until at length it had re- 
 cognised that something in the humble 
 crucifix held in the weak hands of a simple 
 old man in the wilds of Australia — the 
 same crucifix which, as a child, he had seen 
 surrounded with all the pomp of worship in 
 the ancient capital of Brittany ; and in a 
 
8 ' WHAT 'tis to love.* 
 
 remote region of the new world he found it 
 the centre of the same sacrifice, the same 
 doctrine, as in that Httle city of civiHsed 
 France. 
 
 ' Every conversion must be a victory,' but 
 Charles had to gain a double victory. 
 Before he could be received into his Father's 
 house, he had not only to submit to be 
 taught like a little child, but also to break 
 down his own will — that will which had 
 hardly ever known what it was to relinquish 
 a plan, a hope, or a possession — by making 
 the greatest sacrifice which, for the moment, 
 could be demanded of a strong passionate 
 nature like his. Nothing compelled him ; it 
 was a voluntary choice between sacrifice and 
 self-indulgence, and he chose the sacrifice. 
 The first bitterness over, he had never for 
 four years felt a misgiving or a doubt of the 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 divine goodness which had enabled him to 
 receive the light of truth in spite of every 
 natural obstacle. 
 
 Now it was otherwise ; the sacrifice 
 seemed about to be forced upon him, and it 
 was not easy to distinguish goodness or 
 mercy in the decree which demanded his life 
 when that life was so needed by another 
 weaker than himself, still unfortified by super- 
 natural faith, dear to him beyond all expres- 
 sion, and whom he had vowed to himself 
 never to leave until another protector had 
 been given to her. As he advanced to greet 
 Lord Waters with outward composure, the 
 strife in his heart was unsubdued, still there 
 went up the cry : * Not yet, O Lord ! Not 
 yet. I cannot die and leave my sister alone 
 in the world.' 
 
 * Forgive me, Lindsay, for having dis- 
 
lo 'what 'tis to love.' 
 
 turbed you,' Lord Waters said, ' but I had 
 not sufficient resolution to go away without 
 asking you a question which I have long 
 wished to ask, but which I have put off from 
 day to day, fearing that it was vain to 
 submit it to her whom it most concerns. 
 The fact is, I love your sister ; and I should 
 like to have your good wishes for my success 
 before I speak to her. I have waited until I 
 can wait no longer. I shall leave England 
 in a couple of months ; tell me that I may 
 hope to take her with me ! ' 
 
 Charles had started at the first words, and 
 then he sat down, shading his face with his 
 hand, whilst Lord Waters walked up and 
 down the room. 
 
 ' Why are you silent, Lindsay ? ' exclaimed 
 Lord Waters. ' Will you not wish me 
 success ? ' 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' I I 
 
 * Not wish you success ! . . . God only 
 knows what a comfort it will be to me to 
 welcome you as my brother-in-law. I was 
 silent because this joy came upon me so 
 unexpectedly that it overpowered me. . . . 
 I have not been strong lately, as you know, 
 and I shall never feel at rest until Milly is 
 married. For this world, and still more for 
 the next, you can endow her with all that is 
 be^t. God grant that you may succeed. . . . 
 You know that she is spending this after- 
 noon with your cousin, Lady Chievers ? ' 
 
 *Yes, I know it,' answered Lord Waters, 
 flushed and smiling ; ' but,' he added in an 
 altered tone, ' if I were not going away I 
 would not risk my fate yet, at all events. I 
 hardly dare to hope that — that she loves me. 
 Good-bye, and wish me success again.' 
 
 * With all my heart ! I shall never cease 
 
12 'WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 to desire It for you until Milly's own lips 
 have given me the glad assurance that you 
 have obtained it. Good-bye, and God speed 
 you !' 
 
 It seemed as if even his untrustful cry had 
 been answered ; and so gentle a rebuke in 
 the form of a granted blessing, went straight 
 to Charles's heart. In that hour the victory 
 was virtually gained, even though another 
 and a last trial awaited the victor ; the 
 earthly blessing which had appeared to make 
 it easier was only 'one of those mirages 
 which the traveller perceives on the horizon, 
 and towards which he runs ; In approaching 
 it It vanishes ; but that delusion has sustained 
 his strength, quickened his steps, and led 
 him more quickly to the true goal.' 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 There grew a little flower once 
 
 That blossomed in a day, 
 
 And some said it would ever bloom 
 
 And some 'twould fade away; 
 
 And some said it was happiness, 
 
 And some said it was spring, 
 
 And some said it was grief and tears, 
 
 And many such a thing ; 
 
 But still the little flower bloomed. 
 
 And still it lived and throve, 
 
 And men do call it summer-growth, 
 
 But the angels call it love. — Hood. 
 
 Mildred came home about seven o'clock 
 and went to the drawing-room, which she had 
 evidently expected to find untenanted, for 
 she started slightly on seeing her brother 
 who was sitting on the sofa near the fire. 
 'Well, Milly, have you had a pleasant 
 
14 *WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 afternoon ? ' he asked, surprised at her 
 hesitation ; he had expected to see her come 
 to him with eager haste, all smiles and 
 blushes. ' I hope to hear a great deal of 
 news to repay me for your absence during 
 the last four hours. Whom did you see or 
 meet besides Sir Hugh and Lady Chlevers ?' 
 
 * Did you really miss me ? ' she said, 
 seating herself on the footstool beside him. 
 * You look tired, too ; I wish I had not gone 
 out.' 
 
 All this time she had avoided her brother's 
 anxious gaze, and Charles knew not what to 
 think. He did not like to ask any direct 
 question, not knowing if Lord Waters had 
 seen her, yet he could not suppress his 
 longing to hear more. 
 
 * Then you have nothing to tell me, little 
 sister ? ' 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 * Forgive me for disappointing you,' she 
 said softly, and raising her eyes to his with 
 a sad, troubled expression. * Lord Waters 
 told me that it was in my power to make 
 both you and him very happy, and yet I 
 cannot, Charley.' 
 
 He made no answer for some moments ; 
 the disappointment was more keen to him 
 than she could ever know. Lord Waters's 
 proposal had appeared like a dew-drop sent 
 from heaven to render his acceptance of the 
 doom of death less hard ; and had it fallen 
 in vain ? ' . . . 
 
 * But why cannot you, as you say, make us 
 both happy, Milly ? Lord Waters has 
 everything to recommend him : he is good, 
 talented, handsome ; what more would you 
 have ? ' 
 
 * Indeed, I do not know,' she murmured, 
 
1 6 'WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 resting her head against her brother's knee ; 
 * but I should not like to marry anyone 
 unless I felt that to be offered the privilege 
 of accepting him was the greatest happiness 
 that could be given to me.' 
 
 Some chord in unison with what we hear 
 Is touched within us, and the heart rephes. 
 
 Charles's heart replied to his sister in the 
 well-remembered accents of one of his most 
 dearly-prized teachers in the new world that 
 faith had opened to him. ' One is happy in 
 choosing, one is happy in having been 
 chosen. Nothing surpasses the original 
 charm of that moment. When years have 
 weakened other impressions that one remains 
 in all its serene youthfulness, and takes us 
 back to the happy days when it was our 
 glory to choose and to be chosen.' Would 
 he deprive Mildred of 'the glory of choosing' 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 7 
 
 by inducing her to marry one whom her own 
 first wish was to reject. . . . 
 
 ' If I were not so ill,' he thought, ' I could 
 not do it ; but as it is, must I not try to make 
 her accept another protector, and one who 
 would lead her to the '' one thine needful " to 
 render her perfect ? ' 
 
 ' Yet you like Lord Waters ; I have often 
 heard you say so,' he said at length, 'and by 
 becoming his wife you would give me in- 
 expressible joy and peace. I am not well ; 
 I may not recover ! How could I bear the 
 thought of leaving you as you are ? . . . 
 You do not love anyone else. Oh, Milly, 
 let me have the happiness of seeing your 
 security, of feeling that you are not alone 
 whatever may happen to me.' 
 
 ' You have not been suffering since I went 
 out ?' she exclaimed, fooking up with sudden 
 
 VOL. in. c 
 
1 8 * WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 fear. * It is cruel to frighten me so. You 
 know there are few things in the world that 
 I would not do in order to spare you any 
 care or sorrow, but marry Lord Waters I 
 cannot, Charley — I cannot, I do not love 
 
 ' An uncontrollable fit of sobbing 
 
 choked her utterance. 
 
 ' My child, what is the matter?' exclaimed 
 Charles, alarmed at the effect of his own 
 words. ' I only said that I m7o-/i^ not 
 recover — a possibility which we must all look 
 forward to in illness ; but if you agitate your- 
 self in this way you will be ill, and then what 
 shall I do for my little nurse ? We will 
 think no more about Lord Waters, only tell 
 me if there is anyone else whom you would 
 prefer to marry. This excessive nervousness 
 looks a little like it, eh Milly ? ' 
 
 He tried to raise her head and make her 
 
19 
 
 look at him, but in vain ; and her murmured 
 but decided answer faintly reached his ears : 
 
 ' Oh, no, no. No one ! ' 
 
 There was something in the tone even of 
 those gently murmured words, that carried 
 conviction with them, and her brother felt 
 puzzled ; there was certainly nothing in whr.r 
 he had said about himself that should 
 produce such violent agitation, and he could 
 only try to soothe her. 
 
 Mildred had unconsciously enjoyed Lord 
 Waters' society because he was Alfred 
 Meredith's friend as well as brother-iti-law, 
 rather than from any attraction possessed by 
 himself for her, and his proposal revealed to 
 her the true state of her own feelings. With 
 startled pain she recognised that Alfred was 
 the object and the centre of her every 
 thought and enjoyment, that her heart was 
 c 2 
 
20 ' WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 too full for any other, however charming and 
 devoted, to hold a place in it. But she had 
 a refuge, she thought, from all these 
 troubles in her brother, she would be happy 
 in his happiness. Therefore, the passing 
 allusion to his possible danger sent a thrill of 
 terror through her. Was she to lose the 
 only sure resting-place that remained to her ? 
 At length she grew calmer, and went to 
 her room to dress for dinner. During this 
 occupation she came to the conclusion that 
 she had been foolish in allowing herself to be 
 so terrified without cause, and she resolutely 
 set to work to banish all such fanciful — as 
 she wished to consider them — forebodings of 
 trouble ; so resolutely, indeed, that as time 
 went on, and Charles's strength gradually 
 declined, she would see no danger, and 
 only longed for the warm summer weather 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 2 1 
 
 when he could resort to the German 
 baths. 
 
 For the month of May they removed to a 
 villa at Richmond for the benefit of country 
 air, even before the season was far enough 
 advanced for travelling. Just as they were 
 settled at River View, Alfred surprised them 
 by an early call. He had made all his 
 arrangements for leaving England, but could 
 not resist the desire to see them once more 
 before his departure. 
 
 As he walked along the little avenue he 
 espied Charles sitting in the ivy-covered 
 porch before the door, but as he approached 
 he was so shocked at the change In his 
 friend's appearance that he could hardly 
 speak. Charles watched him with a sad 
 smile, and then told him how seriously ill he 
 was, and that It was very doubtful if, when 
 
2 2 'WHAT 'tis TO LOVE.' 
 
 the time came for the baths, he should be 
 able to go to them. ' Mildred does not 
 know all this,' he added, ' and the longer she 
 can be spared any uneasiness, the better.' 
 
 What ordinary resolution could be proof 
 ao^alnst such a trial ? Alfred felt that he 
 
 o 
 
 could not leave his best friend, whose life 
 was hanging upon such a thread, no matter 
 what the danger to himself 
 
 ' I came to say good-bye to you, old 
 fellow,' he said, trying to speak cheerfully ; 
 ' but now that I see youVe a little out of 
 spirits about yourself, I shall defer my 
 journey until you are right again, and settled 
 In your summer quarters in Germany. 
 Maud and the children have also come to 
 London, so that your sister can be constantly 
 with them. I shall enjoy the ride here every 
 day with the pleasant object of looking after 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 you and trying to cheer you. I wish we had 
 Micky here ; he would soon make you laugh 
 yourself back to health again.' 
 
 Charles was more touched than he could 
 venture to express in words ; he remem- 
 bered the strong manner in which Alfred 
 had spoken of his determination to avoid 
 making any stay in London, and he had 
 come prepared to start forthwith for Paris ; 
 yet, in a moment, all his plans were set 
 aside in the hope of being able to comfort 
 him and do him good. 
 
 * Milly ! come here,' he called, as he saw 
 his sister pass on the other side of the glass 
 door ; ' help me to welcome Meredith, and 
 thank him for the proof of real friendship 
 he has just given me in offering to defer 
 going abroad because he sees me a little 
 pulled down.' 
 
24 ' WHAT 'tis to LOVE. 
 
 ' You are the most ingenious of moral 
 usurers, Captain Meredith,' she said, giving 
 him her hand with a smile of welcome, 
 which riveted poor Alfred's chains more 
 firmly than ever ; ' you lavish such favours 
 unasked, and so often at a real risk or sacri- 
 fice to yourself, that you make your debtors 
 feel they can never pay a sufficient interest 
 of gratitude. I can't even pay my own 
 debts, so I don't see how I am to help to 
 pay yours. Master Charley ; you must get 
 well now, were it only from gratitude. Your 
 recovery, I am sure, will indemnify Captain- 
 Meredith for the loss of this pleasant month 
 in Paris.' 
 
 ' I don't care a pin for Paris, even in May. 
 I promised to meet a friend there, so I 
 thought I ought to go ; but the real tempta- 
 tion for me is to remain at home. I fear I 
 
' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 25 
 
 am not too sorry to have a valid excuse 
 to do so ; you see therefore, I am not an 
 "ingenious usurer" in this instance, at all 
 events ; nevertheless, I shall expect your 
 brother to get well in compliment to my care, 
 and I mean to watch him pretty closely. 
 Will you let me begin my attendance to-day, 
 Miss Lindsay, while you go and see my 
 wife, and the little people ? I promised 
 them a visit from you as soon as possible, 
 will you go ? ' 
 
 * Yes, with much pleasure, and perhaps I 
 may get leave to bring the children back 
 with me, then we might take an early 
 dinner, and you could take them home before 
 dark.' 
 
 ' Maud thinks the girls are old enough to 
 be kept strictly to their lessons, but Eddy — 
 happy child — is not required to do much as 
 
26 ' WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 yet, and there will be no difficulty in obtain- 
 ing a half-holiday for him.' 
 
 'Well I'll try what I can do.' 
 
 A couple of hours later she returned with 
 Eddy, who was alone permitted to escape 
 from lessons, and whose delight thereat was 
 increased twofold at finding himself again in 
 the country with his favourite friends. He 
 seemed to have inherited his father's love of 
 boating, and pleaded earnestly for a row on 
 the river, which certainly did look very in- 
 viting as it flowed past the end of the lawn 
 sparkling In the bright sunshine. Charles 
 declared that the child must not be disap- 
 pointed, and that he felt so well himself he 
 would enjoy half-an-hour's boating beyond 
 everything. 
 
 None of the party ever forgot that short 
 excursion on the Thames ; it was to them 
 
' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 27 
 
 like the rich, soft Hght which sometimes pre- 
 cedes the fall of night. Eddy deserted even 
 Milly, and seated himself by Charles, who 
 had promised to tell him ' true ' stories of 
 the great woods and lakes, and strange 
 people that he had seen in his travels ; while 
 Mildred's face showed all the happiness it 
 gave her to see the good effect of his friend's 
 visit on her brother. Alfred sat near her in 
 a state of rapt enjoyment, only speaking 
 now and then in a low tone, as if even the 
 sound of his own voice jarred upon his ear 
 at such a moment ; he had procured for her 
 an hour's happiness, and only wanted to be 
 still, and see it sparkle in her eyes. Her 
 spirits on the contrary became gayer and 
 gayer ; she teazed Alfred about his dreami- 
 ness, interrupted her brother, laughed at his 
 stories, and as they stepped out of the boat 
 
28 ' WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 and saw the steeple of St. Paul's gleaming 
 in the distance high above all the turmoil of 
 London, she declared she believed her 
 brother in all his travels had seen nothing 
 more beautiful than that great church. 
 
 ' I should perhaps agree with you, Milly,' 
 answered Charles — as they walked slowly 
 towards the house, whilst Eddy ran on with 
 the Newfoundland dog, who, excited by his 
 swim after the boat, now indulged in many a 
 wild gambol — ' were it not deprived of that 
 hidden life which renders a church in the 
 midst of a vast crowded city, especially 
 beautiful and touching. It is sad to think 
 that a thing admirable in itself should be as 
 a sign-post of dissension from the first prin- 
 ciple of beauty — unity ' 
 
 * But is it not you who desire to pro- 
 long that dissension — who reject the union 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 29 
 
 which we so much desire ? ' said Mildred 
 quickly. 
 
 ' Quite true, you know the most ardent 
 passion of those who are sincerely out of the 
 Church, is the passion of union. Union is the 
 deceitful shadow of unity.' 
 
 * What, then, is the difference between union 
 and unity ? ' 
 
 A great Christian philosopher has already 
 answered that question. ' Unity is that 
 which never contradicts itself under any cir- 
 cumstance. There is unity where there is 
 ^no contradiction. You may have union 
 because you may be too polite to quarrel, 
 but the bond of unity is love, that you have 
 not got, and without it religion is but a name. 
 Contradiction is the death of unity ; union, 
 on the contrary, which is but the surface of 
 unity may take place momentarily in spite of 
 
30 * WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 contxadiction, as we may touch each other 
 without blending. The Church, which is 
 truth and charity, proceeds by way of exclu- 
 sion, whilst all heresies and schisms proceed 
 by way of reunion.' 
 
 * A way, nevertheless, more remarkable for 
 charity one would say,' observed Alfred. 
 
 ' And so saying, verify these beautiful 
 words — " How simple is truth ! but the heart 
 of man has infinite ruses against God. He 
 arms himself with charity against truth ; he 
 opposes union to unity ; he loves, he believes 
 he is sublime, and he is not in the truth ! . . ." 
 As Mickey said, however, '*plaze God it'll 
 not be always so " as regards you Meredith 
 any more than this dear little heretic beside 
 me even, if I am to leave you soon." ' 
 
 * You feel less well than when we started ?' 
 exclaimed Mildred, clasping her hands round 
 
' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 3 1 
 
 his arm, ' that nasty boating — yet how I 
 enjoyed it at the time, you looked so well, 
 
 and ' 
 
 ' And so I felt, and still feel,' he inter- 
 rupted, as he saw the same expression of 
 terror in her face that once before he had 
 seen there, when for the first time he had 
 made a slight allusion to his possible danger ; 
 'that ''nasty boating," as you ungratefully 
 called it, and this walk home will always be 
 marked among the pleasantest memories of 
 a most pleasant day.' 
 
32 'WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 On Nature's throbbing anguish pour rehef, 
 And teach impassioned souls the joy of grief. 
 
 Pleasures of Hope. 
 
 When Alfred returned home he found Maud 
 superbly dressed as if for some grand oc- 
 casion. Joseph, she said, had most kindly 
 managed to obtain tickets for the Oratorio 
 that evening, though all the London world 
 were eagerly contending for places, and he 
 had arrived from Paris only on the previous 
 day. 
 
 * You really have no time to lose,' she 
 said, as her husband seated himself in an arm- 
 chair and leaned his head upon his hand, 
 ' you have to dress.' 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love/ 33 
 
 * Maud, Lindsay is ill, dangerously ill, I 
 fear,' replied Alfred irrelevantly ; * would 
 that I had not induced him to make that 
 tour in Ireland last summer, the accident at 
 
 B is the cause of this misery. I cannot 
 
 go abroad ; I must do all that can be done 
 to cheer him. Could I ever forgive myself 
 if he were to die ? It would break his 
 sister's heart to lose him, so soon too after 
 their unexpected re-union.' 
 
 ' Well, this is another proof of what one so 
 often hears, that if a man has no real 
 troubles, he invents one for himself It is 
 perfectly absurd to hear you talk as if you 
 were in any way responsible for Mr. Lind- 
 say's illness. And so you have given up 
 that wild project of going to Russia ? ' Maud 
 added in her own mind ; ' he will remain at 
 home for the sake of others, not for mine ! ' 
 
 VOL. in. D 
 
'™.,^ „„ , ^,,„ ' 
 
 34 * WHAT TIS TO LOVE 
 
 * I did not say I had given up the project ; 
 for the present it must be deferred. If Lind- 
 say recovers I can go a Httle later.' 
 
 ' And if he does not ? ' 
 
 Alfred stood up and walked towards the 
 door. Maud saw that he was excited and 
 grieved, yet she would not utter one word of 
 sympathy. Had he shewn any towards her 
 in arranging to go away without consulting 
 her or in changing his mind because a friend 
 of yesterday seemed to need him ? Re- 
 proaches she considered beneath her, she 
 would simply pay him back in his own 
 coin — that of polite indifference. 
 
 * Please don't be long,' she said, as he, 
 turned the handle of the door, * the carriage 
 will be at the door shortly.' 
 
 ' What for ? Oh, to take you to the 
 concert, but I am not going.' 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 35 
 
 * Do you wish me to go alone with your 
 cousin ? he has sent us two tickets.' 
 
 * Then take poor Mademoiselle Dubourg ; 
 you know she delights in that kind of thing, 
 and to me — if your ladyship will permit me 
 to say so — it is a bore ! ' 
 
 Without waiting for any furthef discussion 
 on the subject he left the room, yet if Maud 
 had spoken one gentle word of entreaty that 
 he should accompany her he would have 
 yielded. But no such word was ever spoken 
 by his wife, and the contrast between her 
 and Mildred was thus constantly brought 
 before him. He had been very steadfast in 
 his resolution to avoid all that could recall 
 such a comparison, until the knowledge of 
 Charles Lindsay's danger overpowered every 
 thought of prudence, and, from the time of 
 that first visit to the villa at Richmond, he 
 
 D 2 
 
36 * WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 went there daily, drinking in unresistingly 
 more and more of the sweet poison which 
 lay for him in Mildred's presence. Even 
 Maud was attentive also in her less impul- 
 sive way, she rather liked Charles Lindsay, 
 and admitted to herself that it would be a 
 sad trial for his sister to lose him just when 
 he had come home after years of separation 
 and made the world a place of light and joy 
 for her. 
 
 For a short time Charles' health did 
 seem really to Improve, and the quickened 
 pulsation of his heart when any one alluded 
 to his recovery told that the old firm will to 
 have everything arranged in his own way 
 was not yet quite subdued. By the end of 
 the month, however, the Improvement had 
 disappeared, and once again he took advan- 
 tage of Mildred's absence with friends in 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 37 
 
 London, to ask Sir James Hall if he were to 
 consider his former sentence as ratified. Sir 
 James bowed, but muttered something about 
 trying a new system, and Charles knew that 
 hope was at an end for hini. 
 
 God alone knew how sharp was that 
 second and last struggle ! then no promise 
 of good for her whom he loved best on earth 
 came to soften it. Perhaps the one thing 
 wanting to make his acceptance of death a 
 real holocaust and to crow^n all his former 
 correspondence with grace, was that annihi- 
 lation of the spirit of self-reliance which had 
 always been so strong in him, and which 
 rendered it especially hard to renounce the 
 right to watch over his sister until she her- 
 self gave it to another. 
 
 That same evening when he heard her 
 light step approaching his study door he 
 
38 * WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 murmured, ' Into thy hands my God I con- 
 fide her, take me when thou wilt!' The 
 holocaust was made, and Mildred never 
 knew how much of heroism there had been 
 in his forbearance to press her more urgently 
 to accept Lord Waters' suit, especially as he 
 believed it would have sufficed to obtain her 
 consent to tell her seriously that her doing 
 so would take from the thought of death its 
 sharpest sting. 
 
 Formerly he had been nervous and anxious 
 about his health ^nd also a little self-willed 
 as to the way in which the doctor's direc- 
 tions were to be carried out ; henceforth a 
 marked change was observable, all trace of 
 anxiety gradually disappeared and gave place 
 to' a calm cheerfulness. Mildred saw the 
 change, but resolved to look on the bright 
 side, considered it a sign of amendment — • 
 
' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 39 
 
 the diminishing of a real cause of anxiety ; 
 she would not allow his increased devotion 
 to all religious duties to alarm her, even 
 whilst feeling there was something inex- 
 pressibly winning, yet subduing, in his new 
 gentleness and patience. At times, how- 
 ever, in spite of her determination to ' hope 
 on, hope ever,' the old terror seized upon 
 her heart, and Alfred had more than once 
 seen the tears trembling beneath her eyelids, 
 yet forced back at the sound of her brother's 
 voice or step, /le must not be disturbed by 
 ^ny appearance of uneasiness in her. Alfred 
 saw all this, saw her daily and hourly watch- 
 fulness never to allow a sad look to add to 
 the sufferings of her dear invalid. The 
 picture of that litde household at Richmond 
 overshadowed by death itself, yet rendered 
 almost joyous by a generous and mutual 
 
40 * WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 love which sought only to hide its own cares 
 and cheer the beloved one, haunted him day 
 and night, making his own home seem more 
 cold and desolate than ever. 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 4I 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 La ddfaillance d'un ccEur surpris de sa propre gloire, et 
 succombant sous le poids de son bonheur. 
 
 L'Abbe Henri Perreyve. 
 
 The Lindsays intended to start for Germany 
 in the beginning of July, but Charles settled 
 in his own mind not to attempt the journey ; 
 intending, when the time approached, to tell 
 Mildred the real truth about himself, he 
 would spare her the sad knowledge as long 
 as possible, especially as there was no alarm- 
 ing decrease in his strength. 
 
 He was in the habit of going to church 
 every Friday to receive Holy Communion, 
 but towards the end of June he caught cold 
 
42 'WHAT 'tis to LOVe/ 
 
 and the doctor gave strict orders that he 
 should remain in bed for a few days ; accord- 
 ingly, his spiritual Father, the Rev. Mr. Her- 
 bert, who saw how it grieved him to forego 
 the sacred Union, offered to bring the Blessed 
 Sacrament to him. 
 
 On the previous evening Jeannette set 
 about preparing an altar in her master's room ; 
 she brought a collection of fresh flowers in a 
 basket, and, after filling the vases with water, 
 she looked round hesitatingly, and said in 
 rather a low voice : ' Mademoiselle knows 
 how to assort flowers with great taste, if it 
 would not derange her to place these, the 
 altar would be so pretty.' 
 
 Mildred got very red — no, she could not 
 assist in the decorations for that in which 
 she had no faith, and for a moment she took 
 no notice of Jeannette's hesitating request. 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 43 
 
 Then came the reflection : * But it would 
 please Charles ; if he told me he expected 
 some guest towards whom I felt no sympathy, 
 although he honoured him deeply, should I 
 spare any trouble in preparing a fitting re- 
 ception, should I think of my own feelings 
 instead of my brother^s ; and the guest whom 
 he believes will come to him to-morrow he 
 honours far more than any one in the world, 
 why, then, should I refuse to arrange these 
 flowers ? ' 
 
 ' Very well, Jeannette,' she said at length, 
 ' it shall be as pretty as my skill can make 
 
 it; 
 
 * Comme Mademoiselle est bonne ! ' ex- 
 claimed Jeannette, turning back to the basket 
 of flowers in delight. 
 
 Charles had read the conflict between 
 Mildred's wish and heart in the quick blush 
 
44 * WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 and apparent inattention to the good old 
 Bretonne's timidly-expressed desire, and, as 
 his sister stood up from her place beside him, 
 he caught her hand and pressed it in his 
 own. 
 
 ' Milly,' he whispered, ' I can only repeat 
 her words, how good you are ! it will make 
 you very happy some day to remember this 
 evening's work.' 
 
 In the morning, however, when she went 
 to his room, about an hour before Father 
 Herbert was expected, he told her that he 
 had desired Jeannette to remove the flower- 
 vases carefully and prepare the altar in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 , * I could not help it,' he said, in answer to 
 her eager remonstrances ; ' as the time 
 approached it seemed to me impossible to 
 treat the Blessed Sacrament with less respect 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 45 
 
 than I would an earthly monarch. Do you 
 suppose, were I a wounded soldier and our 
 Queen deigned to come to the hospital to 
 bestow on me some great mark of her favour 
 that if it were possible I would not- rise and 
 go down to meet her rather than allow her 
 to come up to the ward ? Well, I expect a 
 greater Sovereign and a more precious gift 
 this morning. . . . Besides, I feel unusually 
 well, no longer tired, no longer weary ; you 
 can t fancy how well and happy I feel, Milly ; 
 go, then, and see that your own gracious 
 handiwork is properly replaced in the draw- 
 ing-room, and leave me to dress.' 
 
 He drew her face down to him and kissed 
 her. Mildred turned away, and silently left 
 the room. She could not have explained even 
 to herself why her brother's caress had so 
 affected her that she could not utter a word 
 
46 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 even in the hope of preventing him from 
 committing an imprudence. 
 
 When he came down she and Jeannette 
 were alone in the room, but even while 
 rTranging his cushions carefully, she forebore 
 to ask how he felt after the exertion of dress- 
 ing, for she saw that he was absorbed in other 
 thoughts. Her hand still lingered upon the 
 arm of the sofa, when a knock at the hall- 
 door announced the arrival of Father Her- 
 bert. 
 
 The blood rushed up to the face of Charles, 
 crimsoning it even to his temples, then as 
 quickly receded. Some sudden feeling 
 prompted Mildred to whisper * May I stay, 
 Charles ? ' yet five minutes before she 
 fancied that nothing short of necessity would 
 have induced her to remain. 
 
 Her brother bent his head in silence, and 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 47 
 
 a brighter expression even than before came 
 into his eyes. Father Herbert entered and 
 Charles stood up, saying in a low fervent tone 
 as he went forward : ' Domine, non sum 
 
 DIGNUS UT INTRES SUB TECTUM MEUM ; SED 
 
 . . .' he stopped, gasped for breath, and fell 
 almost at the feet of the priest 
 
 The servant who had barely closed the 
 door turned back at the sound of the heavy 
 fall, and assisted Father Herbert in placing 
 him on the sofa, whilst Mildred, who for an 
 instant had seemed stunned, cast herself on 
 her knees beside him. 
 
 'He has fainted,' she cried; 'run, Jean- 
 nette, you know the remedies to bring, and 
 looking up with a brave attempt at self- 
 control she asked : 'He will soon recover, 
 Mr. Herbert, will he not ? Do you not think 
 even now his colour is beginning to return.' 
 
48 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 ' It is all in the hands of God,' answered 
 Father Herbert, with evident emotion, for 
 one glance had told his experienced eye that 
 never more would life's colour return to those 
 blanched cheeks and lips. * Had you not 
 better leave us for a little, my child, whilst 
 we try what can be done ? ' 
 
 He endeavoured to take her hands, but 
 she drew them away and sprang to her 
 feet. 
 
 ' You do not mean that he is dead ! ' 
 burst from her lips. She looked around 
 with a wild glance of inquiry, then a 
 gleam of joy flashed into her eyes as the 
 door was flung open and Alfred Meredith 
 appeared. 
 
 * You saved him once before,' she cried, 
 hastening to him ; ' you will ', a convul- 
 sive sob caught her breath and she would 
 
* WHAT 'tis to I.OVe/ 49 
 
 have fallen had not Alfred caught her in his 
 arms ; then, at a sign from Father Herbert, 
 and preceded by the weeping Jeannette, he 
 carried her to her own room. 
 
 VOL. III. E 
 
50 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Qui n'est que juste est dur, qui n'est que sage est triste. 
 
 Voltaire. 
 
 For one habit of his Indian life Alfred had 
 always retained a marked predilection, that 
 of a ride in the early morning. The country 
 never appeared more attractive to him than 
 at that hour, when, half veiled in the balmy 
 haze which precedes the heat and glare of a 
 summer s day, so it often happened that he 
 rode out to Richmond before breakfast. On 
 that Friday morning he knew Father Herbert 
 was going to River View, and although some 
 undefined feeling of anxiety prompted him 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 5 I 
 
 to turn the horse's head towards the villa he 
 intended only to enquire for Charles, and re- 
 turn to see him later. 
 
 But on hearing that Mr. Lindsay had 
 fallen in the drawing-room, it was supposed 
 in a fit, he rushed up without waiting to learn 
 any particulars, and thus it happened that he 
 appeared at the moment when the awful 
 truth that her brother was dead first dawned 
 on Mildred. 
 
 A telegram had been dispatched to Sir 
 James Hall, and a messenger sent for the 
 doctor in the neighbourhood, who had also 
 been in attendance. As Alfred re-entered 
 the room the candles upon the altar were still 
 lighting Father Herbert who, with his head 
 buried in his hands, knelt at the foot of the 
 sofa, and a servant stood behind, close to the 
 table, upon which were some vials he had 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY -^^ ___ 
 
 UNIVERSITY nr fTTTMOfS 
 
52 'WHAT 'tis to LOVe/ 
 
 fetched in the vain hope of restoring anima- 
 tion to his late master. 
 
 ' It cannot be that all is over, Mr. Herbert, 
 whispered Alfred hoarsely, ' surely something 
 can be done — such a death would be too 
 awful ! ' 
 
 * Yet how sublime ! ' replied Father Herbert 
 rising ; ' What greater happiness could have 
 been given him than to die from an ecstasy of 
 love, at the thought of receiving his God 
 under his own roof ! May this recollection at 
 least soften the grief of those to whom he 
 was so dear.' 
 
 When the doctors arrived they could only 
 confirm the sad truth, life was wholly extinct 
 — in their language, death had supervened 
 in consequence of a sudden rush of blood to 
 the heart caused by violent emotion. 
 
 To Alfred that moment was one of un- 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love/ 53 
 
 utterable bitterness. He had been powerless 
 to save Mildred from this desolation, and he 
 knew that the very ardour of his affection 
 would debar him from being a source of con- 
 solation and support to her ; yet, even at 
 such a time Father Herberts words made a 
 deep impression on him, bringing before his 
 mind with startling vividness the contrast 
 between such a death and that of his own 
 dear mother and uncle, from whose deathbeds 
 all sacramental grace had been absent. 
 
 ' We must now think of Miss Lindsay, 
 Captain Meredith,' said Father Herbert, 
 hoping to rouse Alfred from the torpor of 
 grief into which he seemed to have fallen 
 when, after the departure of the doctors, 
 Charles had been removed from the drawinof- 
 room and laid upon the bed from which he 
 had so lately risen, declaring that he felt un- 
 
54 'WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 usually well, ' no longer tired, no longer 
 wearied.' ' Had you not better send to In- 
 form Lady Maud of what has happened ?' 
 
 ' I will go for her myself,' replied Alfred, 
 and hurrying from the room he rode back to 
 London ; the rapid motion seemed to deaden 
 the pain knawing at his heart. 
 
 ' Lindsay is dead, Maud !' he said abruptly, 
 entering his wife's morning room. 
 
 ' Gracious heavens ! how you have startled 
 me ; you expressed no uneasiness about him 
 yesterday. When did he die ?' 
 
 * This morning. Jeannette will tell you all 
 the particulars, I cannot talk about it. Mil- 
 dred is alone ; what ought to be done ?' 
 
 * I suppose I had better drive out and ask 
 her to stay here until she decides what she 
 will eventually do. Lady Chievers likes her 
 very much, besides there are her own connec- 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love/ 55 
 
 tlons, the Lovatts ; no doubt she will have 
 plenty of invitations as soon as this sad event 
 is known, but I dare say in the first Instance 
 she would feel less strange with us than with 
 any of the others ; the children might help to 
 distract her grief/ 
 
 ' Thank you, Maud,' faltered her husband, he 
 was so unaccustomed to have his wishes fore- 
 stalled by her, that even this slight degree of 
 sympathy, somewhat coldly expressed, was 
 too much for his forced composure. 
 
 Mildred, however, refused gently, but 
 firmly, to leave the home so hallowed by the 
 memory of the last few comparatively happy 
 weeks, and by the actual presence of her 
 brother's remains. Maud then urged that at 
 least she should have some friend to stay 
 with her, but she replied with a slight 
 shudder that she was not quite alone yet ; 
 
56 *WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 besides, Jeannette was far more than a servant 
 to her — all other companionship would be 
 unbearable just then. 
 
 Perceiving, therefore, that she could do 
 Mildred no good, Maud left her after hearing 
 from Jeannette all the thrilling details of her 
 poor young master's sudden death. Alfred 
 was disappointed, yet he felt that Mildred 
 had only acted like herself in clinging to the 
 last to one whom she had loved. The in- 
 tervening time until the funeral he passed 
 in a state of feverish restlessness ; every day 
 he rode out to inquire for her, but dared 
 not ask to see her. After the first effort of 
 going to fetch her away from the scene of her 
 bereavement, Maud relapsed into her usual 
 state of listlessness in reofard to whatever did 
 not concern herself; Indeed, she began to 
 consider her husband's deep dejection as a 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' 57 
 
 sort of personal grievance, and answered very 
 coldly, when on the eve of the funeral he 
 asked if she intended to go to River View 
 durinor the followinor afternoon. 
 
 ' I think not,' she said ; * I showed Mildred 
 that my desire was to surround her with all 
 the consolations of friendship in the first in- 
 stance, now I have a right to wait until she 
 manifests a desire to see me.' 
 
 * Right ! I hate the very sound of the 
 word. How unbearably hot it is ! Perhaps out 
 of doors one may succeed in getting a breath 
 of fresh air.' 
 
 Thus they parted for that evening, and, as 
 it happened, not to meet again for several 
 days. 
 
58 "WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend 
 Towards a higher object. Love was given, 
 Encouraged, sanctioned for that end ; 
 For this the passion to e^scel was driven, 
 That self might be annulled.— Wordsworth. 
 
 A SHORT time before his decease Charles had 
 o^iven Father Herbert a sealed letter ad- 
 dressed to himself with the superscription : 
 * To be opened after my death.' 
 
 ' It is not,' he then said, ' that I fancy I am 
 going to die immediately, but I wish to feel 
 sure that in case of any unforeseen accident 
 there shall be as little confusion and trouble 
 as possible. You will find all the necessary 
 directions for my funeral in that letter ; our 
 
'WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 59 
 
 kinsman Mr. Lovatt and my friend Captain 
 Meredith will naturally be chief mourners. 
 My lawyer has a duly registered deed of gift, 
 transferring all my fortune to poor Mllly, 
 so that she will be spared all wearisome law 
 forms. 
 
 Accordingly they were able to make the 
 last arrangements without troubling Mildred. 
 Alfred and Mr. Lovatt went In the first 
 mourning coach, and a large number of 
 carriages followed. When all was over and 
 every one else had departed, Alfred still 
 lingered beside the newly-made grave. 
 Had he been a homeless outcast he could 
 not have felt more desolate than at that 
 moment. Where should he go ? Return 
 to his own house in Hyde Park rich in every 
 attraction and luxury that money could give 
 to it ? He shuddered at the thought of 
 
6o ' WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 hearing his wife talk of what was due to her 
 from one whose gentler heart was wrung 
 with sorrow. 
 
 His own carriage had followed amongst the 
 others, and at length the servant came to say 
 that the coachman begged to know if he 
 were to wait. 
 
 * No, I shall return by train/ answered 
 Alfred hastily. 
 
 With no very definite intention in his 
 mind he began to walk slowly in the direc- 
 tion of the villa ; he would at all events 
 hear from Jeannette how Mildred had borne 
 that last parting — the terrible closing of the 
 coffin, and the bearing away of all that re- 
 mained to her of her brother, the presence of 
 which was yet a sort of link with the past. 
 Perhaps he had a vague hope that she would 
 volunteer to see him. He felt that they must 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 6 [ 
 
 meet again in all the freedom of the old in- 
 timacy, if only to say farewell. He knew 
 that the best thing he could do was to go 
 abroad immediately, and, therefore, the sooner 
 he could get the pang over of wishing her 
 good-bye the better. 
 
 He entered the grounds, but instead of 
 going direct to the house he wandered down 
 by the river, thinking of the day of his first 
 visit there, when they all went out boating 
 and yielded themselves willing captives to a 
 bright but fading gleam of hopefulness. That 
 conversation as they walked back to the 
 house, on the difference between unity and 
 union, recurred to him with a strange clear- 
 ness ; Charles's concluding words : * If I am 
 to leave you soon ' had indeed been sadly 
 prophetic. 
 
 A few steps further on was the little arbour 
 
62 'what 'tis to love.' 
 
 where they had rested. Alfred went up to it 
 and pushed aside the foHage which overhung 
 the entrance, there he stood as if spell-bound. 
 In one of the rustic chairs, with her head 
 bowed down on the little table, sat a slight 
 girlish figure, robed in black ; her face was 
 completely hidden, but anyone who had once 
 seen Mildred would have recognised her by 
 the natural wreath of golden hair encircling 
 her head. 
 
 She had evidently not heard any sound of 
 steps, for she remained unmoved in the same 
 attitude of hopeless dejection, then looking 
 up with a start, as if the knowledge of 
 another's presence had suddenly come to her, 
 her eyes met Alfred's, and the pale weary 
 face became suffused with a deep red colour. 
 
 * Mil — Miss Lindsay,' he exclaimed, taking 
 both her hands and making a strong effort to 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 63 
 
 regain the mastery over himself : * I — I have 
 longed to see you, yet I would not have come 
 without permission. I was going to the 
 house to enquire for you, but memory drew 
 me like a loadstone to this spot. I could not 
 return to London after — I mean — I don't 
 know what I mean.' 
 
 It was of no use, he could not go on, and 
 letting go her hands he turned away, whilst 
 Mildred sank back Into the chair, the quick 
 delight that, even in the hour of deepest 
 sorrow, had welled up in her heart when 
 first she raised her head and saw him stand- 
 ing before her, revealed how wholly she loved 
 him, and what a fearful blank the world 
 would be to her, now that the dear object of 
 their mutual affection was gone, and, with 
 him, all excuse for those long daily visits, 
 which, perhaps unknown to her, had been a 
 
64 * WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 source of strength and cheerfulness during 
 the weeks that had preceded her brother's 
 death. 
 
 * As your oldest English friends — we may 
 call ourselves so may we not ?' he said, try- 
 ing to guard against his own weakness by at 
 once referring to his wife ; ' will you not give 
 us the privilege of taking you away from 
 these sad scenes for a little time ? Maud 
 hoped you would have come to us at once.' 
 
 * I could not, and I cannot,' she answered 
 softly. 'Had I accepted any invitation it 
 would have been yours — that of my oldest, 
 best friends indeed, but I am not yet fit to 
 be with others, and my true home is where 
 he . . . He wished me to invite our old 
 governess at Rennes — an English lady to be 
 my companion — I have done so.' 
 
 ' But a stranger here, here where we used 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love/ 65 
 
 to be so happy In spite of all — Mildred, how 
 can you bear the thought of it ? ' 
 
 She seemed not to notice that he called her 
 by her Christian name, nor did he know he 
 had done so, the ' giant from whom the 
 bravest can only turn away — so gentle is he, 
 so beautiful in his irresistible might,' was 
 overpowering him, and he rose from the seat 
 he had taken beside her. 
 
 * What else have I to do in the world now 
 but to fulfil his wishes ? As I may not 
 remain alone, what does it signify who comes 
 to live with me ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose I had better go,' he said 
 abruptly, ' I must not trespass any longer 
 upon your grief. Will you walk with me to 
 the end of the shrubbery ? ' 
 
 She stood up In silence not venturing to 
 ask him to remain, and avoiding to meet his 
 
 VOL. in. F 
 
66 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 wistful gaze. Perhaps he was hurt at her 
 apparent passlveness and indifference, for he 
 added with formal politeness : 
 
 ' Thank you for your readiness to comply 
 with my request, but it was selfish of me to 
 make it. I see I can be of no use or comfort 
 to you ; let me then say good-bye here ' — he 
 paused — ' it may be for ever.' 
 
 ' For ever,' she exclaimed, whilst a fit of 
 trembling seized her, and she caught at the 
 table for support. 
 
 But that glance had betrayed the secret 
 hitherto so successfully guarded, and Alfred's 
 arms were already round her with a strong 
 firm clasp. Once before she had been folded 
 in his embrace, but then in unconsciousness, 
 now in consciousness, and for one short 
 moment, she tasted of the ineffable happiness 
 that would have been her's could she only 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 67 
 
 have rested there in peace, untortured by the 
 sense of wronsf-domof. There are a few 
 chosen favoured ones to whom it is given to 
 know the full delight of Alexandrine de la 
 Ferronnaye's beautiful expression of greatest 
 earthly felicity, ' s'aimer, s'aimer et oser 
 
 parler de Dieu ' ! even the shortest spell of 
 such is surely worth the price so often paid 
 for it, a whole life-time of after suffering ; but 
 alas for poor Mildred she was not one of 
 those happy few ; this greatest human bliss 
 God had seen fit to deny her. 
 
 ' You love me, Mildred ! then save me 
 from myself, from the wretched selfishness, 
 and worse, into which I am falling deeper 
 and deeper when out of the reach of your 
 influence. You have the power to raise me to 
 something better than I have ever been, or 
 to make my fall greater than it would have 
 f2 
 
6S 'what *tis to love/ 
 
 been had I never known you, say, which 
 shall it be ?' 
 
 * Oh ! stop ! ' she cried, disengaging her- 
 self hastily. ' You forget what is due to 
 yourself and to me ! it is madness * 
 
 ' Yes, madness ! ' he interrupted passion- 
 ately, * madness against which I have fought 
 for more than a year. You were like an 
 angel shedding light and heat over my cold 
 dreary hearth, till that April morning at 
 Chiltern Park when the letter, which brought 
 such joy to you, filled me with despair and 
 revealed to me my own madness. Then 
 you were happy and I could conceal it . . . 
 Later, God alone knows the happiness of 
 that moment when, having rescued your 
 brother, I felt the waves carrying me out to 
 sea ! I fancied I had purchased a great joy 
 for you at the cost of my life, that hence- 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love. 69 
 
 forth I should live in your heart without 
 ever having caused you an hour's sorrow ; 
 but it was not to be. I resolved to avoid 
 you, to go so far away that we should be- 
 come as strangers to each other. Again fate 
 Interposed, my friend became ill, I could not 
 desert him whilst it was possible to please 
 or cheer him . . . Afterwards, the thought 
 of your sorrow and loneliness haunted me. 
 I could no longer take away with me the 
 comfort of feeling that at least you were 
 happy in home ties ; nevertheless, I had 
 almost said farewell for ever when it flashed 
 on me that for you also my sacrifice came 
 too late. Mildred, do not tell me to go now; 
 have pity on us both !' 
 
 ' It is for you to have pity ; ' she said In 
 a low tone, feeling instinctively that to ap- 
 peal to his generosity was her — their best 
 
70 
 
 *\VITAT 'tis to I.OVE/ 
 
 safeguard, — 'to leave me, to spare me any 
 further suffering ; now. Indeed, we must say 
 good-bye for ever.' 
 
 * Then you do not love m.e, Mllly ?' 
 At the sound of that v/ord there rushed 
 back to her mind a host of memories — sweet 
 records of the happy hours they had spent 
 together with him who had been to them 
 like a central point In which their affections 
 had a right to meet, and the choking pain In 
 her throat rose higher and higher. How 
 could she answer that question asked in a 
 sad beseeching voice from which the previous 
 elation and excitement had passed away ? 
 Had she the strength to deny with any show 
 of firmness the truth which he had read in — 
 those seldom-failing truth tellers — her eyes ? 
 The question was repeated still more softly 
 and humbly; she dared not hesitate any longer. 
 
' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 7 1 
 
 * Yes, as the dearest of friends whom to 
 part from Is Hke — Hke losing a second 
 brother ; yet It must be so, you must not 
 come again.' 
 
 ' Yes, once again,' he said quietly, a sort 
 of hopeless calm succeeding the first burst 
 of passion. * I will go to Ireland for a few 
 days to make the final arrangements with 
 Waters as to where we shall meet, and to 
 see, perhaps for the last time, my early home 
 and humble friends at Maurpton Castle; 
 then I will come to say good-bye to you. I 
 will not remain more than a few minutes and 
 you will not need the presence of a stranger. 
 I was certain I had read In your face the 
 same undying feeling that has mastered me, 
 and thought that the consciousness of being 
 my good genius would have given you some 
 degree of happiness. But since you have 
 
72 ' WHAT 'tis to LOVE. 
 
 told me that I deceived myself, you surely 
 need not fear that I shall offend — that I 
 shall urge you to make any sacrifice for my 
 sake ; only let me come once before I go 
 for ever, that I may wish you farewell 
 calmly . . . my madness shall be under 
 proper restraint by that time,' he added with 
 a poor attempt at a smile ; ' on this day week 
 then as — as '' a second brother," you will not 
 refuse to see me for a moment — Milly ? ' 
 
 ' No,' she murmured, still shading her 
 eyes with one hand and letting the other 
 fall into his. 
 
 He raised It to his lips and was gone ! 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love. 73 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Quand nous rentrons du combat des passions mutilds et 
 sanglants, mais victorieux, nous pouvons pleurer devant Dieu 
 ce qu'il nous en a coutd. — Lacordaire. 
 
 Mildred sat there motionless, well-nigh 
 overwhelmed by the sense of utter desolation 
 that fell upon her as the sound of Alfred's 
 footsteps grew fainter and fainter. 
 
 * Oh, that he would come back ! ' was the 
 yearning that filled her whole being, but to 
 which her will consented not. Some envious 
 fallen angel whispered there was yet time to 
 recall him, and, fearing to listen to that 
 whisper, she rose hastily and returned to the 
 house. 
 
74 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 The servants received a general order 
 that no one was to be admitted except Lady- 
 Maud Meredith, but Lady Maud was the 
 only one of Mildred's acquaintance who did 
 not call durino^ that first week after the 
 funeral. The days passed outwardly in 
 weary and unbroken monotony, yet all too 
 quickly, since every hour brought nearer the 
 time when she had promised to receive 
 Alfred's farewell visit. 
 
 To break that promise would be to wound 
 him too deeply by a seeming want of trust ; 
 and for the same reason, she dared not 
 hasten the arrival of her companion. The 
 promise must be kept in the sense in which 
 he had understood it ; she must see him 
 again for one short moment without the 
 restraint of another's presence. And in the 
 silence of the darkened rooms, In the lulling 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love/ 75, 
 
 murmur of the quickly flowing river, In the 
 rustHng of the summer wind through the 
 trees, In all places and at all times, some 
 phantom echo seemed to catch up his words : 
 ' Then you do not love me, Mllly ? ' 
 
 Not love him ! Why her love for him 
 was the absorbing feeling of her whole being; 
 it had caused her to withhold her consent to 
 that which, even at the time she vaguely felt 
 to be her darling brother's most ardent^ 
 dying wish — that she should become Lord 
 Waters' v/Ife. Not love him ! Why It was 
 the consciousness that, humanly speaking, 
 she could, indeed, be his good genius, and at 
 the cost of the sacrifice of herself that 
 rendered the temptation so fearfully strong. 
 The only real manifestation of love is the 
 holocaust of self, and to refuse this proof to 
 him for whom she would gladly have laid 
 
76 'what 'tis to love. 
 
 down her life, was the pang of pangs. 
 Every earthly tie that might have even 
 helped her to make the greater and higher 
 sacrifice demanded was broken. 
 
 There were no loved ones remaining 
 whose hearts would be wrung by her weak- 
 ness ; she herself would be the only sufferer, 
 and in a cause so dear ! Could she seem to 
 mock him by bidding him seek consolation in 
 his own home, from his proud self-righteous 
 wife — the destroyer of his happiness, the 
 real source of all his faults and wanderings ? 
 Must he be left to drift away to evil and 
 misery, when for the present, at least, he 
 could be rendered happy by her whom he 
 loved, and who loved him so entirely ? 
 
 All the most generous instincts of her 
 woman's nature were drawing her towards 
 him, fighting against her sense of duty, when, 
 
'what 'tis to love/ "]"] 
 
 on Sunday evening, wearied by that fierce 
 combat, she entered the room which had 
 been her brother's, hoping to find rest there 
 —there where everything seemed to speak 
 to her of the dead, surely no alien thought 
 would dare to intrude on her sorrow. 
 According to her desire nothing in the room 
 had been altered, it looked as if arranged for 
 the return of its owner ; even the book from 
 which he had last read — The Following of 
 Christ — was still upon the table beside the 
 bed ; yet even here, after a little time, the 
 remorseless tempter pursued her. With her 
 lips she had already denied her love, two 
 days hence would she have strength to 
 repeat that denial ? 
 
 She leaned against the framework of the 
 open window whilst the evening breeze, 
 laden with the scent of flowers, fanned her 
 
78 'what 'tis to love.' 
 
 burning cheek, and on her ear stole the 
 sound of music mingled with that of softly- 
 splashing water, as if some songster were 
 singing to his 'ladye faire,' as their boat 
 glided down the river. Mildred turned 
 away feeling unable to sustain the conflict, 
 and longing only to be taken to the home of 
 her heart for evermore ; but as she moved 
 from the window her attention was caught 
 by a photograph hanging upon the opposite 
 wall, which Alfred had given to her brother 
 about a fortnight before, and a sudden palor 
 chased the deep flush from her cheeks. 
 
 The photograph represented Alfred stand- 
 ing under the shade of a large tree, looking 
 down somewhat sternly, and Eddy with his 
 arms clasped round the neck of the great 
 Newfoundland dog, peering into his father's 
 face with an expression of perfect trustful- 
 
^ WHAT 'tis to love/ 79 
 
 ness. They had stood thus on the day of 
 their first visit to the villa, when the child 
 was begging for a row on the Thames and 
 Alfred would have refused, fearing it might 
 not be good for his friend, until Charles 
 himself came to the rescue and decided in 
 Eddy's favour ; he declared afterwards that 
 he had seldom seen a prettier picture of con- 
 fiding affection. Therefore Alfred, who was 
 always devising little pleasures for the 
 invalid, had the group photographed as 
 nearly as possible In the same position. 
 
 Mildred stood still for a few minutes 
 gazing upon the upturned, trustful little face, 
 then eagerly approached the table near the 
 bed, and opening the book which lay there, 
 she knelt down and wrote with trembling 
 fingers a couple of lines beneath her brother s 
 name. As she laid aside the pen and 
 
8o *WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 pressed her lips as a seal upon the paper, a 
 paroxysm of weeping mastered her, and long 
 afterwards Jeannette found her still kneeling 
 there before that open book. 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 8 1 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers 
 
 Is always the first to be touched by the thorns. — MoORE. 
 
 Meanwhile Alfred was in Ireland, and 
 learning unfortunately to understand Mildred 
 better than when they had parted. Maud 
 was not at home when he returned from 
 Richmond on the day of the funeral, and 
 having begged Mdlle. Dubourg to tell his 
 wife that he was going to Maurpton Castle, 
 he set off without waiting to see her. 
 
 On the followinor evening as Lord Waters 
 
 o o 
 
 sat alone after dinner, looking absently at 
 the view before him, the door was unex- 
 pectedly opened and the servant announced 
 Captain Meredith. 
 
 VOL. III. G 
 
82 *WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 * This is a pleasant surprise for me ! ' ex- 
 claimed Lord Waters. ' It was a kind 
 thought to come now and share my solitude 
 when I am in the midst of tiresome prepara- 
 tions for departure. Casey, tell the cook 
 to send up dinner for Captain Meredith.' 
 
 * No, I have dined,' interposed Alfred, 
 sitting down with his back to the light and 
 leaning his elbows on the table. 
 
 ' Poor Lindsay ! ' said Lord Waters as the 
 servant retired ; ' tell me of — of them.' 
 
 * You know that the funeral only took 
 place yesterday. I could not stay in town 
 after it, and came off here to escape, if 
 possible, from my own thoughts.' 
 
 ' And Miss Lindsay, how does she bear 
 it ? Have you seen her ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I have seen her.' 
 ' Well.' 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 83 
 
 Alfred started, the impatient tone of that 
 one word indicated more than ordinary 
 interest. Suddenly there recurred to his 
 mind a certain conversation with Lady 
 Chievers which had rather puzzled him at 
 the time, now its meaning appeared plain 
 enough ; Lord Waters loved Mildred Lind- 
 say ! 
 
 'Well,' repeated Alfred, struggling to 
 repress the jealous pain caused by this 
 thought, ' I do not know what there is to 
 tell in such a case. Of course it was a 
 terribly sad business, he was everything to 
 her. Grief seldom kills, however, and does 
 a woman ever feel strongly about anything 
 or anybody ? I do believe though, Waters, 
 that yoii' are caught at last, no doubt you 
 will be an excellent consoler ! ' 
 
 * Would that I could!' muttered Lord 
 
84 ' WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 Waters under his breath, but Alfred heard 
 or guessed the import of those barely spoken 
 words. 
 
 ' Ha ! I was right . . . Let me drink to 
 the future Lady Waters!' He poured out a 
 glass of wine and drank it off hastily. ' You 
 will tell me when I may congratulate Miss 
 Lindsay ! ' ^ 
 
 ' What nonsense you are talking Meredith, 
 I tell you she has thrown her heart away on 
 some fellow who is not worthy of her, or she 
 would not be indifferent to such a prize.' 
 
 * How do you know ? what do you mean ?' 
 
 Lord Waters had left town shortly after 
 Mildred's rejection, not so abruptly, how- 
 ever, as to excite any suspicion even in 
 the mind of Lady Chievers, who had evi- 
 dently been willing to welcome Mildred as 
 her cousin. Never by word or sign had he 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 85 
 
 betrayed to anyone the wound he had re- 
 ceived until that evening, when Alfred's 
 unexpected arrival direct from her brother's 
 funeral, and almost from her presence, so 
 unnerved him that reserve gave way. It 
 was a relief to speak unrestrainedly of her 
 after the weeks of self-imposed silence and 
 solitary brooding over his disappointment, 
 and his trust In Alfred's silence in regard to 
 anything confided to him was unbounded. 
 
 ' I mean this — that she allowed me at least 
 to infer that her heart was pre-engaged. To 
 all my prayers, sanctioned by her brother's 
 warmest approbation, her answer was — how 
 well I remember it! — '' I cannot let you hope 
 for that which I have not to give, but If It 
 can be any satisfaction to you, you may rest 
 assured that I shall never marry."" There 
 was but one Inference to be drawn from such 
 
86 'what 'tis to love.* 
 
 an avowal. She loves some one who Is blind 
 to the happiness that he might possess. 
 You were constantly with them, Meredith^ 
 have you any Idea who It can be ? ' 
 
 * I ? I did not know anything of all this," 
 exclaimed Alfred eagerly. 
 
 ' No, I knew they were both too generous 
 to speak of It even to you, and you are the 
 only one In the world to whom I could have 
 so spoken. I think I shall be better for 
 having talked freely to you about It for once, 
 then let the subject be burled for ever. 
 Loving her as I do, you can fancy what It 
 is to me to feel that she is sad and desolate, 
 left without one to cherish and protect her I 
 I can never forget her look and the tone of 
 her voice when she answered as I have told 
 you ; they impressed me with a double sense 
 of hopelessness for her, and for myself — yes> 
 
*wnAT 'tis to lovp:.' 87 
 
 I love her well enough to feel that I could 
 bear anything better than to see her the 
 victim of an unrequited attachment.' 
 
 ' How can we tell that it is unrequited ? 
 might it not be only unfortunately placed — . 
 placed upon some one separated from her by- 
 circumstances ? ' 
 
 * But what circumstance save the absence 
 of a corresponding affection, do you suppose, 
 would effectually separate her from any one 
 whom she loved ? Want of position, want of 
 fortune, want of anything that the world 
 esteems ? There was a time, as you know, 
 when I should have condemned that as 
 romantic and exaggerated. Since then I 
 have learned to think there is little worth 
 having which is not called exaggerated. I 
 believe that she would hesitate at no sacrifice 
 for one dear to her.* 
 
88 ^wiiAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 ' You are right,' muttered Alfred, not 
 daring to make the suggestion trembHng 
 upon his lips. ' How, then, if the object of 
 her affection were bound in the chains of an 
 ill-assorted marriage ? ' 
 
 * I know I am, and it seems incredible that 
 she should love in vain ; it would be a con- 
 solation to me to know before I leave Eng- 
 land that there might be happiness in store 
 for her after time had dulled the pain of her 
 brother's loss. As you were so very intimate 
 with them, I hoped you might be able to 
 give me some satisfaction on the subject.' 
 
 * I ? they never spoke to me.' 
 
 * Of course not, and if they had you could 
 not repeat anything confided to you. What I 
 meant was, that you might have guessed 
 from your own observation if the cause of 
 her unhappiness was likely to be removed, 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 89 
 
 but I see that you will not, or cannot speak 
 of what concerns her welfare.' 
 
 ' Heaven knows I cannot,' replied Alfred, 
 then added as if to explain the strange 
 emphasis of his answer, ' I know nothing.' 
 
 * Then shall we go out ? the open air and 
 a cigar will be pleasanter than this heated 
 room.' Lord Waters was evidently a little 
 hurt at his brother-in-law's reserve. 
 
 Alfred gladly assented ; the effort to con- 
 verse or answer questions was too much for 
 him, when all that he had just heard was 
 creatine a wild tumult in his heart. Had 
 not Mildred's eyes rather than her lips told 
 the truth during their last interview ? Even 
 at the moment of her brother's death had not 
 /its coming brought back light and hope to 
 her countenance, as instinctively she turned 
 to him for help in her sorrow ? 
 
90 *WHAT 'tis to love.* 
 
 A great yearning seized him to return at 
 once, but he had at least impHed a promise 
 not to ask to see her again for a week. As 
 he was certain that she would be true to her 
 promise, so he felt that he ought not to break 
 faith with her ; and in spite of his ever- 
 increasing impatience to find himself once 
 more in her presence, he remained at 
 Maurpton Castle till Sunday, but to the 
 original object of his visit — to arrange a 
 place of meeting on the Continent with Lord 
 Waters — he never once alluded. 
 
'what *tis to love, 91 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 That strain again — it had a dying fall : 
 O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
 Steahng and giving odour. — SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 On the second day after his arrival in 
 Ireland, Alfred received a letter from Maud 
 to say that Eddy had the measles, and, 
 without directly asking her husband to come 
 back, she still wrote in an injured tone, 
 seeming to draw a comparison between 
 Alfred's absence, pleasure-seeking, and his 
 cousin Joseph Bertram's attention to herself 
 and the ailing child. The letter only served 
 to embitter him ; he would not be censured 
 into returning home, and replied by a few 
 
92 *\VHAT 'tis to LOVE.* 
 
 lines of enquiry for Eddy without referring 
 to his own movements. No reply came by 
 return of post, so he concluded that all was 
 going on well ; therefore, according to his 
 first intention, he started for Dublin on 
 Sunday afternoon, but meeting an acquaint- 
 ance in the train who was going to Kings- 
 town, he consented to accompany him 
 instead of going to his usual hotel in Dublin, 
 by which means he missed a telegram which 
 came to Maurpton Castle shortly after he 
 had left, and which Lord Waters forwarded 
 to the Gresham. 
 
 By Monday evening's mail Alfred left 
 Kingstown, and on reaching London next 
 morning, drove direct to his Club, where he 
 rested until about ten o'clock, and then went 
 down to Richmond. In a few minutes 
 more he expected to see her in whom were 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 realised the fair dreams of his early youth 
 about woman, who had the power to make 
 him forget all care and pain, and who he 
 now believed loved him even as ardently as 
 he loved her. He little knew how much 
 better she loved him ! 
 
 Her name — ' Miss Lindsay ? ' — was all he 
 said when the door was opened, and some- 
 thing in the expression of the man's face 
 sent a chill through him. 
 
 * Miss Lindsay was obliged to go to France 
 suddenly yesterday evening, Sir,' replied the 
 servant ; ' Father Herbert sent over a note for 
 you early this morning, shall I fetch it for 
 you Sir ? or will you step into the study ?' 
 
 * No, please to bring it to me.' 
 
 With all the composure he could assume 
 Alfred put the letter into his pocket and 
 turned away from the villa with a bitter feel- 
 
94 ' WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 ing of disappointment. Mildred was then 
 like the greater number of women, she could 
 make promises which she did not mean to ful- 
 fil, and was incapable of perfect trustfulness. 
 Did she fancy that he would intrude on her 
 against her will, since she thought it neces- 
 sary to run away from him ? Then she could 
 never have known what real love was, or she 
 would have understood how impossible it 
 would be for him ever to enter her presence 
 against her desire. 
 
 For a considerable time he walked on 
 neither knowing nor caring whither he went. 
 
 It was an additional mortification to be 
 referred to another for any explanation of her 
 conduct, surely she might have written to him 
 berself At length, however, he reflected that 
 possibly there might have been some impera- 
 tive cause, unconnected with him, for this 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love/ 95 
 
 sudden journey, and opening the envelope he 
 found enclosed a sealed letter accompanied 
 by a few lines from Father Herbert to say 
 that Miss Lindsay had left it in his care, fear- 
 ing to entrust it to a servant in the confusion 
 of yesterday's hurried departure, as she was 
 particularly anxious that Captain Meredith 
 should receive her note without fail on calling 
 at the villa. With eager haste Alfred turned 
 to the precious enclosure. 
 
 ' Forgive me, I could not stay to receive your 
 farewell visit, God knows how fully I meant 
 to keep that promise. Do not misunderstand 
 me, it was through no want of trust in you, it 
 is from my own weakness I have fled. I 
 knew not — no doubt because I had not 
 willed to know — what my real feelings towards 
 you were, until I discovered that not even to 
 give peace and joy to my dying brother would 
 
96 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 I promise to become the wife of one whom 
 I could not have failed to like had my affec- 
 tions been free. The knowledge came too 
 late for prevention, so I could only hide and 
 try to crush those unauthorised feelings. 
 Almost in the very home that death had 
 robbed me of m.y best safe-guard, I had the 
 anguish of learning that you also had allowed 
 the fatal disease to master you, and the mo- 
 mentary strength which then enabled me to 
 dissemble the truth deserted me as the day 
 approached when we vv^ere to meet again. 
 Yesterday evening I stood alone in the room 
 of him whom I had so fondly cherished, yet 
 even there, where every object seemed to 
 speak to me of his beautiful life and death, 
 louder than all rose the cry of my aching heart, 
 repeating your words that I could be your 
 good genius — that I could make you happy. 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' 97 
 
 To me, no price seemed too great to pay for 
 such a power, and at last I felt that I could 
 not refuse you the great proof of love, sacri- 
 fice — that when we met on Tuesday I could 
 not tell you again to go. All sense of duty 
 was conquered, I had ceased to resist when by 
 a seeming chance my eyes fell upon that picture 
 of you and Eddy, in which, notwithstanding 
 your refusal to gratify him, he stood look- 
 ing up at you undismayed as if he could not 
 believe in disappointment or pain coming to 
 him through you ! It seemed as if a little 
 angel messenger had been sent to save us 
 both ! The thought flashed upon me that a 
 day might come when, in loyalty to his mother, 
 and through my fault, he would shrink from 
 the sound of his father's name in sorrow and 
 anger. I felt that, instead of becoming your 
 good genius, I should have been a curse to 
 VOL. in. H 
 
98 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 you, dividing you from your children, debar- 
 ring you from their affection — from that happi- 
 ness which ought to be yours in part here 
 below, to be perfected hereafter. I go then 
 in order not to be a curse to you and in the 
 name of that love through which I would have 
 sacrificed myself — everything save your real 
 welfare, for the delight of cheering and 
 brightening your life. I ask only for one 
 joy which you alone can learn to give me some 
 day that you have made happiness for yourself 
 in your own home. It was the blessing that 
 begged of God in the bitter hour when I 
 resolved never again to look upon the face 
 that was to me as the light of life. 
 
 ' I hardly know what I have written, and I 
 have not courage to read these blurred pages, 
 yet I linger over them ; it is so hard to say 
 good-bye for ever, and still it must be said. . . . 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 99 
 
 You once loved Lady Maud, or at least the 
 Lady Maud of your Imagination ; surely, had 
 you tried to make her all that you believed 
 her to be, you could not have failed to 
 succeed. Even now — Oh ! let me hope that 
 it is not too late, that in time to come you 
 will be grateful to me for having broken my 
 promise, and listened to the silent pleading 
 of your little Eddy's pictured face, that pain 
 and disappointment might not reach him 
 through you, for having obeyed the divine 
 command, and chosen the thorny path of 
 duty ! Then even in abiding sorrow and 
 loneliness, I shall be happy in your happiness. 
 Alfred, give me my reward ! ' 
 
 Thus at the same moment he learned that 
 
 she loved him and was lost to him. The 
 
 pang of that separation was too great ; he 
 
 swore he would not bear It, and merely for 
 
 h2 
 
lOO ' WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 the sake of the cold, proud being who bore 
 his name. Mildred had said that for herself 
 no price on earth seemed too great to pay for 
 the joy of rendering him happy, and it was 
 for his sake, for his welfare, rather than 
 debar him from the affections of his home 
 circle, that she had gone away a lonely 
 wanderer to foreign lands. It must not be ; 
 he would follow wherever she had gone, and 
 teach her that her love was more to him than 
 that of all the world. 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' IOI 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 In this way poor women, whose power lies solely in their in- 
 fluence, make themselves like music out of tune and only move 
 men to run away. — George Eliot. 
 
 Lady Maud knew that he had intended to 
 go abroad and had only deferred carrying 
 out his intention on account of Charles 
 Lindsay's illness, so there would be nothing 
 strange in his leaving England at once. 
 Accordingly he went home to make some 
 preparation for his journey, but the news 
 which awaited him there crushed the rebel- 
 lious spirit within him, 
 
 Eddy had been attacked by croup on the 
 previous Sunday evening, and the sight of 
 
I02 * WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 the fair childish form from which life had 
 departed only a couple of hours before his 
 father s return, was to him like the placing 
 of a solemn seal upon Mildred's letter. Yes, 
 a little angel messenger had been sent to 
 save them both. 
 
 Maud was distracted with grief, and 
 although her only greetings to Alfred were 
 bitter reproaches, he spoke no word in his 
 defence against the charge of heartlessness 
 and indifference, save to declare he had 
 never received the telegram : and bore in 
 silence all his own suffering — suffering 
 greater than anyone could ever guess. 
 Feeling, for the first time for many a year, 
 that his wife had a real claim upon his 
 sympathy and indulgence, he gave them 
 with no unsparing hand, and had she been 
 willing to learn from sorrow the great lessons 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' I03 
 
 which it is so often sent to teach — lessons of 
 humility and unselfishness — there might have 
 begun for them a new life of harmony and 
 union. But, on the contrary, in her grief 
 there was the old spirit of exaction, the 
 insatiable craving for attention, fancying that 
 no one suffered as she suffered ; least of all 
 her husband, upon whom she chose to think 
 nothing ever made a deep impression. 
 
 Never in his life had Alfred needed dis- 
 traction so much as then, yet evening after 
 evening he spent with Maud, in order that 
 she might not feel lonely. She accepted this 
 attention as a right, and never tried to thank 
 him for it by any effort to rouse herself from 
 her silent depression ; only when Joseph 
 Bertram came — which he seldom failed to 
 do, if only for an hour — did she attempt to 
 converse, and in her manner to him there 
 
104 'what 'tis to love.' 
 
 was something which seemed to say : ' You 
 can understand me ! ' 
 
 At first her husband excused it all ; he 
 remembered that Joseph, and not he, had 
 watched with her over the last hours of their 
 lost child ; therefore, it appeared only natural 
 that she should find a sort of melancholy 
 solace in the society of one so associated with 
 the recollection of her bereavement. As 
 time went on, however, he began to think that 
 it was needless for him to remain at home if 
 he had no power to cheer her, and if only 
 Joseph's coming could draw her out of her 
 mournful silence. 
 
 * I am going to the Club for an hour, Maud,' 
 he said one evening, some three weeks after 
 his return from Ireland ; ' it is about the 
 time of Joseph's usual visit, so you will not 
 be dull while I am away.' 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' IO5 
 
 * He is kind and thoughtful whether one is 
 in joy or sorrow,' answered Maud quickly. 
 'Your late dear friend's sister, Mildred 
 Lindsay, you seem to have forgotten, I never 
 hear you speak of her now. I believe it is 
 the wisest plan to avoid all painful associations. 
 You know, of course, that she has gone 
 abroad.' 
 
 ' Yes.' Alfred could not utter another 
 word. He, accused of forgetting Mildred! 
 
 * As you never named her I have always 
 forgotten to tell you I had a note from her on 
 the eve of your return, to apologise for going 
 away without taking leave of any of her 
 friends. I only just saw that much and threw 
 the note into my writing-case. I had no heart 
 to read words of form then.' 
 
 * And since ? ' 
 
 ' I have not looked at it.' 
 
I06 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 ' I should like to hear what she says.' 
 Maud rang, and sent for her writing-case, 
 then read listlessly the following lines : — 
 
 * Dear Lady Maud, — 
 
 * I undertook a task beyond my strength in 
 trying to remain here in England, and as I 
 feel that change of scene is absolutely 
 necessary for me, I start for Paris to-morrow 
 and thence perhaps I shall go to Italy ; I 
 know not where. Forgive the weakness which 
 renders me unequal to taking leave of you 
 and the dear children in person. A thousand 
 loves to Eddy — Maud's voice trembled, but 
 she continued after a moment's pause — tell 
 him that his friend Milly will never forget 
 him, even though she should not see him 
 until her ''goldy hair' has grown grey. 
 Adieu, then, dear Lady Maud. I do not offer 
 
'what 'tis to love/ 107 
 
 to write for I shall have no fixed residence ; 
 and I do not ask you to remember me to 
 Captain Meredith. I know he will not forget 
 the sister of his friend to save whose life he 
 once risked his own. 
 
 ' Mildred Lindsay.* 
 
 ' An odd adieu, yet very like her,' said 
 Maud, endeavouring to speak unconcernedly, 
 but the allusion to Eddy had taxed her 
 composure to the utmost, and half-resentfully 
 she tore up the note. 
 
 Alfred put out his hand with a hasty move- 
 ment, then drew it back as he said, ' Thank 
 you,' and left the room. 
 
 The next day he proposed that they should 
 go to Chiltern Park, the season was almost 
 over, besides as Maud joined in none of the 
 gaieties, it seemed a pity to be shut up in 
 
I08 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 town during those long hot days ; but her 
 ladyship fancied to remain there some time 
 longer, and, as usual, carried her point. For 
 once Alfred gave up even his personal liberty 
 to her caprice, and remained with her, but his 
 patience was getting exhausted, Maud herself 
 was breaking down the renewed sway 
 that their mutual grief had given her over him, 
 and before the autumn was over he went off to 
 his favourite place of refuge, Maurpton Castle, 
 which, when Lord Waters found that his bro- 
 ther-in-law had decided not to go abroad, he 
 begged him to visit from time to time. 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' I09 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Infinite day excludes the night 
 
 And pleasures banish pain. — Dr. Watts, 
 
 A celebrated French writer has said : * II 
 y a peu d ames qui soient organisees assez 
 vigoureusement pour se maintenir dans le 
 calme dune forte resolution ; toutes les con- 
 sciences honnetes sont capables de la gener- 
 rosite d'un jour, mais presque toutes succom- 
 bent le lendemain a I'effort du sacrifice.' And 
 surely this is true if we have only our ow^n 
 strength to depend upon, if we have not even 
 the natural support of affection and sympathy 
 from those whose lives are inseparably bound 
 up with our own. 
 
 Alfred had made the fullest sacrifice of the 
 
1 I O * WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 happiness which he beHeved to have been 
 within his grasp, but his resolution to endea- 
 vour to create a more real union between 
 himself and his wife broke down, as day after 
 day his generous efforts failed to obtain any 
 response from her, and the memory of Mildred 
 so pursued him that he was fain to court for- 
 getfulness in any shape or form. 
 
 By degrees his appearance lost much of the 
 genial freshness which had formerly caused 
 him to look so many years his cousin's junior, 
 and which Joseph had resented as a mark of 
 the difference between a lot so favoured by 
 fortune, and his own life of mental toil, which 
 furrowed his brow in proportion as he 
 obtained fame and wealth ; but his time of 
 enjoyment and repose had now come, whilst 
 his envied rival was evidently nearing the 
 goal of satiety. 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' I I I 
 
 With the people about Maurpton Castle, 
 where Alfred spent nearly the whole winter, 
 he was still their idol, and also the most 
 popular man among his own class on the 
 hunting-field or in society. Only Micky, who 
 saw more of him than any one else when 
 neither sport nor revel claimed his leisure, 
 suspected that all was not well, and he said 
 one day, gravely shaking his head : ' The 
 Captian does be hearty, an' no mistake, 
 but I wouldn't say it wasn't all to drown care. 
 For sure and sartin he is not the same light- 
 hearted gintleman he was two year ago, whin 
 Mr. Lindsay — God rest his sowl — was here. 
 Aither his death or somethin' else has given 
 the Captain's heart a twist that it'll not 
 rekiver in a hurry.' 
 
 Meanwhile Maud, caught by Dr. Bertram's 
 specious theories of liberty, turned to the 
 
112 * WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 excitement of politics as a refuge from the 
 only grief that had ever really touched her — 
 the loss of her son. When the season began 
 in London, her house became a little centre 
 of attraction for the liberal party, whom even 
 radicalism does not render more insensible 
 than the rest of the world to the influence of 
 position, wealth, and beauty; and Maud's 
 beauty was more imposing at thirty than it 
 had been at twenty. Her vanity and 
 craving for attention received abundant food, 
 yet still she felt the mortification of her 
 husband's open neglect, especially after a 
 friend had been kind enough to repeat to her 
 a remark made by him at a gay supper, 
 when some one toasted Madame Roland as 
 a patriotic heroine, * Bah ! a woman is as 
 much out of her sphere when she enters the 
 arena of political strife, as a priest ; to the 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.* 
 
 113 
 
 one was given the ministry of human, to the 
 other that of divine love, and my admiration 
 and reverence for both cease when they 
 descend into mere worldly warfare.' 
 
 When the season closed, therefore, the idea 
 of returning to the country with so unsym- 
 pathetic a companion, and with none to 
 admire and do her homage as the priestess 
 of intellect, became insupportable ; even her 
 health seem to decline at the prospect of 
 such a fate. Change of air and scene were 
 at once prescribed, and Dr. Bertram's account 
 of winter in Venice pleased her so much that, 
 she became convinced it was exactly the. 
 climate desirable for her. Alfred made no, 
 objection to the plan, but declared his own 
 intention of remaining at home ; his readi- 
 ness to allow her to go so far away without 
 him hurt her self-love more than she liked to 
 
 VOL. in. I 
 
114 'what 'tis to love.' 
 
 acknowledge, yet she would not humble her- 
 self so far as to abandon her project, or ask 
 him to accompany her, as a favour and not as 
 a right. 
 
 Her daughters were sent to a convent and 
 their governess Mademoiselle Dubourg went 
 abroad with her ladyship. They made a 
 stay of a few weeks at Bellasilio, a villa on 
 the banks of the Lago Maggiore, in order to 
 allow the great heat to pass before going on 
 to their destination for the winter. 
 
 The chateau of Bellasilio was built upon an 
 eminence, and surrounded by gardens, which 
 on the side facing the lake, descended far 
 down the steep declivity of the hill in winding 
 and shady terraces, formed, however, — unlike 
 the stiff arcades of I sola Bella, — rather by 
 nature than art, and terminated by a little 
 pine wood, through which a path led to the 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 1 5 
 
 shore. > From the uppermost terrace the view 
 was of great extent and beauty ; Immediately 
 beneath lay the expanse of deep blue water, 
 and the Borromean Islands studded with 
 trees and houses, while on the opposite shore 
 lofty hills and countless villages intersected 
 by plain and meadow, vineyard and forest, 
 bordered the graceful curve of the lake as it 
 swept away towards the north, and was lost 
 to sight amid the snowy Alps. 
 
 The neighbourhood thus afforded the love- 
 liest excursions, and with these, diversified by 
 trips to Milan, Maud managed to while away 
 some three weeks without finding the retire- 
 ment unbearable. One evening, as the last 
 echoed notes of the Ave Maria, chanted in 
 turns by the peasants in the distant villages, 
 faded away into the stillness of the coming 
 night, the melody was caught up by the 
 I 2 
 
ii6 'what 'tis to love/ 
 
 rowers of a little boat, which seemed to rest 
 upon the surface of the deep unruffled water 
 beneath the terrace like a child rocked to 
 sleep In Its mothers arms. Maud stood 
 leaning over the parapet listlessly wondering 
 why the boat remained so long In the same 
 place, but the songsters having sung one verse 
 of the hymn suddenly ceased, then, as If borne 
 by some gentle zephyr from over mountain 
 and sea, the sweet tones of * Qiii sola virgin 
 rosa ' fell softly upon her ear. 
 
 Was it only some chivalrous Italian v/Ish- 
 ing to serenade her with one of her ov/n 
 national melodies, or had the time come back 
 when Alfred would follow her from one end 
 of the world to the other ? Her heart beat 
 with an unwonted emotion as this gleam 
 from ' the light of other days ' seemed to 
 penetrate through the deepening shades of 
 
* WHAT TIS TO LOVE. llj 
 
 the balmy Italian night; only for an Instant, 
 however, did that gleam beguile the w^ander 
 ing fancy. She felt with a new pang that the 
 light which gave it birth was gone for ever, 
 but she asked not of herself what sinister 
 influence had quenched it 
 
 The boat approached the landing place of 
 the village, whilst Maud, accompanied by 
 Madlle. Dubourg, strolled along the terraces, 
 unable to divest herself of a feeling of vague 
 expectation. Little more than a quarter-of- 
 an-hour elapsed when she descried the gate- 
 keeper coming towards her followed by two 
 gentlemen. 
 
 * Say that our coming is a glad surprise, 
 fair cousin,' said Dr. Bertram, advancing with 
 outstretched hand, ' or I shall be forced to 
 think that my young friend here — allow me 
 to Introduce Lord Dacre, Lady Maud 
 
I 1 8 * WHAT 'tis to love.* 
 
 Meredith — was right when he tried to per- 
 suade me that it was too late an hour even in 
 Italy to break in on you without any 
 previous announcement of our arrival I 
 trusted, however, to prepare and propitiate 
 you with your own great bard's plaintive 
 song, have I succeeded ? ' 
 
 * You would have succeeded had any 
 preparation been needed,' replied Maud ; 
 * your coming is indeed a glad surprise for 
 which I am most grateful ; had I the pleasure 
 of knowing Lord Dacre more intimately, he 
 should not escape a scolding for having 
 wished to deprive me of my serenade, and 
 the enjoyment of a little mystery ; your visit 
 to-morrow in the full glare of day would 
 have been in comparison a dull commonplace 
 affair/ 
 
 ' Strike, but hear me ! ' said Lord Dacre> 
 
'what 'tis to love/ 119 
 
 smiling ; * I did not endeavour to dissuade 
 Dr, Bertram from coming, I only urged that 
 for a first visit it might seem intrusive on my 
 part, and therefore begged him to let me 
 remain at the hotel, but he would not listen 
 to my remonstrances/ 
 
 * Because they did not seem worthy of 
 attention, for I did not intend to trespass on 
 her ladyship's hospitality even for a night's 
 shelter,' interposed Joseph, 'and I have 
 always thought that the best way to begin 
 an acquaintance is at once to banish for- 
 mality. We have very fair rooms at the little 
 inn of Isola Bella, and the sail back by 
 moonlight will be a fitting close for such an 
 evening/ 
 
 Maud had been debating in her own mind 
 whether she could ask them to stay at Bella- 
 silio — she never forgot to consider what the 
 
I20 'WHAT 'tis to LOVE.* 
 
 world's judgment would be in such cases — 
 when Joseph thus removed the difficulty, and 
 there was a special graciousness in her smile 
 as she turned to himji he always seemed to 
 her to do and to say the right thing. 
 
 ' That did not show much faith in the 
 cordiality of my welcome,' she answered, 
 * however, I will not send you away supper- 
 less, although you must confess that you 
 deserve some such penalty for your distrust.' 
 
 The choicest fruit and most sparkling 
 wines at her command were set forth to do 
 her guests honour ; and midnight had 
 already chimed before the visitors thought of 
 returning to their island quarters. In Paris 
 Dr. Bertram had by chance met young Lord 
 Dacre, the eldest son of his friend Lord 
 Monkstown ; when, discovering they were 
 both bound for Italy, they agreed to make 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 121 
 
 the journey together. After that first 
 evening on Lago Maggiore, Lord Dacre 
 felt more delighted than ever at his good 
 fortune in having fallen in with so experienced 
 a fellow traveller, who never seemed to fail 
 in finding attractive resting places. 
 
 Joseph did not tell Maud that it was cir- 
 cumstances connected with Italian affairs as 
 well as the desire to be near her that had 
 caused him to leave England so unex- 
 pectedly ; he gave some plausible reasons 
 which she accepted as a matter of course, 
 only thinking how pleasant it was that her 
 solitude should be thus interrupted just as it 
 began to be a little wearisome. Some few 
 days were spent In introducing Lord Dacre 
 to the varied beauties of that lake country, 
 and then one lovely morning in the early part 
 of September they all started for Venice. 
 
122 'WHAT 'tis TO LOVe/ 
 
 : At the railway station of Milan, Venice 
 presented herself In a most Inviting manner 
 in one of the magnificent frescoes which 
 adorn the waiting room, and all along the 
 road brightness, abundance, and beauty vied 
 with each other to captivate her coming 
 guests. Vero7ia — la degna; Mantova — la 
 gloriosa ; and before them the Lago dl Garda 
 — which of Itself seems to encompass all that 
 visible beauty can realise — then Vi7icenza — 
 Vantica; Padova — la forte, all stood their 
 ground in the garlanded way to the beautiful 
 Queen of the Adriatic ; and after having 
 passed through these scenes, the air laden 
 with the perfume of nature, the fresh breeze 
 of the sea suddenly came and gave them a 
 sensation of delight unspeakable. 
 
 For some minutes they were carried along 
 up07i the water, as It seemed ; then the boat- 
 
"what 'tis to love.* 123 
 
 men began to clamour around them, and 
 Maud made her first trip in a gondola, de- 
 claring that it well deserved all that has been 
 said in its praise ; the absence of noise, dust, 
 jolting, and many other ills common to loco- 
 motion in general, makes it indeed the 
 * croA\nning mercy/ 
 
 On the very night of their arrival they wit- 
 nessed a magnificent fete — it was a serenade 
 given in honour of a visitor, illustrious as a 
 revolutionary hero. Some fifteen hundred 
 gondolas, it was said, were assembled on the 
 Grand Canal, all gaily lighted and decked 
 out for the festival. In the midst of these 
 there was a splendid orchestra built upon some 
 large boats, and illuminated with groups of 
 brilliant lamps hung in the form of palm trees 
 over the heads of the performers, who were 
 all in evening dress. Vain would be the en- 
 
1 24 * WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 deavour to give an adequate idea of the 
 taste and splendour of this brilliant temple as 
 it floated along in more than imperial 
 majesty, surrounded by myriads of lesser 
 lights, waving in all grace to the gentle 
 breeze. 
 
 They first saw this gorgeous procession 
 from the gardens of the Hotel Barbesa, which 
 open to the Grand Canal, and then they 
 proceeded to the Piazza San Marco where all 
 Venice seemed to be gathered in joyful ex 
 pectation ; afterwards they took to a gondola, 
 where dolce far nientc reached a climax 
 almost extatic. The freshness of the evening 
 breeze in that ardent climate, the utter forget- 
 fulness of all concern about health, wealth, 
 or wisdom ; freedom perfect from the petty 
 cares of life, the sufficiency of existence itself; 
 the happy multitude whose sole thought was 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' T25 
 
 pleasure ; the waveless water which the soft 
 air did not venture so much as to ripple ; the 
 constant and ever varying movements of the 
 gondoliers ; the blue and star-spangled sky 
 graced by the bright crescent of the young 
 moon ; the choruses of some hundred voices 
 supported by a full orchestra ; fireworks ; 
 lights of all colours, sounds of all sweetness ; 
 all was there to fill the cup and make the 
 nectar sparkling and exhilarating. 
 
 This scene was a vision of the past. All 
 that they saw and heard was the accumulated 
 treasure of ages gone, the tradition of past 
 glories handed down from generation to 
 generation ! The Italian people know the 
 taste of all the springs of life, and are not 
 afraid to ' drink deep ' when they raise an 
 unforbidden and favoured cup to their lips. 
 We have not their long and hardy experience, 
 
126 *WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 nor have we yet learned the happy medium 
 between unhallowed license and timid super- 
 stition ; whilst we chafe in the leading strings 
 of human opinions they live in the perfect 
 freedom of divine Truth, and well do they 
 illustrate the prophetic vision which tells us 
 that God has ' anointed His own with the 
 oil of gladness above their fellows.' 
 
 The charm was irresistible, and for the 
 moment, overpowered even Maud's self- 
 absorbed indifference, leading her to a nobler 
 pride — pride in that bright spirit of joyousness 
 which her religion has always produced In 
 the races who have never bowed the knee to 
 the darkening powers of error and division. 
 
 * You have never lived among the Irish 
 peasantry, Joseph,' she said, 'or this keen 
 delight would remind you of them. Neither 
 suffering nor want even can deaden their 
 
'what 'tis to love.' 127 
 
 hearts to joy ; In their direst trouble they will 
 brighten up at a kind word and exclaim : 
 *' After all God Is good ! " And If they only 
 get a chance of rejoicing they throw them- 
 selves Into It with their whole heart, as If no 
 lot on earth could be happier than theirs. 
 We see the same feeling here. While this 
 festival lasts the poorest Italian Is as happy 
 and free from care as — or rather far more 
 so — than the prince whose coming it cele- 
 brates. Confess, in spite of your scepticism, 
 that this Is a fine effect of faith.' 
 
 * But Is It the effect of faith ? The Italians 
 have fought their way to the exhilarating 
 spring of " liber td, dgalitdl' and they are in- 
 ebriated with Its strong waters. Of the Irish, 
 what can I say ? You remember your own 
 poet's expression. 
 
 The sorrows of one moment forgotten in the levity of the next. 
 
128 'what 'tis to love.' 
 
 May I then venture to recall the fact that 
 quickness and depth of feeling are not always 
 united ? I do not forget that your Ladyship 
 is Irish — the exception proves the rule !' 
 
 ' Dr. Bertram is surely right, In regard at. 
 least to the Irish,' said young Lord Dacre. 
 * As a people, they might be accused of levity ; 
 whilst in their daughters, beauty and stead- 
 fastness seem to meet. But I cannot think 
 with him, that It Is the new order of things 
 here that calls forth the exuberant gaiety 
 we see around us, as the Italians have always 
 been proverbial for it ; this careless happiness 
 probably proceeds from the same trivial and 
 indolent nature that renders them Incapable 
 of real greatness, which requires effort.' 
 
 * Nay, that Is almost blasphemy uttered in 
 sight of Santa Maria della Salute,' laughed 
 Maud. * You call a people trivial and incap- 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 29 
 
 able of real greatness, who, two centuries 
 ago, erected so magnificent a temple in 
 thanksgiving for the cessation of the plague ! ' 
 ' And still a greater blasphemy uttered in 
 sight of the Ducal Palace,' added Joseph ; 
 * that stupendous record of the greatness of 
 the people who gave birth to the immortal 
 artists by whom it was planned and wel- 
 comed, and the statesmen and warriors who 
 made its walls ring with the shouts of liberty, 
 and obtained for their little commonwealth 
 the title of ''La gran repubblica." Is not 
 their capacity for enjoyment, like their great- 
 ness, then, to be attributed to their love of 
 freedom ? You, above all. Lady Maud, can 
 understand their exultation over the downfall 
 of tyranny; the keener the intelligence the * 
 more fully it appreciates emancipation from 
 moral bondage.' 
 
 VOL. IIL K 
 
1 30 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 Maud was too much flattered by the im- 
 plied compliment to question the justice of 
 Joseph's remarks, and refrained from taking 
 any further part in the discussion which, 
 however, Lord Dacre continued. All his 
 tastes were in opposition to the revolutionary 
 movement, but he was still too unripe a 
 reasoner to contend with any success against 
 Dr. Bertram, and Maud could not help feel- 
 ing more than ever that it was no slight 
 homage to her to be the chosen friend of a 
 man who seemed to conquer all before him 
 in the intellectual world. 
 
 Owing especially to Dr. Bertram's fame as 
 no inefficient supporter of the cause of Italian 
 unity, the best society in Venice was soon 
 open to his fair cousin ; and the novelty, the 
 gaiety of her new friends, their openly-ex- 
 pressed admiration of herself, Lord Dacre's 
 
'what 'tis to love/ 131 
 
 shy allegiance, and Joseph's unwearied de- 
 votion, all united to enhance the charm of 
 that soft southern life with its freedom from 
 conventionality and restraint. Maud had 
 never before been so nearly satisfied, and 
 Joseph fancied that now the fulness of his 
 triumph over Alfred was almost achieved. 
 
132 *WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Wbeie pleasnrE is tihe magic wand 
 Tliat, vadded li^^ 
 
 Afteji Easter, which fdl late that year. Lord 
 Dacies parents airived in Venice on their 
 way to the East, ndiither he was to accom- 
 pany them. They had intended only to rest 
 fejr a few days, yet so pleasant did Dr. Bertram 
 succeed in making their stay in the ' fair)' 
 dty/ that the days extended to weeks, and 
 th^ weie gradually dra.wn into the circle of 
 those wbo seemed to acknowledge the reign 
 erf Lady Maud Meredith. In England, no 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 doubt, the Monkstowns would have censured 
 her for leading so gay a life in her husband's 
 absence, but in Venice she was ' the fashion,' 
 and few are bold enough to raise their voice 
 against the favourites of that capricious deity. 
 In truth also Joseph had guarded her reputa- 
 tion very jealously, he had taken care never 
 to give the voice of slander an opportunity to 
 couple their names together in any sense 
 injurious to her. She had been the one pas- 
 sion of his life mingled with that of revenge 
 against him who had separated them in their 
 early youth, and neither his love nor his desire 
 of revenge would be satisfied unless he could 
 take her from Alfred in heart and soul as well 
 as in person. She must be uninfluenced by 
 any idea of having been already compromised 
 in the sight of the world ; she must love him 
 for his talent, his fame, his power to subject 
 
1 34 * WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 others to his will ; he would owe his conquest 
 to nothing outside of himself. 
 
 Thus Maud's fair name remained stainless 
 even during that season in Italy, and the 
 incense of admiration surrounding her with a 
 profuseness sufficient to have overpowered 
 the wisdom of any woman less coldly prudent 
 than herself. Nevertheless her pride of 
 virtue did receive a shock on the occasion of a 
 farewell fete given for the Monkstowns at 
 her own palazza. 
 
 The dancing went on merrily in the long 
 gallery which traversed the whole edifice ter- 
 minated by a window and balcony over the 
 Grand Canal; at the opposite end was a raised 
 tribune for the orchestra. Those who pre- 
 ferred calmer or deeper enjoyment dispersed 
 themselves through the many reception-rooms 
 which all opened into the gallery. Among 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 35 
 
 the guests unexpectedly appeared an old 
 acquaintance, Lord Moyston, who had been 
 much out of England during late years ; he 
 had lost his wife soon after their marriage, 
 and having an official appointment on the 
 Continent he had become lost to sight if not to 
 mind by many even of his former intimate 
 acquaintances. 
 
 ' Will you acknowledge an old — what shall 
 I say, Lady Maud — friend ? ' he said, extend- 
 ing his hand as she turned round quickly at 
 the sound of his name. * I only arrived 
 yesterday and heard by chance that you were 
 here, that you received this evening. I did 
 not know that the reception was more than an 
 ordinary one, or I should not have come un- 
 invited.' 
 
 ' And so have denied me the pleasure of 
 inviting you even at the eleventh hour. . . . 
 
136 * WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 a bientot, then,' answered Maud, turning to 
 receive new comers, and dismissing him for 
 the moment with that proud yet gracious 
 ease of manner which she could assume so 
 well, and which, flattering even whilst it com- 
 manded, had formed the delight and torment 
 of the admirers of her maiden days. 
 
 Her first feeling on seeing Lord Moyston 
 was gratification that even he — a rejected 
 suitor, would not resist the desire to meet her 
 again. Had that desire been only prompted 
 by curiosity to note the ravages of time, the 
 expression of his countenance had already 
 ratified the tale repeated by many a mirror 
 that night — that, as she stood there at the 
 entrance to the magnificent marble hall, with 
 innumerable lights flashing down upon her, 
 and surrounded by many a pair of lustrous 
 and languishing black eyes, set off with all the 
 
*\VHAT 'tis to love.' 1 37 
 
 bright animation of southern natures, her 
 beauty was unrivalled. When they met later 
 in the evening she allowed him to claim her 
 attention as an old friend. 
 
 * But I must tear myself away,' he said, 
 after they had been conversing for some time. 
 ' I have a mass of papers to look over 
 to-night, as I am obliged to start again 
 to-morrow morning.' 
 
 ' Then, if so pressed for time, why have 
 taken Venice for your route ? It certainly 
 was not the most direct way to England.' 
 
 * I should like to say : You were in 
 Venice ; but, as I have already acknowledged, 
 I was not aware of the fact until my arrival, 
 the real reason for my detour I am not free 
 to mention ... Is it not strange that I 
 should like to recall the days when we were 
 intimate. Lady Maud ? but at this moment I 
 
138 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 cannot help thinking of the last time"! stood 
 beside you at a ball, I will not say how long 
 ago, but it was on a certain New Year's eve, 
 at Thor Abbey. How many changes have 
 taken place since then ! I am again alone in 
 the world, and you are alone in Venice, but 
 only altered like a summers day when the 
 promise of its morning has been surpassed by 
 the brilliance of its noon. You can show the 
 world that there is even a better cosmetique 
 for the development of beauty, than that of 
 the sybarite's wise indifference to the joys 
 and sorrows of others — a love match and a 
 devoted husband ! ' 
 
 The polished irony of his words stung 
 Maud bitterly, but she was at least his equal 
 in the use of such weapons, and with a mock- 
 smile she answered — 
 
 ' And now we are quits, I suppose. Lord 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 39 
 
 Moyston : you consider that your compliment 
 of to-night has avenged your defeat of that 
 New Year's eve ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Lady Maud ! ' 
 
 * My dear Lord Moyston, you said you 
 had a mass of papers to look over, and I 
 know I have a large number of guests to 
 attend to, therefore I fear we cannot spend 
 any more time on pleasant recollections. I 
 see there is a new dance about to be formed, 
 so perhaps you will be kind enough to take 
 me back to the gallery.' 
 
 ' Your will is my law.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! since when ? ' she asked, laugh- 
 ing and accepting his arm. 
 
 At the entrance to the gallery they parted, 
 arid she mingled among her guests, but a 
 feeling of weariness had come over her. 
 The memory of that New Year's eve had 
 
I40 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 been too rudely awakened to slumber again. 
 The allusion to her devoted husband could 
 not have been unintended in its irony ; but 
 that other allusion to the sybarite's cos- 
 metique — had it also been pointed at her ? 
 
 On the side opposite to the reception- 
 saloons was a small room also looking on the 
 Grand Canal, and serving as a vestibule to the 
 morning-room where she used to receive her 
 intimate friends, and there she now went to 
 snatch a few minutes' rest from the gay scene 
 which had suddenly become so wearisome to 
 her. The door of the antechamber had been 
 left slightly ajar, and as she pushed it open 
 Lord Dacre turned hastily round from the 
 balcony where he had been standing in 
 solitary contemplation of the beautiful night. 
 
 ' What an ungallant cavalier ! ' exclaimed 
 Lady Maud. * Is it not an insult to all the 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' I4I 
 
 beauty yonder thus to steal away ? Had you 
 not been alone I should have understood the 
 attraction of quiet and a moonlit scene, and 
 have passed on unheeding ; as it is, I feel it a 
 duty to my fair guests to chide you. Did 
 you not dance the last quadrille ? ' 
 
 ' Surely your ladyship remembers that 
 when I claimed your promise to give it to 
 me, you were so engaged in your conversa- 
 tion with Lord Moyston that you begged me 
 to defer our engagement to a later dance ? ' 
 
 * There was time however to find another 
 to fill my place.' 
 
 ' Time ! Yes, but can time achieve the 
 impossible ? ' 
 
 Lady Maud looked at him in vague sur- 
 prise, and he added hurriedly — 
 
 * It is not so easy to be agreeable to a 
 stranger when pursued by' the dreary 
 
142 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 thought of departure from the pleasantest 
 place one has ever known.' 
 
 ' Why go then ? ' 
 
 * My father came this way on purpose for 
 me.' 
 
 ' Still, you are your own master ; leaving 
 Venice, then, cannot be so very painful as 
 you go voluntarily.' 
 
 It irritated Maud to hear anyone complain 
 of a self-created grief at that moment, when 
 the idea of real grievances, as she considered 
 them, weighed so heavily upon her, and she 
 spake in a half-impatient tone, utterly forget- 
 ting the flattering application, her words 
 might bear to Lord Dacre. 
 
 ' You do not think that I ought to go ? ' 
 he said eagerly ; ' only say you wish me to 
 remain, and no force on earth could drag me 
 away. Lady Maud, you must have known 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.* 1 43 
 
 long since what was the great charm of 
 Venice to me, though I did not dare to tell 
 you ; but now, oh ! thank — ' 
 
 * So the brain may be affected by a moon 
 as well as a sunstroke, and I fear you have 
 got one, my lord, by standing so long upon 
 that balcony. You will, however, allow an 
 old friend like me to prescribe a new remedy. 
 Go, dance away the momentary delirium, 
 but first let me wish you bon voyage, and many 
 pleasant adventures on the shores of the far- 
 famed Bosphorus. Good-bye ! we are 
 friends, are we not ? ' 
 
 She held out her hand which he barely 
 touched as he bowed and turned away, but 
 the angry light in his eyes told how deeply 
 he resented her answer ; he could better 
 have borne indignation than that light super- 
 cilious manner, yet had he known how great 
 
144 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 an effort it cost her to assume it, and to hide 
 her real mortification, he might have been 
 somewhat consoled. 
 
 On the following afternoon when the 
 Monkstowns came to bid her adieu, she 
 smilingly received their excuses for not being 
 accompanied by their son, who, they said, 
 would doubtless find a moment later in the 
 evening to call and thank her again for all 
 her kindness and that of her cousin Dr. 
 Bertram, as it was to them he owed so much 
 of the enjoyment he had found in Venice. 
 But Lord Dacre did not call ! 
 
'what 'tis to love.' 145 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 There he whose loveless wisdom never failed, 
 In self-adoring pride securely mail'd. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Shortly after the departure of Lord Dacre 
 and his party, Dr. Bertram proposed a little 
 al fresco feast on the Lido, in order to gratify 
 a desire expressed by Mdlle. Dubourg to 
 make a sketch of Venice by sunset ; and, as 
 he thoroughly understood the art, he under- 
 took to choose the best site for her. After 
 the repast, when the servants had retired to 
 the gondole, Maud grew tired of watching 
 the progress of the drawing, and said she 
 would take a walk to the other side of the 
 island, along the shore of the Adriatic. 
 
 VOL. III. L 
 
146 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 *It must not be for long, then,' said Joseph, 
 rising to accompany her, 'as Mademoiselle 
 will not have much more than a quarter of 
 an hour's sketching light, night follows day 
 so quickly in these southern lands.' 
 
 * Well, we shall return in a quarter of an 
 hour,' replied Maud, ' and if the fancy moves 
 us we can all then take a longer walk by the 
 sea.' 
 
 They walked on in silence until they 
 reached the outer shore, then Maud stopped 
 and leaned her disengaged hand upon a 
 fragment of the celebrated rmcrazzi. 
 
 ' The solemn calm of this scene is almost 
 palpable,' she said abruptly, as her eyes 
 wandered over the boundless sea ; ' we feel 
 the freedom from turmoil and strife, yet we 
 weary of such calm and go back to the 
 world, however great a desert it may be to 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 47 
 
 US. This past winter has been very pleasant ; 
 I had nearly succeeded in living in the 
 present without thinking of the past or the 
 future, until Lord Moyston came and raised 
 up memories of days when I expected life to 
 be so different. Is it always so ? Is dis- 
 appointment and weariness the lot of every 
 woman who Is not crushed down by the 
 necessity of working for her livelihood into 
 something like a machine set In motion by 
 the will of others ? ' 
 
 * It is only so, Maud, when women, upon 
 whom birth and fortune and all nature's best 
 gifts have been lavished, make shipwreck of 
 their own lives by giving themselves to one 
 who cannot satisfy and guide their Intelligence 
 as well as their heart ; their lot is indeed hard 
 to bear.' 
 
 He had never "before spoken so directly or 
 l2 
 
148 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 SO warmly of her marriage being a mistake, 
 and her colour deepened ; yet the homage to 
 her intelligence and recognition of her sorrows 
 were too sweet to be rejected, it was a conso- 
 lation to know she was appreciated and 
 understood by one true friend, and that 
 friend a man of acknowledged talent. Lord 
 Moyston had stung her with his sarcasm. 
 Lord D acres, although little more than a boy, 
 had dared to imply that she knew herself to 
 have been for months an object of passionate 
 attraction to him, but Joseph as ever, wrought 
 a healing balm for all her annoyance. 
 
 * Will you not come back to England also, 
 Joseph ?' she asked, without alluding to his 
 former answer. ' I must be home by August, 
 and if you promise to return quickly and 
 suggest a pleasant set of people, I will take 
 care to assemble them in time to meet you. 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 49 
 
 You must come, or I shall think you have 
 grown unkind and uncousinly if you refuse to 
 help me over the first few weeks of the old 
 monotonous existence to which I must return, 
 and which will seem more empty than ever 
 after the greater fulness of life that I have 
 known here.' 
 
 ' And for which you were made ! Your 
 place is at the side of men whose names will 
 live as champions of the great cause of human 
 liberty and intellectual progress ; your smile 
 and your encouragement giving life to every 
 thought and project, and you yourself the 
 pride and joy — ' 
 
 ' Oh Joseph stop ! ' she cried, half alarmed 
 by the fervour of his words, yet still too much 
 flattered to read therein more than her vanity 
 wished to read. ' What shall I have of all 
 this at Chiltern Park, surrounded by sports- 
 
150 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 men ? It is cruel to spread out before me a 
 world of delight which now can never be 
 mine, it is too late. . . . Come, let us go 
 back.' 
 
 ' There is no " too late " for those who 
 know how to will and how to love,' he ex- 
 claimed, gently detaining her by the hand 
 which rested on his arm, ' and this is the hour 
 for which I have lived and toiled for more 
 than ten years, the hour in which I could lay 
 at your feet a sovereignty indeed — no paltry 
 one given by a social accident, but won for 
 you by my own unaided powers of mind and 
 will in order to show who was the more 
 worthy of you, the gay officer who dazzled 
 you with golden charms, or his poor disin- 
 herited cousin. Maud ! which of us two has 
 best merited your love ? ' 
 
 In laud tried to withdraw her hand but dared 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' I 5 I 
 
 not speak. Surely it was not possible that she 
 had been deceived in him whom she had 
 hitherto so relied on as her dearest friend, 
 and whose admiration she had so proudly 
 received. He could not intend to offend her ? 
 His words must only be the first lost moan 
 of a strong heart which she had unconsciously 
 attracted in the days of her freedom, and 
 which in a moment of exultation betrayed its 
 own well and long kept secret ! 
 
 ' Maud, what means this trembling silence ? ' 
 he added, in a tone which sounded almost 
 harsh in its thrilling earnestness. ' You 
 know what I would say. Chiltern Park is no 
 home for you, your heart is not there ; come 
 to one where the fulness of life shall indeed 
 be yours ! Have I not waited long enough 
 for my reward, and do I not deserve that it 
 should be fully and freely given ? An eagle's 
 
152 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 mate is not frightened at the difficulties of 
 the ascent to her lord's eyrie, however insur- 
 mountable they may appear to birds of 
 common kind ; her pride and her love bear 
 her triumphantly over every obstacle ! ' 
 
 Whilst he spoke she felt like one oppressed 
 by some fearful dream, unable to move 
 or cry out ; but as he ceased, the spell 
 seemed broken and she wrenched her hand 
 away. 
 
 ' Great heavens ! how have I merited such 
 an insult, that you should pretend to believe 
 I had so fallen as to become, even in thought, 
 the prey of an unhallowed passion ? What 
 right have I given you to presume that I 
 loved you ? ' 
 
 ' You ask what right ? . . . Then you do 7iot 
 love me, Maud ? ' he interrupted fiercely, 
 grasping her wrist whilst he gazed fixedly 
 
WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 153 
 
 into her face ; but only pain and anger were 
 to be read therein, there was not a trace of 
 any gentler feeling. Maud shrank in absolute 
 fear before the uncontrolled rage that flashed 
 from his eyes, as for a moment he seemed 
 to have lost all mastery over himself, but he 
 regained it by a mighty effort, and bitter 
 scorn took the place of all appearance of 
 violence. 
 
 ' You need not answer,' he said in a low 
 hissing tone, as she tried to speak, ' I know 
 all now. I see you for the first time des- 
 poiled of the flattering mask which my own 
 imagination lent to you ; as one who has 
 made a wreck of her husband's life without 
 the excuse of passion, but merely through 
 pride and blind self-worship, and you talk of 
 falling after that ! ' 
 
 * I will not stand here to listen to your 
 
154 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 insults, if you do not let me go this instant 
 I will call Mdlle. Dubourg.' 
 
 * Call her ! she will only serve as witness 
 to my answer to your reproaches, but until 
 you have heard it you stir not from this 
 spot. Naturally it is a matter of indifference 
 to me whether the world knows or not 
 what has passed between us ; it is a ques- 
 tion for your consideration. Will you hear 
 me alone or in the presence of your com- 
 panion ? ' 
 
 ' You do not wish to cast an unmerited 
 stain upon my good name, Joseph,' she 
 pleaded, cowering again beneath his dark 
 stern gaze ; ' it would be a poor, mean re- 
 venge in a man — ' 
 
 * Decidedly too poor for injuries like yours. 
 You could take shelter in the cry of injustice 
 and look upon yourself as a martyr of virtue ; 
 
^WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 55 
 
 I seek no such revenge. Shall I call Mdlle. 
 Dubourg ? ' 
 
 * No/ murmured Maud, preferring any 
 torture to that of feeling herself in the power 
 of another woman, and vaguely conscious 
 that had shebeen altogether blameless Joseph 
 could never have so mistaken her. 
 
 ' Then listen to me,' he said in a steady 
 deliberate tone. ' I loved you before Alfred 
 Meredith came from India, and you received 
 my attentions with more than ordinary gra- 
 ciousness ; he returned to occupy the position 
 I had been allowed to look upon as mine, 
 our uncle's heir and Lady Maud Leeson's 
 favoured suitor — later, her husband. I hated 
 him for this double usurpation, and swore to 
 prove the mistake that Lady Maud had made 
 in her choice, even in an ambitious point of 
 view. I have done so — who out of England 
 
156 'WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 knows his name ? But to return to the time 
 of your marriage : you gradually estranged 
 your husband more and more, seeming to 
 consider him incapable of appreciating you, 
 and turned to me for sympathy and com- 
 panionship ; you seemed to rejoice in my 
 success as your own, and accepted the devo- 
 tion of my whole life. I naturally be- 
 lieved that you had learned your mistake, 
 that your heart had at last been really a- 
 wakened, and I only waited to claim you 
 until I could give you more than Alfred 
 Meredith had given you. Then you ask 
 what right I had to suppose that you 
 loved me, and take offence because I be- 
 lieved you to be something nobler than a 
 heartless egotist, who would be content to 
 take all and give nothing, and blight two 
 lives — ' 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 57 
 
 ' Oh, spare me, Joseph ! I knew not what 
 harm I was doing.' 
 
 ' Spare you ! When did you ever spare 
 me ? No, no ! you must drink to the dregs 
 the cup that you have prepared for yourself. 
 One word more then ; my desire of revenge 
 against Alfred is appeased. I could not' 
 wish him worse than to have obtained for 
 the partner of his life one whose cold insensi- 
 bility did not, as I fancied, proceed from a 
 heart unsatisfied but from a heart filled with 
 self-worship ; and this justice I will render 
 him, that I believe there never breathed a 
 more loyal nature, no one ever heard him 
 utter a murmur against the wife who made 
 his home a purgatory to him. For you, my 
 revenge will be in the consciousness that 
 shall haunt you night and day, that you have 
 been as a curse to two men : driving the one 
 
158 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 to political extremes which in your eyes are 
 crimes, and from which he has hitherto re- 
 frained in deference to your prejudices (hence- 
 forth the object of my life shall be to destroy 
 in the person of its chief what you call your 
 religion), and the other into the arms of a 
 sweet true-hearted girl to whom he can give 
 no name ; yet remember my words wherever 
 you go, Lady Maud, Mildred Lindsay is 
 a nobler woman than the cold proud wife 
 with her stainless reputation. Now I need 
 detain you no longer.' 
 
 He released her wrist and offered his arm, 
 but Maud sank down upon the fragment of 
 rock beside her. 
 
 ' It is not true what you say of Mildred 
 Lindsay,' she exclaimed, still clinging to the 
 idea that although Alfred miorht have had 
 many a passing caprice he had never raised 
 
'what 'tis to love.' 159 
 
 up a real rival. ' Mildred went abroad at 
 the time — the time when Eddy died, and has 
 never been in England since.' 
 
 * Ha ! so your Ladyship is still vulnerable 
 on one point, and does not like to hear that 
 the despised husband has found so lovely a 
 consoler ; but believe me, if there ever was such 
 a thing as love between man and woman it 
 existed between your husband and Mildred 
 Lindsay. I will merely mention one fact 
 from which you can draw your own con- 
 clusions. You know that Alfred arrived 
 from Ireland by the early mail on the morn- 
 ing of Eddy's death, that he only reached his 
 home at eight, and at half past ten I saw 
 him coming out of Mildred's villa at Rich- 
 mond : immediately after she disappears, 
 without taking leave of anyone and no one _ 
 hears any more of her ! You can easily 
 
1 60 ' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 
 
 ascertain from my servant or from your 
 husband himself if what I have said is true. 
 Pray take my arm and let us return, a longer 
 absence might excite remark ; see how jea- 
 lously I guard for you that reputation, which, 
 as part of yourself, you prize so dearly. ' 
 
 Maud was too crushed to resist his will, 
 even in a trifle, and passively took his arm. 
 
 ' I will leave Venice to-morrow,' she said, 
 with sudden energy, as they came in sight 
 of Mdlle. Dubourg. 
 
 ' So hasty a departure on your Ladyship's 
 part after our romantic walk of this evening 
 would probably attract observation ; if )^ou 
 care to avoid it you will wait a little longer. 
 Meanwhile, I shall receive a despatch to- 
 morrow which will require my immediate 
 departure for Naples. You remember what 
 object I told you, you have given to my life ! ' 
 
'what 'tis to love.' i6i 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 What can life give us, if we sacrifice what is fairest in our- 
 selves ? — Lord Lytton. 
 
 The last gorgeous tints of a hot summer 
 day's sun lingered over the Place of the 
 ancient Cathedral of Avranches, and seemed 
 to transform into gold the iron chains which 
 encircle the record of Henry the Second's 
 expiation — the stone whereon, seven cen- 
 turies ago, England's proudest monarch knelt 
 barefooted and bareshouldered, bowed down 
 by the weight of his impious revolt against 
 the authority of God, which led to the murder 
 of the heroic Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 Among the usual evening loiterers upon that 
 
 VOL. IIL M 
 
1 62 'WHAT 'tis to LOVE/ 
 
 beautiful height might have been seen two 
 strangers — Lady Maud Meredith and 
 Mdlle. Dubourg. The former was 
 gazing with a painfully-intent expression at 
 the enclosed stone, shrinking perhaps from 
 the thought of her royal countryman's deep 
 humiliation, and of the greatness of the 
 expiation required for wrong-doing born of 
 pride. 
 
 They had arrived little more than an hour 
 before, but Maud was too restless to wait 
 until the morning to see if the loveliness of 
 the viciw merited all the praise she had heard 
 of it. In Paris, about three weeks after her 
 departure from Venice, she had met some 
 Irish friends of her girlhood, who had just 
 come from Normandy, and their accounts of 
 the hiagnificent Abbey of Mont St. Michel — 
 the island Basilica, which at one hour seems 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 63 
 
 to rise out of the ocean's midst, at another to 
 reign in dreary grandeur over a desert of sand 
 — and of the neighbourhood of Avranches, 
 altogether had inspired her with the fancy to 
 go there. It appeared a perfect resting-place, 
 free, for her, from ' the hum, the shock of 
 men,' from the inroad of acquaintances 
 belonging to her circle in England. The 
 reality, however, proved like the inviting- 
 looking fruit on the Dead Sea shore, bitter as 
 soon as tasted. 
 
 The very beauty of all around, and the 
 stillness of that old Norman town, with its 
 wealth of historical and legendary memories, 
 seemed to weigh upon her spirits ; she had 
 gained nothing by so complete a change from 
 the glaring Boulevards and noisy gaiety of 
 Paris. Joseph Bertram had been a true 
 prophet — go where she might the recollection 
 ji 2 
 
) ^^ ^ ^,TT. ' 
 
 1 64 * WHAT TIS TO LOVE 
 
 of that evening on the Lido at 'Venice pur- 
 sued her. 
 
 Surely she had not merited his bitter 
 condemnation ? But even when she suc- 
 ceeded in stifling for a moment the memory 
 of that accusing voice, it was only to fall a 
 prey to the torments of jealousy. She knew 
 too well that Mildred Lindsay was not likely 
 to be the object of a passing fancy, and the 
 more she thought over the past, the more it 
 seemed to her that Alfred had indeed given 
 himself up completely to the charm of the 
 Lindsays' society. Perhaps even now he 
 was enjoying with Mildred the happiness 
 which he had not found in his own home ! 
 Maud would have given all she possessed in 
 the world to know if it were so, but she was 
 too high-minded to try to surprise his secret 
 by returning unannounced to England, and 
 
'what 'tis to love/ 165 
 
 too proud to question him or anyone else on 
 such a subject. 
 
 Thus a prey to jealousy and to growing 
 remorse, which, battle as obstinately as she 
 could against it, gained ground every day, 
 she sought in vain for that repose which she 
 had hoped to find in quiet, and surrounded 
 by every attraction that nature could give to 
 the country in the golden summer time. 
 Avranches wearied her, but whither should 
 she go ? Not to either of her homes, London 
 or Chiltern Park ; yet what other place had 
 any interest for her, now that her heart was 
 too ill at ease to enjoy the pleasures of the 
 world and of gratified vanity ? All com- 
 panionship became distasteful ; she gave 
 Mdlle. Dubourg leave to visit her 
 family at Nantes, while she remained alone 
 with her maid at Avranches. 
 
1 66 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Her angel's face, 
 As the great eye of heaven, shyneth bright, 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place. — SPENCER. 
 
 A DAY or two afterwards, as Maud sat in 
 one of the shady alleys of the pretty botanical 
 gardens, listlessly turning over the pages of a 
 book, the sound of the adjoining convent bell 
 caught her attention, and, remembering that 
 the nuns had told her there was to be Salut 
 that afternoon, she hastened to the little 
 chapel, glad of any diversion from her own 
 thoughts. 
 
 She chose a place near the door and rested 
 her head wearily upon her hand, but just as 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 6/ 
 
 the bell ceased to ring a sweet perfume of 
 flowers wafted by, a young lady passed up the 
 aisle with bunches of fresh lilies and roses in 
 her hands and knelt before the altar of our 
 Blessed Lady. A ray of light from the side 
 window fell slantingly on the bowed head, and 
 like a flash of lightning recurred to Maud her 
 Eddy's last greeting to Mildred Lindsay : ' I 
 like yoo, because yoo so pretty, yoo's got 
 hair that s'ines like my goldy fish.' 
 
 A dimness came over her eyes, yet 
 they never wandered from that kneeling 
 figure. A lay sister appeared bringing vases, 
 the flowers were placed upon the altar, the 
 young lady glided to a seat close by, and the 
 Benediction began. But Maud could not pray ; 
 that graceful golden-haired girl's unseen face 
 seemed to flit befor;e her as Mildred's living 
 portrait. Soon the little congregation slowly 
 
f 68 * WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 dispersed, and as the young lady rose and 
 turned to leave the church her eyes and 
 Lady Maud's met. 
 
 ' Oh Mademoiselle, I said the heat would 
 be too much for you,' exclaimed Jeannette, 
 meeting her young mistress at the church 
 door and wrapping a cloak round her ; 
 'you look so flushed and your hands 
 tremble.' 
 
 ' It is nothing,' she replied, ' or rather it is 
 only the unexpected sight of an old friend 
 which has given me a brighter colour than 
 seems good to your over-watchful eyes, my 
 good Jeannette; Lady Maud Meredith is in 
 the church, I have not seen her since my 
 great sorrow, and so many memories have 
 come thronging back. ... I must wait here 
 for her. I could not ask her dignified Lady- 
 ship to share my wee pony-carriage, so please 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 69 
 
 to get in and drive as far as the College, I 
 will meet you there.' 
 
 * It will only be excitement and fatigue for 
 you, Mademoiselle, and heaven knows you 
 are little able to bear either ; better let the 
 carriage wait, and if Madam is too grand to 
 go in it, she can stand beside and talk to you 
 while you will be seated, instead of standing 
 or walking.' 
 
 ' Indeed I will not tire myself, so pray do 
 as I have said.' 
 
 To Lady Maud the shock had been so 
 great as almost to make her doubt the evi- 
 dence of her own sight. Mildred Lindsay in 
 a Catholic church and received by a sister as 
 a well-known and looked-for visitor ! Maud 
 waited until her agitation had somewhat sub- 
 sided and then went out intending to call at 
 the convent and ask the name of the lady 
 
I 70 ' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 
 
 who had presented the beautiful flowers, but 
 as the church-door closed behind her Mildred 
 herself advanced with a smile of cordial 
 greeting. 
 
 * This meeting is indeed an unexpected 
 pleasure, Lady Maud.' 
 
 * Miss Lindsay ! ' exclaimed Maud, drawing 
 back haughtily. 
 
 Silently for a moment each gazed at 
 the other, the one in sorrowful amazement, 
 the other in proud disdain. Yet Maud's 
 glance was the first to be lowered, there was 
 something in the unclouded light of the eyes 
 so steadily fixed on hers, which awed her, in 
 spite even of her anger and indignation. It 
 had only needed that sight of Mildred, with 
 her winning grace of appearance and manner, 
 to fan into a flame the jealousy of which 
 Joseph had laid the train. All the past time 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' 171 
 
 since her husband and Mildred first met in 
 the grounds at Chiltern Park seemed to rise 
 before her as in a panorama in which every 
 trifling incident revealed the growth of their 
 mutual attraction for each other. Then 
 Mildred's abrupt departure from England, 
 Alfred's continual absence from home, and his 
 refusal to go to Italy, all bore but one interpre- 
 tation. xA.nd now, with more than an actress's 
 art, Mildred comes up to her — his wife, and 
 offers her hand in the guise of friendship ! 
 Not trusting herself to speak, Maud bowed 
 slightly, and would have passed on without 
 seeking any explanation ; but Mildred, free 
 from all embarrassment, from her utter uncon- 
 sciousness of everything regarding Alfred, 
 followed her. 
 
 * How have I so deeply offended you, 
 Lady Maud?' she asked sadly. 'Whatever 
 
172 'what 'tis to love.' 
 
 apparent rudeness I may have been guilty of 
 in leaving England without taking leave of 
 you, believe me, it was unavoidable. If 
 you could only know what it cost me to 
 sever with one determined stroke all the 
 associations of that time, with its bright 
 transient joys and unutterable sorrow, you 
 would not so resent that breach of polite- 
 ness — ' 
 
 * This is too much ! ' interrupted Maud, 
 exasperated beyond endurance by what 
 seemed to be so bold a piece of acting. 
 ' You rob me of my husband's affection and 
 you feign astonishment that I refuse to speak 
 to you, and attribute my resentment to a 
 paltry informality ! Alfred may have been 
 indifferent before, but at least, he never loved 
 another until you came between us. Oh ! 
 that unfortunate hour when I listened to the 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' I 73 
 
 praise of your fatal talents and confided my 
 children to your care ! * 
 
 A strange pang darted through Mildred's 
 side at the first words of her companion's 
 passionate interruption, and for an instant 
 she gasped for breath, but by force of will 
 she conquered the pain and remained silent 
 until Maud's own vehemence exhausted her 
 and forced her to pause. 
 
 * Adieu, Lady Maud, you have indeed 
 proved — had proof been needed — that sooner 
 or later, from want of charity and generosity, 
 nearly always springs injustice' — she said 
 with chilling composure, and turned into the 
 gardens the entrance to which they had just 
 passed, feeling unable to reach the college 
 without rest or assistance. 
 
 Maud trembled with rage. What did it 
 all mean : first Joseph and then Mildred, the 
 
174 'what 'tis to love/ 
 
 guilty one, dare to reproach her the injured, 
 innocent victim ? Did Mildred intend to 
 deny that which facts proved so clearly 
 against her and Alfred ? The desire to know 
 all, to wring from Mildred the acknowledg- 
 ment of her fault, became irresistible. 
 
 * Since you forced me to speak to you, 
 Mildred Lindsay, you must feel that we 
 cannot part thus. Is my husband here now ?' 
 she asked, following her to the first seat near 
 the gate. 
 
 If Mildred had been cruelly wounded and 
 insulted she was now in some degree avenged, 
 as the proud Lady Maud stood before her 
 waiting for an answer, and dependent upon 
 her for relief from the torture of jealousy 
 which had overpowered even her pride. 
 Mildred would have been more than human 
 had she desired to end that suffering, or con- 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 175 
 
 descended to defend herself by offering any 
 explanation. 
 
 * There are questions so unreasonable as 
 to merit no answer, such as the question you 
 have just asked. I have never injured you 
 or given you any right to cross-examine me.' 
 
 * Never injured me ! What then is injury ? 
 Who detained my husband from his home on 
 that wretched morning when I received your 
 well-planned note of adieu, and while our only 
 son, my darling Eddy, was dying ? I seem 
 to hear again the wailing voice, now for ever 
 stilled in death, asking for his father.' 
 
 * Eddy dead, and I knew it not ! the loving 
 bright little fellow ; poor mother, no wonder 
 that grief should have driven you nearly dis- 
 tracted ! ' 
 
 * And you say you have never injured me ? ' 
 continued Maud, too excited to heed the In- 
 
176 
 
 terruption, or see the tears that fell heavily 
 upon Mildred's dress, stealing through the 
 closed fingers of the hand so tightly pressed 
 against her throbbing brow. ' I loved that 
 child with a love that knew no bounds, and yet 
 as he lay dying in my arms and others had 
 told him — I could not — that he was going 
 to a happier home, where we all hoped to 
 follow him some day — almost his last words 
 were : '' Tell papa to come soon and to bring 
 Milly." M illy— before his mother ! Even 
 with him you had supplanted me ; and while 
 I watched alone over my little darling's wan- 
 ing life, my husband was dallying with 
 you — ' 
 
 ' It is false,' cried Mildred, with a sudden 
 flash of her old vehemence ; ' Captain 
 Meredith was not with me on that sad, sad 
 morning, there must be some mistake.' 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 77 
 
 ' No, no, there is no mistake ; Alfred 
 returned from Ireland by the early mail 
 which arrives in London before eight, and he 
 was seen coming out of your villa about 
 eleven. Had he come direct from the train 
 he would not have found his son already 
 dead. It is true that the shock seemed to 
 recall him to a certain sense of duty, and for 
 a few weeks remorse kept him at my side. 
 But by degrees the impression wore off, and 
 his absences became longer than ever ; doubt- 
 less they had never before been so charmingly 
 occupied. I was ordered to Italy for my 
 health, he refused to accompany me, but 
 generously gave me carte blanche to go 
 where I liked. I was foolishly blind until 
 some weeks ago, when a new sorrow and 
 deception brought also this wretched revela- 
 tion. By mere accident I came here, saw 
 
 VOL. in. N 
 
I yS ' WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 you in one of our churches, not received as a 
 penitent but as an honoured visitor ; yet of 
 hypocrisy I had hitherto believed you guilt- 
 less. I wished to pass in silence, but you 
 forced me to speak. Henceforth if you can 
 put aside the thought of the suffering of a 
 bereaved mother and deserted wife, then, 
 even I, your victim, do not envy you, for one 
 so hardened could never know what real joy — ' 
 ' Stop, Lady Maud ! I have listened to 
 you with greater patience than I believed it 
 possible for me to exercise towards anyone, 
 but you are Eddy's mother. I sailed from 
 Southampton on the eve of the day you 
 allude to ; Father Herbert can give you any 
 particulars about my departure that you may 
 wish to know, also regarding Captain 
 Meredith's presence at Richmond on that 
 unhappy morning. Adieu.' 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 179 
 
 She stood up, bowed, and walked towards 
 
 the gate, 
 
 * God knows I meant not to be unjust 
 towards you,' exclaimed Maud, inspired by 
 Mildred's manner with a sudden fear that 
 perhaps after all she had accused her wrong- 
 fully. ' Be merciful, then, and answer me 
 fully. I have suffered enough for the last 
 few weeks to merit this consideration at 
 
 'least. Is It true that my husband loved 
 you ? On your simple word I will accept 
 whatever you tell me.* 
 
 * Ten minutes ago, Lady Maud, you 
 would have pleaded In vain. I could afford 
 to be misjudged, and would have uttered no 
 word to free you from the suffering produced 
 by a false impression; but the thought of 
 dearest little Eddy's death has softened into 
 compassion the resentment due to your 
 
 N 2 
 
l8o *WHAT *TIS TO love/ 
 
 harsh, rash judgment. If you will come to 
 me to-morrow morning T will give you as 
 full an explanation as you may desire. This 
 evening my strength Is exhausted, I have 
 been ill, and It Is as much as I can do to 
 reach the carriage which Is waiting for me at 
 a short distance. Be merciful in your turn, 
 and leave me now. Jeannette will go to you 
 to-morrow and show you the way to my 
 house. If this arrangement pleases you, tell 
 me your address, if not — ' 
 
 * The H6tel de Londres,' said Maud 
 quickly, startled by so strange an answer, 
 yet subdued by Mildred's increasing paleness. 
 
 ' Ats revoir, then; but remember, that 
 although I will send Jeannette, I shall con- 
 sider you still perfectly free to keep this 
 appointment or not as you may feel inclined 
 in the morning/ 
 
WHAT 'tis to love.' i8i 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Our bodies are our gardens ; to the which our wills are 
 gardeners : so that if we will plant nettles, or sow lettuce; 
 set hyssop, and weed up thyme . . . why, the power 
 and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 ' A Frenxh servant asks to see your lady- 
 ship,' said Maud's own maid, entering her 
 room on the following morning. ' I told her 
 your ladyship had passed a restless night, 
 and that I did not much expect you 
 would — * 
 
 ' Pray form no expectations about me,' 
 replied Maud, impatiently ; ' show her up at 
 once, and ask her to wait in the drawing- 
 room until I come.' 
 
 The past night had indeed been a restless 
 
l82 • * WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 one to Maud. Her pride shrank from the 
 indignity of accepting the proposed inter- 
 view, since Mildred had so markedly signified 
 that she desired it not as an occasion for 
 justifying herself, but granted it rather as a 
 favour; yet the clamour of jealous curiosity 
 would not be silenced. Maud was bitterly 
 conscious that there must be some truth in 
 Joseph's assertions, for Mildred had said 
 nothing which seemed to deny that Alfred 
 loved her. The moment before the maid 
 had come into the room she was still un- 
 decided as to whether she would keep the 
 appointment or not, but no sooner had the 
 door closed again than she dressed herself 
 for going out. 
 
 * Madame wishes to come with me to my 
 mistress?' said Jeannette, curtseying as 
 Maud entered the salon. 
 
'what *tis to love.' 183 
 
 * Yes,' she replied, too much absorbed by 
 conflicting feelings to observe the resentful 
 manner of the faithful servant. After they 
 had gone a little way, however, it occurred 
 to her that she had not acknowledged their 
 former acquaintance, and she asked sud- 
 denly — 
 
 * Do you not remember me, Jean- 
 nette ? ' 
 
 * Certainly, I should have remembered 
 Madame, even if I had not known to whom, 
 I was coming. ' She paused and looked up 
 hesitatingly, there was not much to re-assure 
 her in the expression of Lady Maud s stern 
 handsome face, yet she added in a low voice : 
 * Oh ! Madame, try not to agitate Mademoi- 
 selle ; God only knows if yesterday evening's 
 work has not already hollowed out her tomb.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? . . . I can only say 
 
184 ^WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 it grieves me to hear that Miss Lindsay 
 should make the most private matters a sub- 
 ject for idle talk.' 
 
 ' Madame deceives herself,' cried Jeannette 
 hotly ; ' no private matters relating to her or 
 to anyone else have ever been confided to 
 me by Mademoiselle. I only know that she 
 met Madame yesterday, that she imprudently 
 sat down to rest in the gardens when the 
 ground was still damp from the morning's rain, 
 that she came back to the carriage quite ex- 
 hausted, that she is very feverish to-day with 
 all the appearance of a bad cold. In the 
 beginning of the spring the doctor told me 
 he hoped the warm weather would restore 
 her, but great care was necessary as a severe 
 cold coming quickly after her long illness 
 would overtax her already enfeebled constitu- 
 tion ; and now — * 
 
'what 'tis to love.' 185 
 
 Jeannette did not finish the sentence, and 
 Maud was strongly moved : all this did not 
 seem like the history of a happy love-intrigue, 
 and she knew not herself how much softness 
 stole into her voice when she resumed the 
 conversation after a short pause. 
 - ' And now you must get her well again 
 with the aid of this bright hot sunshine. Her 
 grief for her brother, I believe, was excessive ?' 
 
 * You may well say that, Madame,' returned 
 Jeannette, disarmed by this change of manner 
 and yielding to her natural love of talking, 
 especially of her young mistress, whom she 
 looked upon almost as her own child. * I 
 shall never forget the Sunday week after his 
 death. It was in the evening. I had been 
 seeking her all over the house when I thought 
 of going into his room, and there I saw her 
 kneeling at the table, her head resting upon 
 
1 86 ' 'what 'tis to love/ 
 
 an open book, I took her in my arms, and 
 half carried her to the little sofa near the 
 window, but with a shiver she turned away 
 from the pretty view of the river that she 
 used to be so fond of and whispered : "I 
 have said good-bye to all this — to all that I 
 loved best. I dare not stay here, you must 
 pack up everything, Jeannette, and we will 
 start for France to-morrow.'" 
 
 * It was then Sunday evening ! ' Maud said 
 in a low tone to herself, but Jeannette heard 
 and thought it was a question addressed to 
 her. 
 
 *Yes, madame, and I thought, when she 
 spoke of going away in such a hurry, it was 
 something she had seen in the book — a prayer 
 book of Mr. Charles's — that had disturbed 
 her for the moment, but in the morning she 
 said we were to go that evening. If Madame 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.* 1 87 
 
 had seen the expression In her face as 
 she drove away from the door she would 
 know what the look of a broken heart Is like. 
 Mademoiselle's was broken that night I am 
 sure, and one would say there must have 
 been more than the natural grief for a brother 
 that so crushed it. We stayed a little time 
 in the neighbourhood of Paris, and then came 
 on here ; she fancied Avranches from having 
 visited it with Mr. Charles during his last 
 vacation before leaving Rennes.' 
 
 * Yet without friends what distraction could 
 so dull a place afford her ? And the Illness 
 of which you spoke was immediately after 
 leaving England last summer ? ' 
 
 * No Madame, not for some months later ; 
 Mademoiselle had no acquaintances and 
 declined to make any, even after she became 
 such a friend of M. le Cur6.' 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 ' Monsieur le Cure ! but Miss Lindsay was 
 not a Catholic ! ' 
 
 * She is now, qtie le bo7i Dieu en soit loud 
 and if it would not weary Madame I will tell 
 her how It came to pass.' 
 
 * I shall be very glad to hear it.' Maud 
 could not repress the slight shudder which 
 crept over her at the remembrance of all she 
 had said to Mildred on the previous day. 
 
 ' Well, Madame, from the time INIademoi- 
 selle came here she was like a sister of charity, 
 only she was so rich she could help the poor 
 more than any nun could. Still she grew 
 thinner and thinner, and the heart-broken 
 look never left her face. One day towards 
 the end of October, as we returned from a 
 walk through the village of Le Marais, we 
 saw a girl crouched down at the foot of the 
 mission cross outside the church, and crying 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 89 
 
 bitterly, while the cure seemed endeavouring 
 to console her. We waited at a little distance 
 until he left her, and then Mademoiselle 
 asked what was the matter. It seemed that 
 the poor young thing, after having earned 
 money enough to pay for a substitute, If her 
 betrothed should draw a bad number, had 
 given her little store to the old aunt with 
 whom she had lived since her parents died, 
 and who took it into her head that she would 
 be cured of an inward disease if she could 
 only get the means to go up to one of the 
 Paris hospitals. She comforted her niece 
 with the assurance that after her recovery she 
 would easily be able to repay her, as she was 
 an expert workwoman. That day when we 
 passed, the poor girl had just received news 
 of her aunt's death, and that her lover had 
 drawn a bad number. " Then her sacrifice 
 
1 90 * WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 has been wasted," exclaimed Mademoiselle — 
 I tried always to keep in my mind, as nearly 
 as I could, the cur6s answer, since it 
 appeared to have brought the happiness of 
 faith to my dear young mistress. " Only in 
 appearance," he said, " and does not the 
 sacrifice of our Lord himself often seern 
 offered uselessly for his ungrateful children ? 
 With such an example before her, poor 
 Melanie's trust in the eventual reward of her 
 suffering cannot waver. God asks not 
 sacrifices from his creatures without renewing 
 daily for them, and in their presence, the 
 sacrifice of his own life." " Tell Melanie to 
 grieve no more, all shall be well with her, but 
 ask her to pray for one who had a harder 
 sacrifice to make, and without the strength of 
 her defined faith," replied Mademoiselle as 
 she bowed, and walked on before the cur6 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' I91 
 
 had time to thank her, or even to ask her 
 name. As soon as we got home she sent off 
 a letter to him, with an order for the price of 
 the substitute, and then said, turning to me, 
 ** Jeannette, it must be true, there can be no 
 real religion without a perpetually renewed 
 sacrifice ; ask your good friend, the cur6 of 
 this parish, to come and see me to-morrow." 
 ... I nearly cried for joy, Madame, but I 
 saw Mademoiselle look so pale and tired that 
 I only answered a few words, and induced 
 her to go to bed. The next day, she was 
 unable to rise, and that was the beginning of 
 her long Illness ; but with '* the faith " there 
 seemed to come a brightness into her eyes 
 which chased away the dark sorrow-stricken 
 expression ; and now, in spite of her delicate 
 health, she appears to look happier every 
 day. Madame must forgive me, I have been 
 
192 ' 'what 'tis to love.' 
 
 too long, but when I begin to talk ot 
 Mademoiselle I never know w^hen to stop.' 
 
 * You have not tired me ; on the contrary, I 
 thank you for having told me ; I was surprised 
 to see Miss Lindsay in church yesterday.' 
 
 It cost her no slight exertion to speak thus 
 calmly and master the tumult of her own 
 feelings. Reparation for injustice had always 
 been a maxim of her stern code of virtue, 
 how then was she to meet Mildred ? How 
 far had each wronged the other ? 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 93 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Le devouement a ses hardiesses comme le g^nie. 
 
 Madame Swetchine. 
 
 A FEW Steps further on Jeannette stopped 
 before a gate which she unfastened and held 
 open for her ladyship to pass in. 
 
 ' I will wait here while you announce m) 
 arrival to Miss Lindsay,' said Maud, sitting 
 down upon one of the garden seats : a 
 strange feeling of nervousness had come 
 over her. 
 
 When Jeannette returned after a few 
 minutes' delay, Maud rose without any 
 apparent hesitation and followed her into a 
 room which the sunshine, peering through the 
 
 VOL. in. o 
 
1 94 ' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 
 
 closed persie7mes, filled with a softened light, 
 with the beauty of brightness without the 
 glare, a fitting type indeed of the fair girl 
 who sat by the hearth whereon smouldered a 
 few logs of pine wood. She stood up as her 
 visitor was ushered in, and while drawing 
 forward an inviting causeiise apologised for 
 receiving Lady Maud in her dressing-room ; 
 she had caught cold, she said, and it ren- 
 dered her so very chilly, that she had even 
 been obliged to have a fire made. 
 
 ^ It seems as if our meeting yesterday was 
 to be the cause of a double remorse to me,' 
 said Maud with a sort of proud humility. ' I 
 hope you will forgive whatever wrong I may 
 have done you in word or thought, but how 
 can I forgive myself for having caused you 
 to take cold, exposing you, perhaps, to a 
 renewal of your illness ? ' 
 
WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 1 95 
 
 ' That was unintentional ; It Is, therefore, 
 no subject for pardon, either from your own 
 conscience or from me.' 
 
 Mildred reseated herself, and seemed as If 
 waiting for her companion to begin the con- 
 versation. Maud looked earnestly at her as 
 she sat with her eyes bent upon the fire, and 
 could see no sign of illness, only an Increased 
 brilliancy of colouring which added to her 
 beauty, and a jealous pang again pierced her 
 heart. 
 
 ' You know the question I would repeat,' 
 she said abruptly, too much agitated to 
 measure her words : ' is it true or not that my 
 husband loved you ? ' 
 
 'It is true! but I only learned It when by 
 chance we met, met for the last time, on the 
 day of my brother's funeral. This was my 
 reason for leaving England — ' 
 2 
 
196 'WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 * In order to avoid him ? Then you did 
 not share his unworthy feelings ? ' 
 
 A vivid flush spread over Mildred's face 
 and neck ; she could not bear to hear him 
 blamed, and her eyes seemed to dilate as 
 they rested full upon Maud. 
 
 ' I ? I loved him better than myself, than 
 life, than everything save his own happi- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' And you dare to tell this to me, to his 
 wife ! ' 
 
 ' Yes ; for had his wife so prized his 
 happiness, all this misery for him, for her, 
 and for me, had been spared ! and becattse I 
 loved him so well, I found strength to go 
 away without seeing him again, and to bid 
 <him an eternal adieu by letter. Since that 
 time I have never even indirectly heard of 
 him until yesterday ; be satisfied, then, Lady 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 97 
 
 Maud, I have never injured you, you alone 
 have injured yourself.' 
 
 Mildred' had spoken with the rapidity of 
 intense excitement. Her ardent unconven- 
 tional nature had flashed out in those words, 
 but the next moment she sank back in her 
 chair exhausted and half alarmed at the 
 thought of her own daring. Maud shuddered 
 in spite of herself Was Mildred right, had 
 Joseph been right, when each in turn 
 accused her of being the cause of misery to 
 her husband and to them ? Every deeper 
 feeling of her heart had been wounded, her 
 pride of virtue humbled ; she had heard her 
 husband's love for another fully acknowledged, 
 and half distracted by pain and jealousy she 
 answered with a suspiciousness unworthy of 
 herself — 
 
 ' Yozc offered to give me, if I wished for it, 
 
198 'WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 a full explanation of the y^^/i" .that have been 
 related to me, and instead of that you 
 reproach me\ Of such reproaches I naturally 
 take no notice, and cannot sufficiently 
 wonder at their boldness. It is utterly in- 
 comprehensible to me how you could allow 
 such a feeling as you almost boast of enter- 
 taining towards Captain Meredith to grow 
 up in your heart for one whom you never 
 knew save as a husband and father. Neither 
 have you in any way accounted for his 
 presence at Richmond on the morning after 
 you say you left River View.' 
 
 ' Once more, in memory of the little angel 
 child to whom I owe so much, I will answer 
 you, Lady Maud,' replied Mildred quietly — 
 the fire of her nature would not be roused 
 again, at least by any offence against herself ; 
 ' you offered to accept on my simple word 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' 1 99 
 
 whatever I should tell you, and therein I 
 recognised your own love of truth which 
 preserved you from a narrow-minded distrust 
 of the truthfulness of others, now you seem 
 inclined to doubt. ... I referred you 
 yesterday to Father Herbert for any proof 
 you might desire regarding my departure, 
 and for information of what occurred on the 
 following morning. As for the rest it had 
 better remain unexplained ; you are free to 
 think of me as you like, for without censuring 
 where I have no right to censure, I could 
 not show how circumstances led me insen- 
 sibly to make Captain Meredith's happiness 
 the object of all my thoughts and hopes, 
 although I knew that only through others 
 could I attain that object. I repeat, from 
 Captain Meredith and Father Herbert you 
 can obtain full verification of xkv^ facts that I 
 
200 ' WHAT 'tis TO LOVE.' 
 
 have stated. And now, had we not better 
 say farewell ? I am ashamed to say again I 
 am not well, but — ' 
 
 A short cough interrupted the sentence and 
 she bent her face upon her hand wishing tc 
 conceal the spasm of pain that for an instant 
 contracted her features. Maud saw it how- 
 ever, stood up, and walked to the other side 
 of the room. The sight of physical pain 
 and weakness momentarily conquering that 
 strength of will which had rendered Mildred 
 so completely mistress of the occasion moved 
 her deeply, it was the first evidence of real^ 
 illness she had seen in her rival. 
 
 ' You only did me justice when you said 
 my own love of truth preserved me from 
 distrust,' she said, returning to her seat. ' I 
 desire no verification of anything you have 
 asserted, it was the smarting of a sorely- 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 20I 
 
 wounded heart that stung me into uttering 
 words of seeming doubt. But I cannot go 
 without insisting, as far as I may, upon hearing 
 the particulars of all that has been so strange 
 in our mutual relations, since it appears you 
 only hesitate to speak in order to avoid 
 censuring me. You will admit it is impossible 
 for me to accept indulgence from one who, 
 whether through her fault or not, has detached 
 from me the affection to which I had the 
 most sacred right. If you can show me that 
 by neglecting any real duty I have caused 
 others to suffer I believe I shall have courage 
 to acknowledge my fault and try to repair it.' 
 Was the natural good in Maud's character 
 then not dead ? Was it only dormant under 
 the heavy covering of pride and egotism, and 
 needing but a shock to rouse it from that fatal 
 sleep. A ray of hope darted into Mildred's 
 
202 ' WHAT 'tis TO LOVE.' 
 
 mind, and with that hope came new strength. 
 Oh ! if a frank, simple relation of all that had 
 passed since her first acquaintance with the 
 Merediths could teach Lady Maud the 
 deformity of that egotistical pride through 
 which, whilst professing to follow the guidance 
 of a s2i^er-mLtur3l religion, she had neglected 
 a woman's highest nahiral duty — that of 
 giving happiness ! Mildred's eyes grew dim, 
 the joy foreshadowed in that hope was too 
 great ! She hesitated to yield to it and only 
 answered after a long pause — 
 
 ' If I go into this sad history. Lady Maud, 
 I must be very frank ; and, on your part, will 
 it not be subjecting yourself to a painful 
 ordeal, for I can but relate the motives and 
 details of that which I have already told 
 you ? ' 
 
 * I have lately become so accustomed to 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 the atmosphere of suffering that I can bear 
 without complaint a still heavier pressure. 
 You need fear no interruption from me.' 
 
 At first Mildred's voice was weak and 
 tremulous, but as she proceeded her hesitation 
 gradually disappeared. With the vivid reality 
 of tKe actual hour her memory sketched the 
 scene of that last Sunday evening at Richmond, 
 when she stood in the room of her dead 
 brother alone, so utterly alone, yet haunted 
 by the consciousness of her power to make 
 glad the life of one too dearly loved ; her 
 sense of duty overpowered at last by the 
 longing to accept that forbidden but most 
 sweet power ; and the victory retained for 
 good by the same love which, a moment 
 before would have dragged her downwards ; 
 but then, speaking through the ' pictured 
 imaofe ' of a little child — his child — drew her 
 
204 ' WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 Up even to the height of that ' masterpiece of 
 virtue which love is in its essence and its 
 summit.' 
 
 She paused for an instant, overcome herself 
 by the recollection of that hour, and then 
 added — 
 
 ' It was, though I knew it not, from the 
 dying bed of your little Eddy that there 
 came to me the angel whisper warning me 
 not to prepare an after-suffering for his dear 
 father, and with that warning came a blessed 
 re-assurance. I might not give my life to 
 him whom I so loved, but I could give \\.for 
 him. At that moment when I vowed never 
 to meet him again, and the light of existence 
 died out of my heart for ever, I asked God 
 to accept my life as the price of his happi- 
 ness ; to inspire her, whose envied right it 
 was to be devoted to him with a true under- 
 
' WHAT TIS TO LOVE. 205 
 
 Standing of her duties. And I feel that my 
 prayer will be granted some day, for God 
 Himself has given me a divine pledge, in 
 leading me, in spite of my reluctance, to the 
 true faith — alone larsfe enough to fill the void 
 of a broken heart, as it alone is the religion 
 of perpetual sacrifice. We may never meet 
 again on earth. Lady Maud, but do not 
 forget that to hear of his happiness with you 
 would make me blest, even in this world. I 
 have pained you — perhaps you still think, 
 injured you ; take a most noble revenge, let 
 me have to thank you for giving me, while 
 still among you, the joy that I would have 
 purchased with my life ! ' 
 
 She stood up wishing to terminate the 
 interview at once, for the excitement which 
 had given her fictitious strength was be- 
 coming more than she could control ; Maud 
 
206 *WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 rose also, but remained silent. She felt her 
 own littleness in the presence of that beauty 
 which ' detaches us from ourselves in 
 inspiring the ineffable madness of love.' 
 Her old enemy, however, made a final 
 struggle ; it surely was not necessary to 
 humiliate herself so far as to acknowledge 
 this to her rival ? She bowed as if accepting 
 Mildred's desire that they should part thus, 
 but, before reaching the door, some irresistible 
 attraction made her look back, and as her 
 eyes fell upon Mildred, who stood half sup- 
 ported by the table, the last remains of hci; 
 stubborn pride crumbled away, and she 
 exclaimed impetuously — 
 
 ' Mildred ! I never knew until now, what 
 real love and virtue were ; teach me how to 
 acquire them/ 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 207 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Love took up the harp of hfe and smote on all the chords 
 
 with might ; 
 Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out 
 
 of sight.— Tennyson. 
 
 Mildred's most daring hope had never gone 
 beyond the Idea that perhaps the relation of 
 her history, by leading to reflection on the 
 past, might at some future day produce a 
 happy change in her whom it so nearly 
 concerned, and the almost involuntary cry of 
 homage which burst from Maud s lips, was to 
 her like the first note of some jubilant song 
 of victory, which she had never expected to 
 hear save in heaven ; but the sudden rush of 
 
208 ' WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 joy proved too much for the weak, mortal 
 frame already half spent by ' the shock of the 
 
 fight' 
 
 An attack of intermittent fever laid its iron 
 grasp upon her, and even when the violence 
 of the disorder had passed, there appeare d 
 no sign of rallying strength ; still, even 
 Jeannette's resentment against Lady Maud, 
 as the cause of this relapse, was disarmed by 
 her sorrow and untiring attention, as day after 
 day she spent hours by the bedside of the 
 poor young sufferer. Remorse taught her 
 humility, the scales of self-delusion fell from 
 her eyes, and by degrees she came to 
 recognise the worse than folly of her own 
 pretensions to superiority, especially when 
 seen by the side of unqxacting affection, and 
 in one so gifted as Mildred. 
 
 At length, one warm sunny day, Mildred 
 
*WHAT *TIS TO love/ 209 
 
 obtained permission to have her sofa wheeled 
 out under the verandah at the back of the 
 house, and Maud seated herself beside her. 
 The scene and hour conduced to reverie : it 
 was late in the afternoon, and the haze which 
 floated over the rich green valley beneath, 
 creeping upwards through the woods of the 
 Naffree, tinged them with ever- varying hues 
 of pink and gold. In the distance rose that 
 superb monument of the faith and artistic 
 genius of the middle ages, the Abbey of 
 Mont St. Michel. The light clouds which 
 drifted over the sky made the surrounding 
 desert sands look grey and solemn, whilst 
 still further away, a white wavy line crept 
 over them, telling of the great sea which 
 would soon convert their entire surface into a 
 sheet of foaming water, and recalling the 
 beautiful tradition belonging to la croix des 
 VOL. in. p 
 
210 *WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 greves — the cross erected in commemoration of 
 the loving daring of a young mother who 
 braved the dangers of a pilgrimage across 
 the moving quicksands in the simple hope of 
 thereby meriting for her unborn child the 
 special protection of the great archangel, and 
 her faithful trust in his intercession, even when, 
 lost in the fog, and her hour of pain prema- 
 turely brought on by fatigue and terror as 
 the sound of the rising tide drew nearer and 
 nearer. * Seeing herself thus deprived of all 
 human aid,' relates the ancient manuscript of 
 Dom Hugues, * she had again recourse to St. 
 Michael, beseeching him to protect her in 
 this extremity, which the saint did in a manner 
 truly admirable. The sea arriving made a 
 circle round her, so that it rose to twelve 
 feet, leaving her untouched as in the middle 
 of a well, and there a son was born unto her, 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love/ 211 
 
 whom she baptised with the waters of the 
 sea.' 
 
 With a strange persistence the thought of 
 that legend, symbolising the power of love 
 and of trust, came back to Lady Maud's 
 mind as then for the first time, with Mildred 
 beside her, she gazed upon that view so rich 
 in natural beauty, and upon the still dry 
 sands between Mont St. Michel and 
 Tombelaine — the site of la croix des greves. 
 
 * Lady Maud,' said Mildred abruptly, 
 breaking in upon that silent meditation, 
 * you have made these last few weeks 
 to me as the holiday-time is to a child who 
 has been for weary months surrounded 
 by strangers, and then meets a former friend 
 and companion of the dear home days, who 
 tends and cheers her through illness, but 
 it would be sorry gratitude for all your good- 
 
 P 2 
 
212 'WHAT 'tis TO LOVE.' 
 
 ness to detain you here any longer. I re 
 member that in August no one was ever 
 absent from your beautiful home at Chiltern 
 Park, and I feel that you must long to see 
 all your dear ones again.* 
 
 'I do long to see Alfred ! ' Maud exclaimed, 
 quickly, without raising her eyes. They had 
 never spoken so directly of him since that 
 first day when she had asked, ' Is It true that 
 my husband loves you ? ' ' Yet I dread to 
 meet him — how shall we meet ? ... In any 
 case I could not think of leaving Avranches 
 until you are able to walk out again — until 
 you are at least as well as when I came.' 
 
 Mildred looked at her with an Incredulous 
 smile. 
 
 ' You know that will never be again.' 
 
 * God forbid that I should know anything 
 of the kind. You have taught me the dif- 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 2 1 3 
 
 ference between justice and generosity, and 
 if only to be true to your own principles you 
 must get well ; otherwise I shall feel very 
 much like a murderess, and although, in 
 justice, perhaps such a punishment would 
 not be too severe, it would not be generous 
 in you to will to inflict it ... I certainly 
 will not leave you here alone until you are 
 recovered.' 
 
 ' You would not leave me alone, you would 
 leave me a remembrance and a hope ; I 
 could not feel lonely with such days as these 
 to live over again in thought, and the know- 
 ledge that they were a pledge of the realisa- 
 tion of my heart's dearest desire. Dear 
 Lady Maud, forgive me if I say aught to 
 pain you, but each day that separation is 
 protracted between those who ought to be 
 united the wider it becomes.' 
 
214 *WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 * I know it, alas ! too well ; but — * Maud 
 hesitated and blushed — 'I love as I never loved 
 in my girlhood, when he so fondly sought me, 
 and if I went back now without any reason 
 to hope that I had not become utterly in- 
 different to him, we should remain as virtually 
 separated as ever. I could not plead for full 
 forgiveness, since out of his great generosity 
 alone he might grant it to me, and it would 
 drive me mad to think that his heart did not 
 ratify the pardon. If he would come to me 
 at my request, urged with all the earnestness 
 of an ardent desire to see him whilst detained 
 here by illness of a dear friend — I have not 
 told him that I have seen you — then I should 
 know that the former love was not quite 
 dead, and I could beg as the humblest of 
 supplicants for forgiveness; but if he 
 refused to come, how could I bear the 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love/ 2 1 ^ 
 
 wretched certainty of his indifference ! What 
 shall I do?' 
 
 Mildred made no reply. Could she en- 
 courage the hope that Alfred would come at 
 the request of one who had for so long out- 
 raged all his best feelings, whilst, according 
 to her idea, Lady Maud ought to be ready to 
 subject herself gladly to any humiliation to 
 regain, even after the lapse of years, a little 
 of that affection which had once been all her 
 own. For an instant her heart closed towards 
 his wife and rebelled against the duty which 
 had forced her to abandon him to his cheer- 
 less fate. But all suddenly a new radiance 
 beamed from her countenance as sweet voices 
 whispered in her ear, ' You have now the 
 power to complete your own work.' 
 
 As those sweet voices died away she re- 
 cognised that Lady Maud's hesitation to seek 
 
21 6 'what 'tis to love/ 
 
 her husband was no longer the offspring of 
 pride, but the shrinking timidity of a love 
 which had not confidence in its own power to 
 re-awaken an answering feeling, and had not 
 yet attained the height of forgetting all self- 
 consciousness in the thought of labouring for 
 the beloved one's eventual good ; and Mildred 
 resolved that the encouragement Lady Maud 
 needed should at least appear to be granted 
 to her. Still she remained silent, and it was 
 only when Jeannette came to warn her not to 
 remain out too long, that either of them spoke 
 again. 
 
 ' You know Alfred, do you think he would 
 come at my request ? ' said Maud hurriedly, 
 as if ashamed of such a question, yet urged to 
 it by an irrepressible longing for some as- 
 surance from one who ought to know so 
 well what his feelings towards her were. 
 
'what 'tis to love.' 217 
 
 ' Yes ! ' If there was aught of untruth in that 
 answer, ' the recording angel ' must surely 
 have blotted out the stain with a tear of 
 tender admiration. 
 
 Accordingly Maud wrote to her husband 
 as she had seldom, if ever, written before, and 
 asked him to come to her. She felt ' like 
 some poor mountaineer,' she said, *who 
 thought not of the beauty of his native hills 
 while he lived beneath their protecting shade, 
 but when unavoidably detained in other lands, 
 learned to pine for them with a restless im- 
 patience. In her case the spirit of the moun- 
 tains himself could come to her and make 
 the present brighter than the past had ever 
 been — would he come ? ' 
 
 Once upon a time that playful letter, with 
 its under-current of real anxiety to see him, 
 would have given Alfred intense delight. 
 
2l8 *WHAT *TIS TO LOVE.* 
 
 Alas ! it came too late, he threw it aside with 
 a muttered ' What stuff ! ' and, after allowing 
 a week to pass, answered that he was too 
 much occupied superintending the formation 
 of an aviary in the hazel-grove at Chiltern 
 Park to think of going abroad for the present. 
 ' Then his only feeling towards me is one 
 of indifference,' reasoned Maud, ' since he so 
 coldly refuses the proffered reconciliation ! ' 
 ' And after all,' suggested the tempter, 
 eagerly seizing such an occasion to rouse the 
 old proud spirit, * was she the one that most 
 needed pardon ? She at least had been faithful 
 to her marriage vow in thought, word, and 
 deed/ But at the same moment Joseph's 
 reproaches recurred to her with stinging 
 bitterness. Had she been faithful, not ac- 
 cording only to the ' letter which kills,' but 
 according to the 'spirit which giveth life,' 
 
'what 'tis to love.' 219 
 
 creating love, and love's fairest flower — 
 humility ? 
 
 Not in so many words did she ask herself 
 that question, it was the unspoken accusation 
 which had been growing stronger and stronger 
 in^the silence of her own heart ever since 
 Joseph had dared to claim her love as a right 
 — a right which her conduct to her husband 
 had given him ; and above all since she had 
 learned to compare in Mildred and herself 
 the difference between the winning power of 
 devotedness, even when springing from the 
 grave of a conquered weakness, and the cold 
 rectitude of unloving virtue. 
 
 Death had robbed her of her favourite 
 child ; the friend in whom she had most 
 trusted had heaped humiliation and insult 
 upon her, and with the craving for the once- 
 despised treasure of her husband's affection 
 
2 20 *WHAT 'tis TO LOVE.' 
 
 came the knowledge that she had lost it — 
 perhaps beyond recall. But suffering had 
 nearly done its work, since even at the 
 moment, when, writhing under the pain in- 
 flicted by Alfred's letter, she could think of 
 others — it was the usual time of her visit to 
 Mildred and she would not defer it 
 
 A few hours before she had met the Doctor 
 accidentally, and in answer to her earnest 
 request to know the exact truth about 
 Mildred's state, he had said her days were 
 numbered ; attacks of acute disease and 
 violent nervous shocks acting on a naturally 
 fragile constitution had exhausted all vital 
 energy, and she might pass away without 
 suffering, in one of the fainting-fits which had 
 latterly become so frequent. As her physical 
 strength waned, however, her power to charm 
 and console those around her seemed to 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' 221 
 
 increase. It was impossible to give way to 
 grief before her while she looked so happy, 
 and Maud tried to hide the double anguish 
 that was gnawing at her heart as she went to 
 her after receiving Alfred's letter. 
 
222 'WHAT 'tis TO LOVE.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 La beauts c'est la transfiguration, c'est la lumiere . . . 
 plus les creatures participent et approchent de la beautd 
 de Dieu, plus elles sont belles. — Savonarola. 
 
 Mildred was reclining upon the sofa in her 
 favourite corner under the verandah, and the 
 varied tints of the flowers as they clustered 
 in profusion round the wooden pillars, seemed 
 as it were reflected in the brilliant and ever- 
 changing colour upon her cheeks. 
 
 * How well you look, Mildred, there among 
 the flowers, rivalling their bloom,' Maud said, 
 almost deluded into hope. * I do believe this 
 glorious sunshine is drawing you back to 
 earth ; you would not refuse to be cured by 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.* 223 
 
 this lovely weather, and — and we cannot spare 
 you yet. 
 
 *. . . . Fading roses die 
 
 Although the wann and healing air 
 
 Comes breathing forth to wrap them round/ 
 
 repeated Mildred gaily, though her voice rose 
 scarcely above a whisper ; * but as they only 
 die to live again when the coming winter 
 will have passed away, you would not ask 
 them to stay and encounter its frosts and 
 storms ? ' 
 
 A choking sensation rose in Maud's throat, 
 and she turned to pluck a flower ; though 
 Irish by birth, she had the true English shy- 
 ness about any display of emotion. 
 
 * Nay, dear Lady Maud, you must not look 
 so grieved, you have known for a long time 
 that I was nearing home — our real home — 
 I have now reached the threshold, and I am 
 
2 24 'what *tis to love/ 
 
 so happy, happy also In the thought of your 
 future happiness.' 
 
 * My happiness ! Ah ! you do not know — ' 
 and with a strange impulse in one who a little 
 time ago would have died rather thati reveal 
 any humiliation which had been inflicted on 
 her, she took out Alfred's letter. * Read 
 this.' 
 
 *You see he will not come,' she added 
 after a few minutes' pause ; ' and, as you said 
 yourself, every hour that our separation is 
 prolonged the more nearly irrevocable it is 
 rendered. Must I go on bearing for ever the 
 terrible responsibility which I have at last 
 learned to know rests upon me — the respon- 
 sibility of all his faults as well as my 
 own ?* 
 
 *See what it is to have been always 
 accustomed to unresisting homage ! The 
 
'WHAT 'tis IX) LOVE.' 225 
 
 slightest repulse is a thing so unknown, it 
 makes you despair at once.' 
 
 ' If I tell him that the friend whom I do 
 not wish to leave is Mildred Lindsay, no 
 doubt he will come quickly enough. Shall I 
 tell him ? ' 
 
 There was a certain involuntary bitterness 
 mingled with the hopelessness of Maud's tone, 
 and Mildred answered sadly — 
 
 ' No ! What would his coming avail if you 
 supposed it was to see another, and not you ? 
 If you ask him again and in the name of 
 your old mutual affection, he surely will not 
 refuse.' 
 
 * Do you think so ? then I will write at 
 once — but I have made you speak too much, 
 forgive my thoughtlessness.' 
 
 Mildred was seized with a fit of coughing, 
 and the exhaustion which followed it was 
 
 VOL. in. Q 
 
2 26 'WHAT 'tis TO LOVE.' 
 
 alarming ; but at length her breathing 
 became easier, she appeared to sleep, and 
 then Lady Maud stole away washing to 
 snatch an hour's leisure to write to Alfred. 
 
 Immediately after she lett however, 
 Mildred called to Jeannette to place the 
 cushions so that she could sit up, and then to 
 bring her writing materials. Jeannette 
 arranged her as she wished, but remained 
 beside the sofa ; it was madness, she said, of 
 Mademoiselle to fatigue herself 
 
 * It is little more than an address that I wish 
 to write, but it must be wTitten without delay,' 
 answered Mildred in her firmest manner. 
 
 As soon as the writing things were placed 
 for her, she drew from under the pillow that 
 copy of the ' Following of Christ ' which had 
 indeed been a vade mectim to her ever since 
 she had taken it from her brother's room on 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love.' 227 
 
 the eve of her departure from Richmond. 
 Her hand trembled as it rested upon the 
 open page of the book, and she murmured to 
 herself — 
 
 * My God ! do I dare too much ? Yet 
 there is no other means. I know that the 
 hope I sought to encourage is vain, but let it 
 seem to be fulfilled ! ' 
 
 Slowly, and with evident difficulty, she 
 wrote a few lines in the book, bound it round 
 with a band of paper, and added in addition 
 to the address. Per Post, Immediate, then 
 enclosed it in an outer covering which she 
 directed to Father Herbert, who had lately 
 been removed to London. 
 
 * Send this to the post at once, Jeannette, 
 and see that it is properly prepaid,* she 
 said, as she laid her head down on the pillow 
 
 with a sigh of relief. 
 
 Q2 
 
228 'WHAT 'tis TO LOVE.' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 
 That melts the fogs in limpid air, — BURN.S. 
 
 A FLOOD of light filled the large dining-room 
 at Chiltern Park, as the sun at length burst 
 through the dense mist which, during the 
 first hours of morninof, had veiled the ereen 
 woods and fields as in a shroud. The 
 * bright Lord of day ' sent it rolling away like 
 a golden vapour, shedding jewelled drops 
 alike upon the glimmering leaves of the lofty 
 trees, and the lowly blades of grass as they 
 waved to and fro in the newly-risen breeze. 
 The birds began their chant of joy for 
 the triumph of their great giver of light 
 
' WHAT 'tis to love.' 229 
 
 and gladness over the lingering mists of 
 gloom. In the interior of the room the 
 oaken panels reflected the costly silver 
 service upon the breakfast-table, and the 
 grave countenance of its solitary occupant 
 alone appeared out of harmony with the 
 universal brightness. 
 
 The very beauty and exhilarating freshness 
 of such a morning tended to excite the 
 natural longing for happiness, and caused 
 Alfred's loneliness to seem more drear and 
 chilling to him than ever. An open letter 
 lay upon the table, and, after reading it a 
 second time, he rose and went to his study. 
 
 * What is the meaning of this new caprice 
 of Maud s, I wonder ? ' he mused as he drew 
 a sheet of paper towards him. ' tiere is a 
 second letter begging me to go to her, the 
 request urged for the sake of " Auld Lang 
 
230 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 Syne." It will be a just punishment for her 
 ladyship to find that she can plead in vain to 
 me ; no doubt, she fancied that one soft word 
 would instantly recall me to her side. It is 
 not so easy to restore life to that which is 
 dead. I gave her credit for more worldly 
 wisdom at least, than to expose herself to the 
 mortification of a refusal, but how well she 
 deserves it ! ' and he dipped his pen in the 
 ink with a mingled feeling of sadness and 
 triumph. 
 
 *My Dear Maud, 
 
 ' You know that I dislike dull old French 
 towns beyond ever^'thing, therefore pray ex- 
 cuse me for not joining you at Avranches ; 
 had it been Paris, though all cities in summer 
 are, — I will not finish the sentence. Alas ! 
 that a day should come when a sweet invita- 
 
*WHAT TIS TO LOVE, 23! 
 
 tion from a fair lady should fail to invest any 
 place where she might be with all the attrac- 
 tions of a land of pure delights. But so it is ; 
 whose is the fault, I wonder ? Is it Time's ? 
 
 * I need not say that a welcome awaits you 
 at home whenever you feel inclined to return, 
 but pray do not inconvenience yourself by 
 altering your plans ; my great desire is, that 
 you shall do whatever gives you most 
 pleasure.' 
 
 He read it over with a smile, and as the 
 mail did not go out till the evening locked it 
 up in his desk muttering at the same time — 
 
 * She cannot complain that I do not comply 
 with her desire for an immediate answer, or 
 that I control her liberty in any way, but 
 nothing that she could now do can cancel the 
 past. My life rendered a burden by the tie 
 which deprives me of freedom, without giving 
 
232 * WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 me any of the happiness of a real home — my 
 self-respect lost in the reckless chase after 
 that forgetfulness which alone can save me 
 from despair. God knows that, at an angel's 
 bidding, I tried to build up a new union 
 between my dead boy's mother and myself — 
 neither sunshine nor rain softens rocks. 
 Mildred, from how much misery might you 
 not have saved me ! I will keep my resolu- 
 tion never to pursue you while you wash to 
 conceal from me your home ; but you loved 
 me not if you never seek to learn whether our 
 sacrifice has been of any avail, and if, know- 
 ing it has not, you let me long in vain for 
 tidings of you. Milly, let mc owe to you the 
 all of happiness that can still be mine! ' 
 
 The sound of a door made him start and 
 look round as if he expected to see someone 
 enter. 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' 233 
 
 * What nonsense this is,' he exclaimed, 
 standing up and taking down his hat and 
 riding- whip. ' Mildred Lindsay has doubt- 
 less conquered any warmer feeling towards 
 me than one of tender regret Most likely 
 she is married or going to marry some happy 
 fellow abroad who Is free to give her his name 
 as well as his love, and that may be the 
 reason why her image has been so strangely 
 present to me of late, not as I last saw her in 
 sorrow and tears, but beaming with a brighter 
 radiance than ever. Are there secret affinities 
 which defy time and space ? An unexpected 
 sound, the arrival of the post, sets my heart 
 beating with an absurd feeling of expectation. 
 I see it won t do to remain here, the loneliness 
 of the place, thronged as it is with memories 
 of her, renders it more than I can bear ; I will 
 go to London to-morrow and see if I cannot 
 
234 'what 'tis to love/ 
 
 make up a party of genial spirits for a trip to 
 the Isle of Wight.' 
 
 Some hours later, as he returned from a long 
 ride, he met the postman, who handed him a 
 sealed packet ; there were no letters. It was 
 something more than the sun's glare which 
 dazzled him as he remained gazing with a 
 fixed stare at the address. Had a spirit 
 appeared at his call he would not have been 
 more agitated, the handwriting was Mildreds. 
 Yes, altered as it was, he could not be mis- 
 taken. Was his prayer of that morning, 
 ' Milly let me owe to you the all of happi- 
 ness that can still be mine,' going to be 
 answered ? 
 
 Maud had begged him to reply by return 
 of post, but, although, as we have seen, he 
 did write immediately on receipt of her letter, 
 no answer reached Avranches. The pain of 
 
'WHAT 'tis to love/ 235 
 
 this new, and apparently final repulse was 
 greater than she could conquer for the 
 moment, and some hours passed before she 
 was able to go out again after the arrival of 
 the mail. 
 
236 ' WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Led on by Heaven and crowned with joy at last. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 The heat of the day had been excessive, and 
 Mildred, who had that morning received the 
 last Sacraments, was so exhausted that she had 
 not insisted as usual on getting up. Towards 
 evening, however, there rose a light breeze 
 from the sea and as it entered at the open 
 window, breathing a reviving freshness into 
 the room, she looked up pleadingly at her 
 fond w^atchful nurse. 
 
 * Jeannette, the oppressive heaviness is gone. 
 I feel the air would do me good, and I should 
 so like to see the sun set once more over 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love/ 237 
 
 Mont St. Michel. Please to take me to my 
 sofa on the terrace ; here comes Lady Maud, 
 and she will promise not to let me stay out 
 too long; you will not refuse me, Jeannette.' 
 
 Maud kissed her forehead and stepped out 
 into the garden, while Jeannette, half choked 
 by the rising tears, silently prepared to 
 obey. 
 
 After a little time, when Mildred was 
 settled upon her couch, carefully wrapped up, 
 Maud came with some freshly-culled fruit, and 
 gently sought to tempt her with it. For some 
 minutes neither spoke, but Mildreds eyes 
 asked the question which her lips hesitated to 
 utter — ' Will he come ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! stay until you have made me more 
 like yourself, until you have taught me the 
 secret of suffering gaily,' murmured Maud, 
 avoiding that questioning gaze. ' To lose you 
 
238 'what 'tis to love.* 
 
 now would be the over-brimming drop in an 
 already full cup of sorrow and regret' 
 
 ' Not so, dear Lady Maud, my death must 
 be to you instead of sorrow a pledge of happi- 
 ness, you will promise me to think of it as 
 such.' 
 
 * I cannot, Mildred — my last hope of happi- 
 ness has vanished. Alfred would not even 
 answer my letter without delay as I besought 
 him. For once, even you have been a false 
 prophet ; you see nothing will induce him to 
 come to me.' 
 
 Mildred's large eyes, to which the fatal dis- 
 ease only added brilliancy, grew dim, and her 
 breathing became laboured. A faint hope 
 had lurked in her heart that Alfred would 
 arrive that evening, but the last diligence had 
 come and brought no glad tidings for her. As 
 she gazed on the exquisite loveliness of the 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 239 
 
 scene around, and felt that the time had come 
 for her to say farewell to all created beauty, 
 there arose one throb of yearning to see for the 
 last time in this world the face that she had 
 loved so well, and to receive from those eyes, 
 which knew not how to feign, an assurance 
 that the price offered for his happiness should 
 not be offered in vain. It was not that her 
 faith wavered, she had no doubt that her 
 sacrifice would eventually bear fruit, but from 
 the poor human heart went up the cry for a 
 gleam of supremest joy on earth. Yet almost 
 as soon as the cry rose it was stilled again, 
 she had accepted the idea of approaching 
 death w^ithout that gleam which would have 
 indeed made it a sunlit passage from the 
 twilight of this world to the unclouded bright- 
 ness of eternal day. 
 
 She turned her head slowly to where his 
 
240 * WHAT 'tis to love.* 
 
 wife knelt, self-forgetting at last, and uncon- 
 scious that never in the hours of her greatest 
 triumphs, radiant with jewels, admired, 
 courted, envied queen of a ball-room thronged 
 with England's lovely daughters, had she 
 looked so truly beautiful as then, kneeling 
 beside a sick couch with all the simplicity of 
 a village maiden. The soft folds of her plain 
 white dress seemed as If bordered by the 
 flowers behind her, and In her whole appear- 
 ance there was a yielding grace which added ' 
 to the old royalty of her beauty the poetry 
 of generosity and tenderness. 
 
 ' If he could only see you at this moment, 
 Lady Maud !' murmured Mildred, speaking 
 the thought which filled her mind. 
 
 ' Why not have allowed me to tell him that 
 you were here — that you were leaving us, 
 then he would have come.' 
 
*WHAT 'tis to love.' 24 1 
 
 * I have already said, because you would 
 not value his coming if you supposed it was 
 for—' 
 
 * For you ! Yes ; the lesson I have had has 
 been so severe ! Perhaps if he saw me here 
 at your feet he would understand that I am 
 indeed changed, and might deem me worthy 
 of forgiveness. Oh ! I would gladly owe his 
 coming even to you ! ' 
 
 They had not heard the approach of an 
 intruder by the path through the Naffr6e, who 
 stood like one transfixed at a little distance 
 from them. Yet he had come at the 
 summons contained in that parcel, the arrival 
 of which had appeared to him like the answer 
 of a spirit to his call. On the title-page of 
 the book the * Following of Christ ' — was 
 traced a little record of * sublime folly.' 
 
 * My God, thou hast conquered. The life 
 VOL. in. R 
 
242 *WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 that I may not give to him, I offer to Thee 
 for his happiness. Teach her who has the 
 right to love him to prize that right as I 
 would have prized it, and teach him to forget 
 me in her affection. 
 
 'Mildred Lindsay. 
 
 ' June 1 86-, eve of my departure from River 
 View.' 
 
 Underneath was written in trembling 
 characters — 
 
 * Alfred, I am dying, give me my reward ; 
 go to Avranches as quickly as you can, your 
 wife is now worthy of your love.' 
 
 An hour later Alfred had left Chiltern 
 Park, forgetting the letter addressed to Maud 
 in his desk. He would obey Mildred im- 
 plicitly, he would go to Avranches as quickly 
 as he could, in spite of the well-nigh irresis- 
 
'what 'tis to love/ 243 
 
 tible temptation to stay and seek her in town 
 — the post-mark on the packet was London — 
 but he would tell Maud that he only came 
 for an hour as she wished it so very much, 
 and that he must return immediately. Mean- 
 while Mildred was dying, and through that 
 delay, he might, it seemed so him, lose what- 
 ever chance he had of ever seeing her again 
 in this world, and that act of simple obedience 
 cost him such tears as a man never sheds but 
 once in his life. But with the thought of her 
 sacrifice before him he would have felt it a 
 sort of sacrilege to disobey her, it had raised 
 him to her own level and he offered her a 
 homage which angels might have envied. 
 
 He missed the last diligence from St. Lo 
 on the day when a letter from him had been 
 so anxiously expected, but followed as fast as 
 
 post-horses can go when the postilion is 
 
 R 2 
 
244 * WHAT 'tis to LOVE.' 
 
 promised that every half- hour gained will add 
 to his * pour-boire.' At Lady Maud's apart- 
 ments Alfred learned that she had gone to 
 her friend who was very ill. Her maid was 
 out, and the proprietor could only tell him 
 that Madame's friend was a beautiful young 
 English lady who had been living at Avran- 
 ches for about a year, and was regarded by 
 the poor people as almost an angel on account 
 of her charity, even before M. le Cure had 
 received her into the 'household of faith.' 
 ' He did not remember to have heard the 
 name,' he said, in answer to Alfred's eager 
 question, as the thought darted into his mind 
 that it might be Mildred. The old French 
 bonne who had come with her always called 
 her simply Mademoiselle. If Monsieur 
 wished, the little boy would show him the way 
 to her house. 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 245 
 
 Alfred bade the child take the shortest 
 way, and followed, as insensible as a blind 
 man to the beauty of that lovely walk. Was 
 he going to see Mildred after all .^ He tried 
 to reason with himself about the folly of such 
 a thought — ' Beautiful, an angel — the old 
 French bonne/ there was nothing in this 
 which might not apply to any other young 
 English lady ; and the London postmark on 
 the packet — an4 the more than improbability 
 that his wife should have become her 
 attendant in illness ! . . . 
 
 After a short ascent through underwood 
 and brambles, the boy stopped before a small 
 wicket gate. Alfred entered alone and a 
 sudden turn brought him in full view of the 
 terrace. He saw Mildred lying upon the 
 couch with the golden rays of the evening 
 sun encircling her head like an aureole, and 
 
246 * WHAT 'tis to love.' 
 
 his wife bowed down beside her uttering that 
 passionately sorrowful exclamation, ' I would 
 gladly owe his coming even to you ! ' 
 
 Was he dreaming ? he asked himself; was 
 it some scene of enchantment passing before 
 his travel-tired sight ? If it were real, then 
 there must be superhuman power and beauty 
 in the religion which had become Mildred's, 
 and which had at last taught his wife to speak 
 those marvellous words which seemed to echo 
 in his ear. Before that echo had died away 
 Mildred looked up and their eyes met ! He 
 forgot everything save that Mildred was 
 there before him, and that his presence would 
 cause her countenance to light up with a 
 more brilliant loveliness than he had ever 
 seen it wear in her happiest days, and in an 
 instant he had crossed the space which 
 divided them, his hands stretched out to clasp 
 
'what 'tis to love.' 247 
 
 hers. A glance arrested him, his hands fell 
 by his side as her lips formed the words, 
 * Your wife ! ' 
 
 He understood that mute appeal, that his 
 first greeting should be to Maud, but it 
 seemed almost too much to ask of him, and 
 he stood still with his eyes fixed on the 
 ground ; yet to refuse Mildred ? No ! — 
 
 ' Maud, my wife,' he said at length in a 
 hoarse, low tone. 
 
 But Maud had seen his expression of 
 rapt delight as he hastened to Mildred's 
 side, and she was not so strong as she 
 fancied. How respond to his greeting when, 
 as his wife, it was evident she was nothing to 
 him in comparison to that dying girl ? An 
 involuntary shiver passed over her as he laid 
 his hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 * My God ! must I die in vain ? ' 
 
248 *WHAT 'tis to love/ 
 
 whispered Mildred, as a look of anguish 
 crossed her face. 
 
 Alfred alone heard that prayer ; It pierced 
 to his very soul, and with a look almost of 
 inspiration he turned to Mildred, as if dedi- 
 cating to her the final conquest over himself. 
 For an instant his eyes rested upon hers in 
 unutterable love and reverence, then bending 
 over his wife, but without touching her, as if 
 to leave her perfectly free, he said softly — 
 
 ' Come to me, Maud, my first love ! ' 
 
 Yes, she knew that she was his first love, 
 and as she cast herself into his arms, the 
 barrier of years was broken down ; she 
 remembered as if it were yesterday, the day 
 when, at the peril of his life, he had leaped 
 over the gate to be at her side. 
 
 * It was because I never deserved such love 
 as yours, Alfred,' she faltered, 'that I was 
 
* WHAT 'tis to love.' 249 
 
 mad enough to undervalue it. Forgive me, 
 and let me try to regain even a little of it ; 
 my punishment is very great, since I have 
 learned to love where I am no longer loved!' 
 
 A sweet seal of pardon closed that 
 sentence : such gentle humility in Maud was 
 irresistible ... And this also was the work 
 of Mildred ! A colour lovely as that which 
 precedes the sunrise of a glorious summer 
 morning spread over her face as she 
 witnessed that silent embrace, and even as it 
 faded and her head fell heavily back upon the 
 pillow with a short quick breath, her lips 
 parted in a smile of ineffable happiness : the 
 joys of earth and heaven had indeed met for 
 her in that last supreme hour of seeming 
 consciousness. 
 
 She was carried back to bed insensible, 
 and a succession of fainting-fits followed. 
 
250 'what ^tis to love.' 
 
 The shock had but caused the frail thread of 
 her Hfe to break more quickly than it might 
 otherwise have done, and before the sun rose 
 again over that Norman bay, her soul had 
 received her viaticum, had reached her 
 Home ! . . . 
 
 Maud and Alfred knelt with clasped hands 
 beside the lifeless remains of her who had 
 been to them, as her name signifies : Mildred 
 — Peace- BRiNGER ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 "Gives, within moderate compass, a 
 suggestive description of the charms, cu- 
 riosities, dangers, and discomforts of the 
 Nile voyage."— Saturday Kcvicw. 
 
 ROUND THE WORLD IN 1870. 
 
 A VOLUME OF TRAVELS, WITH MAPS. 
 
 By a. D. CARLISLE, B.A., 
 
 Trin, Coll., Camb. 
 Demy Svo. i6s. 
 
 " Makes one understand how going 
 round the world is to be done in the quick- 
 est and pleasantcst manner, and how the 
 brightest and most cheerful of travellers 
 did it with eyes wide open and keen at- 
 tention ail on the alert, with ready sympa- 
 thies, with the happiest facility of hittmg 
 
 upon the most interesting features of nature 
 and the most interesting characteristics of 
 man, and all for its own sake." — Spectator. 
 " We can only commend, which we do 
 very heartily, an eminently sensible and 
 readable book." — liritish Quarterly Kc- 
 
 Z'ic7V. 
 
 65, Cornhill ; d^ 12, Paternoster Row^ London. 
 
14 Works Published by Henry S. King (j^ Co. 
 
 Itlilititnr Morhs. 
 
 THE FRONTAL ATTACK OF INFANTRY. 
 
 By Capt. LAYMANN, Instructor of Tactics at the Military Col- 
 lege, Neisse. Translated by Colonel EDWARD NEWDIGATE. 
 Crown 8vo, limp cloth. Price 2s. 6d. 
 " This work has met with special attention in our army." — Militarln Wochcnhlatt. 
 
 THE FIRST BAVARIAN ARMY CORPS IN 
 
 THE WAR OF 1870-71, UNDER VON DER TANN. Compiled 
 from the Official Records by Capt. HUGO HELVIG. Translated 
 by Capt. G. Salis Schwabe. Demy Svo. With 5 large Maps. 
 
 History of the Organisation, Equipvient, and War Services of 
 
 THE REGIMENT OF BENGAL ARTILLERY. 
 
 Compiled from Published Official and other Records, and various 
 private sources, by Major FRANCIS W. STUBBS, Royal (late 
 Bengal) Artillery. Vol. I. will contain War Services, The 
 Second Volume will be published separately, and will contain the 
 History of the Organisation and Equipment of the Regiment. 
 In 2 vols. Svo. With Maps and Plans. Preparing. 
 
 THE ABOLITION OF PURCHASE AND THE 
 
 ARMY REGULATION BILL of 1871. By Lieut. -Col. the 
 Hon. A. ANSON, V.C, M.P. Crown Svo. Price One Shilling. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE SUPERSESSIONS. By 
 
 Lieut.-Col. the Hon. A. ANSON, V.C, M.P. Crn. Svo. Price 6^. 
 
 ARMY RESERVES AND MILITIA REFORMS. 
 
 By Lieut. -Colonel the Hon. C. ANSON. Crown Svo. Sewed. 
 
 Price \s. 
 
 ELEMENTARY MILITARY GEOGRAPHY, 
 
 RECONNOITRING, AND SKETCHING. Compiled for Non- 
 commissioned Officers and Soldiers of all Arms. By Lieut. C. E. 
 H. VINCENT, Royal Welsh Fusileers. Small crown Svo. 
 
 65, Corn hill ; 6^ 12, Paternoster Roiv, London. 
 
JVo?ks Published by Henry S. A7//^' t> Co., 
 
 15 
 
 Military Works— r^;?//;/;/,-;/. 
 VICTORIES AND DEFEATS. 
 
 explain the Causes which have led to them. 
 By Col. R. P. ANDERSON. Demy 8vo. 
 
 An Attempt to 
 
 An Officer's Manual. 
 
 [/n frepm-ation. 
 
 STUDIES IN THE NEW INFANTRY 
 
 TACTICS. By Major W. VON SCHEREFF. Translated from 
 the German by Col. LUMLEY GRAHAM. \_Shortly. 
 
 THE OPERATIONS OF THE FIRST ARMY 
 
 TO THE CAPITULATION of METZ. By Major VON SCHELL, 
 with Maps, including one of Metz and of the country around. Trans- 
 lated by Capt. E. O. HOLLIST. In demy 8vo. \_In preparation. 
 *** The most important events de- 
 scribed in this work are the battles of 
 Spichern, those before Metz on the 14th 
 and 1 8th August, and (on this point no- 
 thing authentic has yet been pubUshed) 
 the history of the investment of Metz 
 (battle of Noisseville). 
 
 This work, however, possesses a greater 
 importance than that derived from these 
 points, because it represents for the first 
 
 time from the official documents the gene- 
 ralship of Von Steinmetz. Hitherto we 
 have had no exact reports on the deeds 
 and motives of this celebrated general. 
 This work has the special object of un- 
 folding carefully the relations in which the 
 commander of the First Army acted, the 
 plan of operations which he drew up, and 
 the manner in which he carried it out. 
 
 THE OPERATIONS OF THE FIRST ARMY 
 
 IN NORTHERN FRANCE AGAINST FAIDHERBE. By 
 Colonel Count HERMANN VON WARTENSLEBEN, Chief 
 of the Staff of the First Army. Translated by Colonel C. H. VON 
 WRIGHT. In demy 8vo. Uniform with the above. 
 
 \_In preparation. 
 
 THE OPERATIONS OF THE FIRST ARMY, 
 
 UNDER Gen. von GOEBEN. Translated by Col. C. II. VON 
 WRIGHT. With Maps. Demy 8vo. 
 
 TACTICAL DEDUCTIONS FROM THE WAR 
 
 of 1870-1. By Captain A. VON BOGUSLAWSKI. Trans- 
 lated by Colonel LUMLEY GRAHAM, late iSth (Royal Irish) 
 Regiment. Demy 8vo. Uniform \vith the above. Price 'js. 
 
 "Major Doguslawski's tactical deduc- 
 tions from the war are, that infantry still 
 preserve their superiority over cavalry, 
 that open order must henceforth be the 
 main principles of all drill, and that the 
 chassepot is the best of all small arms for 
 precision. . . . We must, without delay, 
 impress brain and forethought into the 
 
 British Service ; and we cannot commence 
 the §ood work too soon, or better, than by 
 placuig the two books (' The Operations of 
 the German Armies' and 'Tactical Deduc- 
 tions') we have here criticised, in every 
 military library, and introducing tliem as 
 class-books in every tactical school." — 
 United Service Gazette. 
 
 65, ConiJiill ; 6^ 12, Pafer/iosfe?- Roic, Londou. 
 
1 6 Works Published by Henry S. Kmg ^ Co., 
 
 M I LiTARY Works— contimied. 
 THE OPERATIONS OF THE GERMAN 
 
 ARMIES IN FRANCE, FROM SEDAN TO THE END OF 
 
 THE WAR OF 1870-1. With Large Official Map. From the 
 
 Journals of the Head-quarters Staff, by Major WM. BLUME. 
 
 Translated by E. M. JONES, Major 20th Foot, late Professor of 
 
 Militaiy History, Sandhurst. Demy 8vo. Price 9^. 
 
 "The book is of absolute necessity to the I English dress forms the most valuable 
 
 military student. . . . The work is one addition to our stock of works upon the 
 
 of high merit and . . . has the advantage ' war that our press has put forth. Major 
 
 of being rendered into fluent English, and | Blume writes with a clear conciseness 
 
 is accompanied by an excellent military I much wanting in many of his country's 
 
 reap." — United Seii'ice Gazette. \ historians, and INIajor Jones has done 
 
 "The work of translation has been well | himself and his original alike justice by 
 
 done ; the expressive German idioms have | his vigorous yet correct translation of the 
 
 been rendered into clear, nervous English | excellent volume on which he has laboured. 
 
 without losing anj- of their original force ; ' Our space forbids our doing more than 
 
 and in notes, prefaces, and introductions, commending it earnestly as the most au- 
 
 much additional information has been ; thentic and instructive narrative of the 
 
 given." — AthentPian. j second section of the war that has yet 
 
 "The work of Major von Blume in its appeared." — Satitrdny Review. 
 
 THE OPERATIONS OF THE SOUTH ARMY 
 
 IN JANUARY AND FEBRUARY, 187 1. Compiled from the 
 Official War Documents of the Head-quarters of the Southern Army, 
 By Count HERMANN VON WARTENSLEBEN, Colonel in 
 the Prussian General Staff. Translated by Colonel C. H. "\'0N 
 W^RIGHT. Demy 8vo, with Maps. Uniform with the above. Price 6j. 
 
 HASTY INTRENCHMENTS. By Colonel A. 
 
 BRIALMONT. Translated by Lieutenant CHARLES A. 
 
 EMPSON, R.A. Demy8vo. Nine Plates. Price 6j-. 
 
 " A valuable contribution to military I to how a position can best be strengtliened 
 
 literature." — Athenaiuit. _ by means ... of such extemporised in- 
 
 " In seven short chapters it gives plain I trenchments and batteries as can be thrown 
 
 directions for performing shelter-trenches, up by infantry in the space of four or five 
 
 with the best method of carrying the neces- \ hours . . . deserves to become a standard 
 
 sary tools, and it offers practical illustrations ' military work."' — Statidard. 
 
 ofthe use ofhastyintrenchments on the field | "A clever treatise, short, practical and 
 
 mil. 
 
 oihzX.\.\Q."— United Se}~'ice I\Iagnzi)ic. clear." — lux'estot's Guai-diu 
 
 " It supplies that which our own text- | " Clearly and critically written." — 7/W- 
 books give but imperfectly, viz., hints as 1 lington Gazette. 
 
 THE ARMY OF THE NORTH -GERMAN 
 
 CONFEDERATION. A Brief Description of its Organisation, 
 of the different Branches of the Service and their ' Role ' in War, of 
 its Mode of Fighting, &c. By a PRUSSIAN GENERAL. 
 Translated from the German by Col. EDWARD NEWDIGATE. 
 Demy 8vo. 5x. 
 *»• The authorship of this book was erroneously ascribed to the renowned General von 
 Moltke, but there can be little doubt that it was written under his immediate inspiration. 
 
 65, Coriihill ; 6^ 12, Paternoster Po7C', London. 
 
JFor/^s Published by Henry S. King &^ Co., 
 
 17 
 
 Mf r.iTARY '^ORKS— continued. 
 CAVALRY FIELD DUTY. By Major-General VON 
 MIRUS. Translated by Captain FRANK S. RUSSELL, 14th 
 (King's) Hussars. Crown 8vo, limp cloth. <^s. 
 
 *^''- This is the text-book of instruction 
 in the German cavalry, and comprises all 
 the details connected with the military 
 duties of cavalry soldiers on service. The 
 translation is made from a new edition, 
 which contains the modifications intro- 
 
 duced consequent on the experiences of 
 the late war. The great interest that stu- 
 dents feel in all the German military 
 methods, will, it is believed, render this 
 book especially acceptable at the present 
 time. 
 
 STUDIES IN LEADING TROOPS. By 
 
 Colonel VON VERDY DU VERNOIS. An authorised and 
 accurate Translation by Lieutenant H. J. T. HILDYARD, 71st 
 Foot. Parts L and II. Demy 8vo. Price ^s. {Now ready. 
 
 tunately placed staff-officer is in a position 
 to give. I have read and re-read them 
 very carefully, I hope with profit, certainly 
 with great interest, and believe that prac- 
 tice, in the sense of these ' Studies,' would 
 be a valuable preparation for manoeuvres 
 on a more extended scale." — Berlin, June, 
 1872. 
 
 *»* General Beauchamp Walker says 
 of this work: — "I recommend the first 
 two numbers of Colonel von Verdy's 
 'Studies' to the attentive perusal of my 
 brother officers. They supply a want 
 which I have often felt during my service 
 in this country, namely, a minuter tactical 
 detail of the minor operations of the war 
 than any but the most observant and for- 
 
 THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAR, 1870-71. 
 
 First Part :— history of the war to the downfall of 
 THE empire. First Section :— the events in july. Autho- 
 rised Translation from the German Official Account at the Topogra- 
 phical and Statistical Department of the War Office, by Captain F. C. 
 H. CLARKE, R.A. First Section, with Map. Demy 8vo. 3^. 
 
 DISCIPLINE AND DRILL. Four Lectures delivered 
 
 to the London Scottish Rifle Volunteers. IJy Captain S. FLOOD 
 PAGE. A New and Cheaper Edition. Price is. 
 
 " One of the best-known and coolest- 
 headed of the metropolitan regiments, 
 whose adjutant moreover has lately pub- 
 lished an admirable collection of lectures 
 addressed by him to the men of his corps." 
 — Titties. 
 
 " The very useful and interesting work. 
 . . . Every Volunteer, officer or pri- 
 
 vate, will be the better for perusing and 
 digesting the plain-spoken truths which 
 Captain Page so firmly, and yet so mo- 
 destly, puts before them ; and we trust 
 that the little book in which they are con- 
 tained will find its way into all parts of 
 Cireat IJritain." — yolutitccr Service Ga- 
 zette. 
 
 THE SUBSTANTIVE SENIORITY 
 
 LIST. Majors and Captains. By Captain F. 1>. P. 
 1st W. I. Regiment. 8vo, sewed. 2s. 6d. 
 
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 65, Cornhill ; 
 
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i8 
 
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 WITH A MEDICAL GUIDE FOR ANGLO-INDIANS. 
 
 BEING A COMPENDITM OF ADVICE TO EUROPEANS IN INDIA, RELATING TO THE 
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 By R. S. MAIR, M.D., F.R.C.S.E., 
 
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 In I vol. Post 8vo. 6s. 
 
 "Full of all sorts of useful information 
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 " One of the most valuable books ever 
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 The medical part of the work is invalu- 
 able. " — Calcutta Gtiardiau, 
 
 EASTERN EXPERIENCES. 
 
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 Lord Canning's Private Secretary, and for many years the Chief Commissioner of 
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 In I vol. Demy 8vo. i&y. Illustrated with Maps and Diagrams. 
 
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Works Publis/icd by Henry S. King &' Co. 
 
 ]?ooKS ox Indian Subjects— <rc;////;///^</. 
 
 WESTERN INDIA BEFORE AND DURING 
 THE MUTINIES. 
 
 PICTURES DRAWN FROM LIFE. 
 
 By Major-Gen. Sir GEORGE LE GRAND JACOB, K.C.S.I., C.B. 
 
 In 1 vol. Crown 8vo. 7^. 6</. 
 
 "The most important contribution to 
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 "The legacy of a wise veteran, intent 
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 " Few men more competent than him- 
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 EXCHANGE TABLES OF STERLING AND 
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 A CATALOGUE OF MAPS OF THE BRITISH 
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 65, Cornhill ; C^ 12, Paternoster Roiu^ London. 
 
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20 
 
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 BRAVE MEN'S FOOTSTEPS. A Book of Example 
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 " The little volume is precisely of the 
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 boy could be imagined." — Birmiiighattt 
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 THE LITTLE WONDER-HORN. 
 
 INGELOW. A Second Series of "Stories told 
 P"ifteen Ilhistrations. Cloth, gilt. '^s. 6d. 
 
 By jean 
 
 to a Child." 
 
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 " We like all the contents of the ' Little 
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 " We recommend it with confidence." — 
 Pall-Mail Gazette. 
 
 STORIES IN PRECIOUS STONES. By HELEN 
 
 ZIMMERN. With Six Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 5^-. 
 
 "A series of pretty tales which are half 
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 " Certainly the book is well worth a 
 perusal, and will not be soon laid down 
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 Times. 
 
 GUTTA-PERCHA WILLIE, THE WORKING 
 
 GExXIUS. By GEORGE MACDONALD. With Illustrations. 
 By Arthur Hughe.s. Crown 8vo. 3^-. 6d. 
 
 THE TRAVELLING MENAGERIE. By 
 
 CHARLES CAMDEN, Author of " Hoity Toity." Illustrated 
 by J. M.VHONFA'. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 PLUCKY FELLOWS. A Book for Boys. By 
 STEPHEN J. MACKENNA. With Six Illustrations. Crown 
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 THE DESERTED SHIP. A Real Stoiy- of the 
 
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 by Townley Grekn. Crown 8vo. y. dd. 
 
 65, Cornhill ; 6^ 12, Paternoster Row, Lo7idon. 
 
] Forks Published by Henry S. King 6^ C<?., 21 
 
 Juvenile Books — continued. 
 GOOD WORDS FOR THE YOUNG. The Volume 
 
 for 1872, gilt cloth and gilt edges, ^s. dd. Containing numerous 
 Contributions by popular authors, and about One Hundred and 
 Fifty Illustrations by the best artists. 
 
 JEAN JAROUSSEAU, THE PASTOR OF THE 
 
 DESERT. Translated from the French of EUGENE PELLETAX. 
 By Colonel E. P. DE L'HOSTE. In fcap. 8vo, with an Engraved 
 Frontispiece. Price 5^. 
 
 "There is a poetical simplicity and pic- some splendid niin." — Illustrated London 
 
 turesqueness ; the noblest heroism ; unpre- | Xezvs. 
 
 tentious religion; pure love, and the ! "This charming specimen of Eugene 
 spectacle of a household brought up in the Pelletan's tender grace, humour, and high- 
 fear of the Lord. . . . The whole | toned morality." — Notes and Queries. 
 story has an air of quaint antiquity similar ; "A touching record of the struggles in 
 to that which invests with a charm more the cause of religious liberty of a real 
 easily felt than described the site of ! man." — GraJ>hic. 
 
 HOITYTOITY, THE GOOD LITTLE FELLOW, 
 
 By CHARLES CAMDEN. Illustrated. Crown Svo. 3^. U. 
 
 LILLIPUT REVELS. By the Author of '' LILLIPUT 
 
 LEVEE," \Vith Illustrations. Crown Svo. 
 
 SEEKING HIS FORTUNE, AND OTHER 
 
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 THE ''ELSIE'' SERIES. 
 
 ELSIE DINSMORE. By MARTHA FARQUHAR- 
 
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 ELSIE'S GIRLHOOD. A Sequel to " Elsie Uinsmore." 
 
 Py the same Author. Crown Svo. Illustrated. 
 
 ELSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS. By 
 
 the same Author. Crown Svo. Illustrated. 
 
 65, Cornhill ; C^ 12, Paternoster Row, London. 
 
2 2 J Forks Published by Henry S. King d^ Co. 
 
 |)0eto. 
 
 IMITATIONS FROM THE GERMAN OF 
 
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 EASTERN LEGENDS AND STORIES IN 
 
 ENGLISH VERSE. By Lieutenant NORTON POWLETT, 
 Royal Artillery. Cro^vn 8vo. ^s. 
 
 EDITH; or, LOVE AND LIFE IN CHESHIRE. 
 
 By T. ASHE, Author of the "Sorrows of Hypsipyle," etc. Sewed. 
 Price dd. 
 
 " A really fine poem, full of tender, 
 subtle touches of feeling." — Manchester 
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 " Pregnant from beginning to end with 
 the results of careful observation and ima- 
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 THE GALLERY OF PIGEONS, AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS. By THEOPHILUS MARZIALS. Crown 8vo. 
 
 [/;/ the press, 
 
 A NEW VOLUME OF POEMS. By the Rev. 
 
 C. TENNYSON TURNER. Crown 8vo. lln the press. 
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS. Collected and Arranc^ed by 
 JOHN DENNIS. Small crown 8 vo. ^IiUhe press. 
 
 GOETHE'S FAUST. A New Translation in Rhyme, 
 
 By the Rev. C. KEGAN PAUL. Crown 8vo. 6^. I 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT'S POEMS. 
 
 Hau'lsomely bound, with Illustrations. A Cheaper lOdilion. A 
 Pocket Edition. {^I'repariug. 
 
 65, Cornhill ; <^ 12, Paternoster Poic, London. 
 
Works Puhhshed by Henry S. King 6^ G?., 
 
 23 
 
 Poet R Y — continued. 
 
 CALDERON'S POEMS. The Purgatory of St. 
 Patrick — The Wonderful Magician — Life is a Dream. Translated 
 from the Spanish. By DExVIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. 
 
 SONGS FOR SAILORS. By Dr. W. C. BENNETT. 
 
 Dedicated by Special Request to H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh. 
 Crown 8vo. 3J-. 6d. With Steel Portrait and Illustrations, 
 Edition in Illustrated paper Covers. Price is. 
 
 An 
 
 DR. W. C. BENNETT'S POEMS will be shortly 
 
 Re-issued, with additions to each part, in Five Parts, at is. each. 
 
 WALLED IN, AND OTHER POEMS. By the 
 
 Rev. HENRY J. BULKELY. Crown 8vo. 5^. 
 
 THE POETICAL AND PROSE WORKS OF 
 
 ROBERT BUCPIANAN. Preparing for publication, a Collected 
 Edition in 5 vols. 
 Contents ok Vol. I.— daughters of eve ; undertones and antiques ; 
 
 COUNTRY AND PASTORAL POE.MS. [In the FrtSS. 
 
 SONGS OF LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 PAYNE, Author of "Intaglios," "Sonnets," 
 Shadows," etc. Crown 8vo. 5^-. 
 
 By JOHN 
 
 The Masque of 
 
 IJiist out. 
 
 SONGS OF TWO WORLDS. By a NEW WRITER. 
 Fcap. 8vo, cloth, ^s. 
 
 "The 'New Writer' is certainly no 
 tyro. No one after reading the first two 
 poems almost perfect in rhythm and 
 all the graceful reserve of true lyrical 
 strength, can doubt that this book is the 
 result of lengthened thought and assiduous 
 training in poetical form. . . . These 
 poems will assuredly take high rank among 
 the class to which they belong." — British 
 Quarterly Revietv, April ist. 
 
 "If these poems are the mere preludes 
 of a mind growing in power and in inclma- 
 tion for verse, we liave in them the promise 
 of a fine poet. . . . The verse describ- 
 
 ing Socrates has the highest note of critical 
 poetry." — Spectator, J-'cbrunry i-jt/i. 
 
 "No extracts could do justice to the 
 exquisite tones, the felicitous phrasing and 
 delicately wrought harmonies of some of 
 these poems." — Noncofi/or»iist, March 
 njth. 
 
 "Arc we in this book making the ac- 
 quaintance of a fine and original poet, or 
 of a most artistic imitator? And our 
 deliberate opinion is that the former hy- 
 pothesis is the right one. It has a purity 
 and delicacy of feeling like morning air." 
 — Graphic, March ibth. 
 
 65, Cor n hill ; &> 12, Fatcrnoskr Row, London. 
 
24 
 
 Works Published by Henry S. Xing o^ Co.. 
 
 Poetry — continued. 
 THE INN OF STRANGE MEETINGS, AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. By MORTIMER COLLINS. Crown 8vo. ^s. 
 
 "Abounding in quiet humour, in bright 
 fancy, in sweetness and melody of expres- 
 sion, and, at times, in the tenderest touches 
 of pathos. " — Graphic. 
 ■ "Mr. Collins has an undercurrent of 
 
 chivalry and romance beneath the trifling 
 vein of good humoured banter which is the 
 special characteristic of his verse. . . . 
 The 'Inn of Strange Meetings' is a 
 sprightly piece." — A thenauin. 
 
 EROS AGONISTES. By K B. D. Cro\vn 8vo. 3^.6^. 
 
 "The author of these verses has written 
 a very touching story of the human heart 
 in the story he tells with such pathos and 
 power, of an affection cherished so long 
 and so secretly. . . . It is not the 
 
 least merit of these pages that they are 
 everywhere illumined with moral and re- 
 ligious sentiment suggested, not paraded, 
 of the brightest, purest character." — 
 Sta/idard. 
 
 THE LEGENDS OF ST 
 
 POEMS. By AUBREY DE 
 
 " Mr, De Vere's versification in his 
 earlier poems is characterised by great 
 sweetness and simplicity. He is master of 
 his instrument, and rarely offends the ear 
 with false notes. Poems such as these 
 scarcely admit of quotation, for their charm 
 is not, and ought not to be, found in isolated 
 passages ; but we can promise the patient 
 and thoughtful reader much pleasure in the 
 perusal of this volume." — Fall-Mall 
 Gazette. 
 
 " We have marked, in almost every j 
 
 . PATRICK & OTHER 
 
 VERE. Crown 8vo. 5^. 
 
 page, excellent touches from which we 
 know not how to select. We have but 
 space to commend the varied structure of 
 his verse, the carefulness of his grammar, 
 and his excellent English. All who be- 
 lieve that poetry should raise arid not 
 debase the social ideal, all who think that 
 wit should exalt our standard of thought 
 and manners, must welcome this contri- 
 bution at once to our knowledge of the 
 past and to the science of noble life." — 
 Saturday Rez'iew. 
 
 ASPROMONTE, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Edition, cloth. 4J. (>d. 
 
 Second 
 
 "The volume is anonymous, but there 
 is no reason for the author to be ashamed 
 of it. The ' Poems of Italy ' are evidently 
 inspired by genuine enthusiasm in the 
 cause espoused ; and one of them, ' The 
 
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3 0112 042260114 
 
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